Sunday Sneak Peek

I haven't done much to my new book this week as I've been involved in the edits for my upcoming Molly book, The Family Way. But now they are done and ready to be shipped off and it's back to Lady Georgie and a murder that has just taken place.

Here's another snippet to whet your appetite:

This topic of conversation was broken off by the arrival of Darcy and Jack, both wearing proper dinner jackets and both looking rather handsome. Jack’s red-blond hair had been slicked into submission and he looked highly uncomfortable his current garb.

“Here they are at last,” Edwina said. “Come and meet your aunt and your great aunts, John.” It was clear that Edwina was not going to give up calling him by her son’s name.

Irene glowered. Princess Charlotte held out her hand in regal fashion but Virginia almost fell upon them. “Two divine young men,” she said. “What fun. If I’d been a few years younger I’d have given you both the key to my room and had you both at the same time.”

Edwina raised her lorgnette. “Really Virginia, you go too far,” she said.

“Edwina. You’re such a prude,” she said. “Look at this gorgeous dark haired boy. He wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay, I can tell. One can see that he’s had his share of thrilling encounters with the opposite sex.”

Darcy simply looked amused. “If I had, I wouldn’t mention them in present company,” he said.

Virginia had seized his hand in her own claw-like ones. “Isn’t he a gem?” she said. “So is this the new heir?”

“No, Virginia. He is Mr. O’Mara--the one who escorted John from Australia.” She went over to Jack who was standing as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him. “This is your great nephew John. Isn’t he like his father?”

“One can see a likeness, I suppose,” Princess Charlotte said dubiously. “We should have a séance, young man, to see whether your father wishes to contact you. Also to find out if you’re the one the spirits warned us about. And for whom there is danger.”

“You and your spirits, Charlotte. Such rubbish,” Edwina said. “You’ll have the boy thinking we’re all mad.”

More later..... Rhys

Sunday Sneak Peek

I made good progress in the walking department this week. I can now get around using a cane and can go down stairs using the cane and the bannister. So I'm now more hopeful that I'll be back to normal soon. I realized that I have missed shopping for six weeks. May go crazy at Chicos!

Anyway, the new Lady Georgie book is progressing nicely and here's a sneak peek at what I was writing this week. If you don't like any spoilers, please don't read!

Eventually I must have fallen asleep and I awoke to a wild morning with clouds racing across a sky heavy with the promise of rain. The fire was already burning merrily in my grate, having been lit by an unseen, unheard housemaid, but the prospect outside was so unappealing that I lay under the covers until Queenie eventually arrived with my tea.

            “Sorry miss. It’s so bloomin’ dark that I overslept again,” she said. “Shall I run you a bath? And what will you be wearing?”

            “My kilt again with a jumper, I think, and yes, please do run me a bath.”

            The clock in the great central foyer was chiming nine as I made my way down to the breakfast room. My nanny back in Scotland would say that I was heading down the slippery slope getting up at such a late hour. The three sisters were sitting together at one end of the table, but there was no sign of the others.  They nodded to me as I came in, then went back to devouring kidneys. I must say they all had healthy appetites.

            “Beastly day,” Edwina said at last. “Serve Cedric right for bringing down the architect chappy for his wretched amphitheater. I hope they both get soaked to the skin.”

            “I can’t think what the boy was thinking,” Princess Charlotte said. “Hordes of people tramping over the estate. Not a moment of privacy. Didn’t you try to talk him out of it, Edwina?”

            “Of course I did, but he wouldn’t listen. I’m utterly appalled by the whole thing, especially by his callous attitude toward those cottages. People have lived there for generations—our estate people and he simply couldn’t care a fig. I don’t know how I could have raised such a selfish son. His father would give him a good talking to if he were alive.”

            “Maybe we should have summoned his father during the séance last night,” Virginia suggested.

            “I don’t wish to hear any more about that séance,” Edwina said. “News of it has quite upset the servants. In fact—“ she broke off at the sound of an anguished wail. “Now what?” she demanded. Far off we could hear what sounded like a hysterical outburst.

            “You see what I mean, Charlotte?” Edwina said. “You’ve got them all frightened.”

            We sat there, poised as in a tableau until we heard the sound of feet running in our direction. Elsie, the head parlormaid came bursting into the breakfast room. “’Beg pardon, Your Grace, “ she said.

            “What is it, Elsie?” Edwina had risen to her feet. “Who is making that ridiculous noise?”

            “It’s Lady Irene’s maid, Your Grace. She says she can’t wake Lady Irene.”

Sunday Sneak Preview

Today I achieved a milestone--which feels good when one is stuck in a chair and unable to do normal activities. I reached page 100 in my new book!

I hadn't intended to start the book until next month, but since I'm incapacitated and a virtual prisoner I decided I might as well start it early. It's the seventh Lady Georgie book, called Heirs and Graces and can be described as Crocodile Dundee meets Downton Abbey.

So I've decided to start a new feature on my blog and give readers a sneak preview of what I'm writing each Sunday. Here is page 100:

I was making my way down again when I heard a scream. I started to run. The descent seemed to take forever and by the time I reached the gardens around the house a group of people was gathered.

“It’s all right. They are quite safe,” I heard Edwina’s powerful voice. “Do stop making such a fuss, Irene.”

“But he was throwing a knife at Katherine,” she said. “He missed her by that much.”

I joined the group. Jack was standing sheepishly off to one side with the twins. I went over to them. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Jack was demonstrating how he could throw a knife,” Nick said. “It was brilliant, actually. So Kat said could he hit an apple on her head, like William Tell. And he told her to stand still and then he threw the knife into the tree right above her head. Pretty impressive only mummy was looking out of her window and absolutely had a fit.”

“I might have done too,” I said. “It was rather silly, Jack. If you want to make a good impression you don’t try and kill your relatives.”

“They were perfectly safe. I didn’t even throw it that close to her.”

“And what’s more..,” Irene was still shrieking. “He was teaching them to sharpen sticks and spear fish in the Koi pond. He’s dangerous, mother. You know how impressionable the children are. For God’s sake send him away before he does anyone real harm.”

“Irene, do calm down. I remember your brother Johnnie doing rather the same sort of thing when you were young.”

“Yes, and look what happened to him—fathered a child with a common nobody in the back of beyond and then got himself killed by being too damned heroic.”

“He acted honorably in both instances, which is more than can be said for your husband.”

“That’s a cruel blow, Mama. I’m not staying here any longer. I want the children away from this place right now. We’re going up to London. Nicholas, Katherine, come with me.”

And she stalked off into the house.

e's a peek at page 100:

Looking Back on Left Coast Crime

What will I remember about this year's Left Coast Crime in Sacramento, I wonder? Chicken garlic soup. Cheerleaders. Special moments with Jackie Winspear. The Armani Jacket disaster.
Oh, and it was a great convention, extremely well run by Cindy Sample and Robin Burcell. Everyone loved the panels and the hotel with its big bar area. They thought the food in the restaurant was good. I wouldn't know. There was an hour's wait any time I wanted to eat.
I arrived in Sacramento with a nasty cold--the type in which my head and chest felt stuffed and heavy. Then I discovered the Hungarian/Romanian/Greek restaurant across the street and a bowl of their chicken garlic soup opened all those blocked sinuses and led the way to feeling better.
On Saturday I had to interview Guest of Honor Jacqueline Winspear. The interesting thing for the audience was how much we have in common: lived in the same county in England, studied in London, came to America, married a man called John and now live FIVE MILES APART. We also write about strong young women in the 1930s. We've won the same awards. Our work habits and approach to writing is identical and we even look quite similar. One woman said we sound so alike that if she closed her eyes she couldn't tell who was speaking. (I'm thinking clone)
Jackie was an absolute trooper at the interview and the whole convention as her father in UK has major health problems and she was worried about him.

There was a cheerleader competition going on across the street. Little girls with HUGE bows in their hair and too sexy outfits were looking really stressed.  Their mothers were fussing around looking way too involved. Can somebody tell me why little girls have to look provocate and sexy in order to compete? Surely cheerleading is all about the athletiticism?

Oh, and the story of the Armani jacket. I found a fabulous Armani jacket in a designer resale store. Pale blue. Gorgeous. And being the creator of Lady Georgie (just a little clumsy by nature), I managed to drop a piece of salmon in a gooey sauce down my front. On my way to the dry-cleaner.

Now it's back to work trying to finish my new Molly book to deadline.

Between Two Worlds (or is it three?)

If you wonder if writers get caught up in their fictional world I can tell you categorically that yes--we live our characters' lives. And their emotions. When Daniel Sullivan is behaving badly, I find I am snapping at my husband.

This has been brought home very strongly to me this week. I am in the middle of writing a new Molly Murphy novel. In fact I am two hundred pages into it. Molly is trying to trace a missing Irish girl and her quest has led her to a strange and creepy convent. So I am in New York, in 1904. I am with Molly and her friends, battling the garbage strewn streets of the Lower East Side, then having to take a horse and buggy between towns in Westchester County, visiting impressive mansions that might rival Downton Abbey.

And in my head I have Molly's Irish voice and her feisty character. However, my other publisher had asked me if I would write an e-story to whip up enthusiasm for my next Lady Georgie book. It is scheduled to come out in time for Halloween, in fact they wanted a Halloween story. I agreed. But then I found that they wanted it NOW. Not next fall, as I had thought. So I had to abandon Molly, about to be locked into an enclosed order of nuns, and suddenly leap to royal circles in England in the 1930s. 

It reminded me of the way I felt when I was summoned to Australia when my mother was dying. It was the day before Christmas and I was preparing for the whole family to arrive. It was cold and rainy and Christmas music was playing everywhere. I got on a plane and 14 hours later I landed in Australia where it was mid-summer. All around me people were going to the beach carrying surf boards. It was so surreal I had a hard time handling it.

So I've been going through the same thing for the past few days. I've had to push Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side out of my mind and instead hear the well-bred tones of Lady Georgie as she goes to a reception at Buckingham Palace. I've had to make my mind come up with clever 1930s repartee and introduce Mrs. Simpson to Georgie.  I find it helps to speak the words out loud and it's funny--when I'm with Georgie I am so frightfully upper class, in my attitudes as well as my speech.

Now I've finished it and tomorrow I go back to Molly again. No more caviar and champagne for a while. No servants to dress me. Now it's back to the neat little house on Patchin Place, and Molly's friends Sid and Gus.... I wonder what will happen to her?

And next week I celebrate the release of Hush Now, Don't You Cry.

Downton Withdrawal. Why do we like it, anyway?

So many friends, on Facebook and in the real world, have told me they are suffering from Downton withdrawal and don't know how they are going to get through a whole year until season 3 starts.
In this world of fast paced action thrillers it's interesting to me why this series has grabbed so many people, especially in America--a country that threw out royals long ago and prides itself on it's "I'm as good as you are" mantra.

I suppose it has something to do with being fascinated with something we've never had. The big house, the rituals of dressing for dinner, going hunting, garden parties and oodles of servants. It all sounds so impossibly glamorous, if one were of the right class. Getting up at five to carry up the coal and light the fires wasn't such fun, as my heroine, Lady Georgie finds out in the book Her Royal Spyness. For those of you who haven't read it yet, she decides to escape to the family's London home, without servants, for the first time in her life. It is a steep learning curve as she wonders how the milk arrives on the doorstep, how to light a fire (and how to get into the dreaded coal hole) and how to make even the most simple things like tea and toast.

We love the luxury and the glamor of Downton but obviously it is the inter-personal relationships that have gripped us this season. Star crossed lovers, (Mary and Matthew, Anna and Mr. Bates) evil schemers, and the heightened atmosphere of war and then the great flu epidemic. I have long been fascinated with World War 1, fascinated and horrified, that is. It robbed England of a whole generation of young men. Those who survived were often badly damaged physically and mentally. The war was the most inept fight in the history of mankind. Generals who had commanded cavalry charges directed soldiers as if there were no modern weapons. 50,000 men were lost in ONE DAY as they were ordered over the top and were cut down in wave after wave.

The other thing that was so horrifying about that war was that it was so close. The major battles were fought just across the Channel. Young men could be home on leave, eating strawberries and cream, one day and back in hell the next. It's no wonder there were so many mental breakdowns.
I wonder how they will keep up the intensity next season when there is no more war? Obviously Irish independence will come into the story, and then the general strike of 1926  Will they get as far as the crash of 29? The Great Depression?

This is the time I write about and again find so fascinating because society hangs in the balance. In England they have already experienced the 'war to end all wars' and yet nothing has changed. In the 1930 census the largest employment category was "domestic servant." It would take WWII to finally make Downton Abbey impossible to continue as power and coal shortages make big houses impossible to heat and returning servicepeople refuse to go back into domestic service. The only stately homes that have survived have done so by turning themselves into tourist attractions, adding amusement parks, zoos to their grounds and opening the place to the public. Never more will that class be shielded from the real world around them!

And if you are having those withdrawal symptoms, do check out my Royal Spyness books. There are plenty of great houses, beautiful people, intrigues as well as an old Cockney policeman and the worst lady's maid in the history of servants.

A good start to the New Year

I heard today that Glamor Magazine has named Her Royal Spyness as one of 11 must-read books--along with The Hunger Games, Passage etc.
Wow.
I'm gobsmacked as the English would say.
Check it out at http://www.glamour.com//entertainment/blogs/obsessed/2012/01/exercise-your-brain-in-2012-11.html

And How Real is Her Royal Spyness?

I had this question yesterday so I thought I ought to answer it before I am swallowed up in doing my tax, packing up and driving back to California, finishing my book and attending Romantic Times Convention tomorrow.

First I have to confess that if you check the royal family tree, Lady Georgie doesn't exist. I've never actually mentioned which of Queen Victoria's daughters was her grandmother, but one daughter did marry a Scottish nobleman (not called the Duke of Rannoch) so that much is accurate. I chose Rannoch for the family seat because it is so barren, bare and remote and I wanted her to have enough good reasons to flee from her Scottish castle.

But as to the royals around her--I have tried to make them as real as possible. If they say something it is either a real quote or a sentiment they have expressed. Queen Mary's intense dislike of Mrs. Simpson, her passion for antiques, Mrs. Simpson's mocking of the Duke and Duchess of York, the little princesses and their passion for horses... all true.  I read biographies, autobiographies of secretaries, nanny, etc and in some cases I've used actual phrases the person uttered. And I should also add that I have met several members of the royal family. I had tea with the queen when I was young and met the  queen mum on several occasions (delightful woman).

So the environment in which Georgie moves is colored by my own experiences. My husband's family (mother's side goes back to King Edward III, former owners of Sutton Place and several other stately homes) is littered with cousins with strange nicknames and stories about jokes played on the butler. All I have to do is visit and listen. 

The actual background of the times and political happenings is accurate too--(except for the vampire-ridden castle in Royal Blood. That was pure spoof). Struggles between communists and facsists taking place all over Europe and even in England. Bread lines at London stations. Thousands of men out of work. The Great Depression and yet those with money lived as if nothing had changed. A fascinating time to write about. I'm thinking of sending Georgie to America to meet Hollywood stars and Al Capone... what do you think?

How Long is Too Long?

Yesterday I posted on Facebook that I had finished the first draft of my new Lady Georgie book and felt it was a little long, so the next step was to bring out the axe.

I was surprised this morning to see a whole lot of replies saying "please don't cut it. We want your books to be as long as possible." Some were kind enough to add, 'we don't want them to end." but others added, "We love long books."

So now I'm curious--do you love long books? Do you select books based on length? Are you turned off by big fat books or do you look forward to staying with them for a while? Is there a certain length that mysteries should be? (mine are usually around 300 pages. The Molly Murphy series goes a little longer, closer to 400 sometimes).

I'm actually re-reading the last Harry Potter book at the moment--as a sort of wind-down after all the frantic activity in my life this month and I have to say I am not finding the 700 pages to be a chore. it's nice to see, when I pick it up, that there are still a few hundred pages to go.

And of course with my new Kindle the question of the weight of a 700 page book is removed from the equation, isn't it? I can read War and Peace, holding it in one hand!! And speaking of weight--the thinness and lightness of Kindle was one of the factors in deciding to go with it over the iPad or even the Nook. But now I think I should get a case for it and you know what? The cases are heavy. Does that make sense? Can anyone suggest a light little sleeve that keeps out dust but doesn't turn my Kindle into a clunky object?

Heroes Dark and Brooding

Such interesting comments on why we are attracted to vampires. The dark and brooding hero, the danger--yes I can see those. I loved Robin's comment about teenage girls and hickeys--a definite pre-vampire moment if ever there was one.
 And when we look at heroes of the past who comes to mind? Heathcliff, Mr. Rochester, Mr. Darcy, Rudolf Valentino, Errol Flynn... all definitely dark and brooding. Tall, dark and handsome has become a cliche, so I wonder why this is our ideal? Probably not good husband/protector material so it can't be in our genes. Any suggestions on where this fantasy comes from? Perhaps it was stories of those Saracen warriors during the Crucades? Or perhaps the Celts in Wales and their Arthurian hero legends became the norm when fair Saxon women dreamed of heroes.

Anyway, I had my own Dracula encounter and I have to confess I am not proud of what happened. It was the week of my daughter's wedding. I was in Phoenix, trying to arrange last minute wedding glitches--they had promised tables for ten and now said only tables for 6. This meant we needed about ten more table centers--mirrors and black candles and crystal candle holders to be found in a strange city to me. By the evening I was stressed and exhausted. My mother gave me one of her anti anxiety pills and it knocked me out. Unfortunately we were due at the theater. The best man was lighting director for the Arizona Theater Company and he had arranged front row seats for the wedding party. The play was Dracula. I could not keep awake. A hand came around the curtain, there was a scream... and I couldn't keep my eyes open to see who it was.
The worst thing was that I have been an actor. you can see the front row really well. So I knew those on stage were seeing a sleeping person in the front row. Not good for self esteem, especially during the most scary play on earth. So during the intermission I had John take me home.  Since I'm normally scared out of my wits at horror stories you can tell how strong that pill was.

And you know what? My own heroes... Daniel Sullivan in the Molly Murphy books and Darcy O'Mara in the Royal Spyness stories, are both dark, handsome, roguish. And I married a tall, dark and handsome Irishman so I guess I have proved my own point.