Tag Archives: historical fiction.

PUBLICATION DAY SPECIAL: THE GILDED CAGE BY LUISA A JONES

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The Gilded Cage emphatically introduces Luisa A Jones as a fresh and modern voice in historical fiction. It’s hard-hitting, pulling no punches in the way it deals with the domestic violence that is at the heart of this Edwardian story, and the author doesn’t hold back when it comes to the love scenes either.

When Rosamund’s circumstances force her into marriage with Sir Lucien Fitznorton she is too young and innocent to even imagine the horrors that await, sharing her life with this controlling man. At the beginning of the story she is broken, with no allies, but that slowly begins to change when she uses Sir Lucien’s absence to learn to drive. Society and the servants consider her a little mad, but to her it represents a freedom she could never have imagined and she begins to recover at least a little confidence.

Although the story is a little slow to start, later it rattles along, its depiction of life in an Edwardian country house meticulously drawn, and by the end I was quite breathless to know what would happen.

What lingers most in the memory about this book are the brutally realistic depictions of the violence Rosamund has to suffer, particularly contrasted with the tenderness in some of the scenes which follow as she discovers her sexuality for the first time. I asked Luisa why she had chosen to write the book this way.

I was aware when approaching publishers for this book that certain aspects would be too strong for some readers, but I felt it was essential to tell Rosamund’s story honestly, and not to shrink away from depicting the harrowing impact of abuse. It was important to me to have her ultimately finding her own agency, and for her to experience tenderness and pleasure, despite her earlier dreadful experiences.

Rosamund’s story was inspired by several people I know well who have been raped and/or otherwise abused. I was, and always will be, incensed by the idea of anyone deliberately subjecting another person to sexual, mental or physical harm. A disturbingly high proportion of women report that they have experienced at least one incident of sexual assault in their lifetime. Rape within marriage was only made illegal in Britain under the Sexual Offences Act of 2003, and until at least the 1990s the law held that by marrying, a wife was effectively consenting to sex whenever her husband wanted it. Marital rape is still legal in many countries.

Alarmingly, a survey in 2018 by YouGov revealed that a third of British people believed non-consensual sex wasn’t rape if it didn’t involve violence, even though anyone with any understanding of psychology will tell you that freezing and flopping are common responses to threat, along with the perhaps more well-known responses of fight or flight. The same survey showed that a quarter of Britons believed non-consensual sex within marriage isn’t rape. I can’t read those statistics and not feel deeply angry.

I am aware that many will find aspects of Rosamund’s experience uncomfortable to read. If I upset any reader, I feel for them. Those scenes are included in the hope that her story will challenge people to rethink, and highlight that nobody should be used as another person’s sexual plaything. Everyone should have the right to decide who touches their body, whatever they wore when they went out for the evening, no matter whether they’ve flirted with the other person, and whether or not they once agreed to marry them.

Most of all, I hope I have honoured the real-life survivors I know and love, and that readers will not perceive Rosamund solely as a victim. I hope they will rejoice with her when she experiences kindness and feel uplifted at the end of the novel. For me, she is a victor.

WRITERS ON THE ROAD: ALISON MORTON

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A small child, curls bobbing on a head she’s forgotten to cover with the sunhat her mother insists on, crouched down on a Roman mosaic floor in north-east Spain. Mesmerised by the purity of the pattern, and the tiny marble squares, she almost didn’t hear her father calling her to the next one.

Jumping up, she eagerly ran to him, babbling questions like many eleven-year-olds do: who were the people who lived here, what were they called, what did they do, where did they come from, where have they gone?

The father, a numismatist and senior ‘Roman nut’, told her about the Greek town founded 575 BC which became Roman Emporiæ in 218 BC, where traders sailed in and out with their cargoes of olive oil, wine, textiles, glass and metals; where people lived in higgledy-piggledy houses, traded from little shops; where the Roman army based its operations; where money was minted. And the people came from every corner of the Roman Empire to live and work. Boys went to schools and girls learnt to be good wives and mothers.

The little girl listened carefully to every word, sifting the information. Her hand in his, she turned as they left, looked back at the mosaics and asked her father:.

“What would it be like if Roman women were in charge, instead of the men?”
Clever man, my father replied:
“What do you think it would be like?”

I thought about it for nearly five decades, then poured it all into my first book.

Since that first Roman road trip in Spain, I’ve clambered over bridges, explored former bathhouses, barracks and forts and wondered at theatres and amphitheatres in different parts of France, Germany, Britain, Italy, even former Yugoslavia. And I’ve walked on Roman roads connecting these sites and settlements across Europe.

The via Domitia running along the coast from Spain to Italy provided a fast and sure link between the key province of Hispania and the imperial centre in Rome. Built in 118 BC, it’s still with us, wheel ruts included, over 2,000 years later. At Ambrussum in southern France, it formed a junction with the route northwards up the Rhone Valley into central Gaul. I stood on those slabs, where those three roads met, closed my eyes and ‘saw’ thousands of people, carts, mules, legionaries and the odd imperial courier, many of them shouting at me to get out of their way. The Romans were busy people, much like us today.

When writing my latest story set in AD 370 – itself a Roman ‘road trip’– I discovered how common it was for current routes to bear the names given to them two thousand years ago. The strada stalale 3 entering Rome from the north is still called the Via Flaminia; from the northwest, the Via Cassia (strada regionale 2) enters Rome heading for the Milvian Bridge as it did in Augustus’s day.  And you can still walk (or in some parts) even ride in your car along the via Appia.

The persistence of these road names seems romantic, but the Romans were hard-headed military engineers. For them, it was a question of reaching B from A in the fastest, most efficient and logical way. Small wonder than very many countries in Europe built their road networks following the same routes.

Travel on the ground is exciting, eye-opening and educational, but seeing and touching the roads, floors and walls and looking at their glassware, pottery, household equipment and thus imagining the people who walked, lived, and worked in those places takes us on a very different journey – the one into time.

 

If you’d like to learn more about my alternative Roman novels, Roman life and a journey through time, please come and visit me at alison-morton.com.

 

 

 

THE ECHOES OF LOVE – REVIEW AND INTERVIEW WITH AUTHOR JENNY ASHCROFT

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Jane Cable reviews this fabulous historical romance

Where do I begin with this incredible book? With the sweeping love story at its gripping heart, or the impeccable historical research, or the phenomenal sense of place and time that had me living and breathing Crete in 1936 and during the Second World War? Or shall I just cut to the chase and tell you this will most likely be my book of the year.

In 1936, eighteen year old Eleni Adams returns from England to Crete to spend the summer with her Greek grandfather, something she has done every year since her mother died when she was a baby. But this summer is different; this summer she falls in love with Otto, the German boy staying in the villa next door, and I was as captivated by the breathlessness of young love, the intensity of feeling, as I was by the setting that made me feel as though I was really sitting above that cove near sun-drenched Chania.

But we all know our history, and in 1941 Crete was captured by the Germans. By that time Eleni is an SOE agent based on the island, and rather than leave she goes underground in the bombed out ruins of Chania to help to support the resistance. Meanwhile Otto is one of the first wave of fighters to be parachuted in; a reluctant Nazi, a man who stands against cruelty and reprisals, and of course the lovers’ paths cross once again.

Also running through the book is the transcript of an interview from 1974, given by the man who, it becomes apparent, betrayed Eleni. A man who knew her well. A man who she trusted.

This book transported me absolutely, haunted my dreams, tore me apart, and put me back together again. It’s an absolute triumph, so I was delighted when Jenny Ashcroft agreed to tell me how, and why, she came up with the idea of the interview transcript.

 

JA: First of all, thank you so much for this wonderful review. I’m absolutely thrilled you enjoyed it! As for the transcripts, the idea for those actually came before the central idea for the book. Often when I’m trying to come up with something new, I’ll write scenes or bits of dialogue that spring into my mind, and one afternoon I found myself playing around with a prologue written in interview form.

I love historical documentaries, and just thought that the dynamic between a researcher and their subject could be a really rich one – especially if that subject is carrying some deep regret, or secret, from their past. So, I wrote a sample for my agent, she really loved it, and when, a couple of weeks later, I went back to her with my synopsis for The Echoes of Love, she was really enthusiastic about that too, but asked, ‘Is there any way you can get that transcript idea in?’ I thought there was, decided that they could work as being from a fictional BBC documentary commemorating the liberation of Greece, and that’s how the transcripts came to be woven through the text of Eleni and Otto’s story.

All very iterative, and I wish I could say that I knew from the start precisely what I was doing, but I never seem to know that with any book! For me, it really is the case that it’s only when I start to write that I come to realise where I want to go. But I’m so glad I did weave those transcripts in. They really did become such a core part of the story.

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: ANNEMARIE BREAR ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER

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My favourite scene in my next Victorian era release, The Soldier’s Daughter is when Evie and Sophie make the rash decision to sample some wines ordered for the Bellingham summer ball. Two well brought up young ladies from respectable families should never be drunk, but Evie is a little wild and likes to challenge the rules and leads Sophie into situations that they later regret, at least Sophie does!

 

An hour later, deep in the cellar of Dawson’s Wine Merchant’s, Evie and Sophie sat on a wooden bench sipping another sample of white wine. Lanterns spilled out golden light, which banished the dark into the far corners. Although it was cool in the cellar, it wasn’t terribly cold. Workers rolled barrels onto trolleys, which were hoisted up to the warehouse floor above and put on canal barges.

Mr Dawson and his two sons, Bobby and George, strapping young men the same age as Evie and Sophie, were very attentive to them. Glass after glass of different wines arrived and they sipped and discussed the flavours until one wine resembled another.

‘I like this one better than the last,’ Evie said, feeling a little light-headed.

‘They all taste the same now.’ Sophie hiccupped. ‘Even the red and white taste the same.’ She giggled.

‘They do not! One is red and one is white!’ Evie suddenly found it hilarious.

Sophie laughed and held up her empty glass. ‘May I have a sam… sample of that one again?’ She pointed to a heavy red wine from Burgundy.

Mr Dawson Senior shook his head anxiously. ‘I do believe you have had your limit, Miss Bellingham. I fear you may have sampled too many. Your mother will be expecting you home.’

Sophie stood and swayed. ‘We have outstayed our welcome, Evie…’ She swayed again, her eyes closing.

‘Steady now, miss.’ George, a large, burly young man with a pleasant face, hurried to hold her upright.

‘You are terri… terribly big…’ Sophie leaned close to stare up at him. ‘Such arms…’

Evie stood, her focus wavering slightly. The steep staircase they’d come down would be impossible to get back up without help. The trolley was winched back down and workers, giving the two ladies a laughing glance, rushed to wheel more wine barrels onto it.

‘I want to go on that!’ Evie pointed to the trolley.

‘Oh no, Miss Davenport.’ Mr Dawson held up his hands in protest and seemed ready to pass out at the idea.

‘Those steps are dangerous!’ Sophie declared. ‘I nearly broke my neck coming down.’

‘Ladies, we will help you up the stairs.’

‘No. We shall ascend on that.’ Determined to climb on the trolley, Evie knocked away Mr Dawson’s hand that he held out to stop her. She realised she still held her glass of wine and gulped it down in one go before passing the empty glass to an amused Bobby Dawson.

‘Move the barrels, men,’ Bobby instructed.

Laughing, the men removed the barrels from the trolley. ‘Isn’t this a sight?’ one of them yelled.

Bobby gave assistance to Evie to step onto the trolley. ‘Hold on to the side, Miss Davenport.’

‘Sophie, hurry up,’ Evie encouraged.

‘Gracious me.’ Sophie stepped on board, giggling. She missed the side of the trolley and nearly fell to her knees, which made her laugh even more.

Bobby helped Sophie upright. ‘This is a first. Women on our trolley.’

‘Good God!’ Mr Dawson rubbed his eyes. ‘We’ll never have another Bellingham order again once this is known around the district.’

 

The Soldier’s Daughter is released 8th September 2022.

For more information, please visit AnneMarie Brear’s website. www.annemariebrear.com

 

 

 

SUNDAY SCENE: NICOLA PRYCE ON HER FAVOURITE SCENE FROM THE CORNISH CAPTIVE

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I’m delighted to share my favourite scene from The Cornish Captive. Set in a busy harbour on the south coast of Cornwall in 1800, Madelaine Pelligrew, a French aristocrat by birth, is walking on the beach for the first time in fourteen years. Recently released from false imprisonment she had almost given up hope of freedom. As she walks, revelling in the feel of the sand beneath her feet and the wind in her hair, she sees a seagull trapped in the rocks.

The struggling seagull triggers a need in her to free it. Equating the bird’s desperate attempts to free itself with her own plight, she ventures beyond the shingle. At once, her foot sinks into sand, her shoe becomes trapped, and her panic rises. A French frigate captain is also walking on the beach: a prisoner on parole, he has previously helped Madelaine find accommodation and he wades out to assist her.

        ‘The water was deeper than I thought, up to his thighs, but he kept striding out and I held my breath. He reached the seagull and held it up. It lay still in his hands, not the slightest movement and I covered my face, unable to stop my violent sobs. ‘Oh no … no…’

        The need to free it had been so powerful. I could feel myself shaking, a growing sense of agitation. My heart was thumping, pounding with sudden irregularity and I fought to breathe. Everywhere was too vast, the seagulls too loud, the sky too high. He stood smiling across at me, holding up the dead bird. ‘A piece of white drift wood, that’s all. But I must admit it looked very like a seagull struggling against the rock.’

Madelaine is very vulnerable at this stage and Piere de la Croix has already shown her great kindness by leaving a bowl of fruit for her at the inn. Yet she shies away from him, hiding behind her false name.

          ‘Please don’t think me ungrateful. My brother-in-law doesn’t take kindly to your interference. We must never meet like this again.’

         ‘As you wish.’ His voice held sadness, a stiffness in his manner as he pointed me up the beach.

         ‘That includes oranges, Captain de la Croix.’

         He reached for his jacket. ‘Once a ship’s captain, always a ship’s captain – always vigilant for the signs of scurvy. You will get better, Mrs Barnard, and quickly, too. Just eat as many oranges as you can and drink the juice of lemons and limes.’ 

           His hair was ruffled, dark lashes framed his eyes. He held up his hand to shield them against the sun. I did not want to see the kindness in his eyes, nor hear his consideration for my welfare. He was lying. All men were liars. He was a Republican spy: his only intention to trap my brother.

          Above us, soldiers in scarlet jackets watched from the fort. One was holding a telescope to his eye and Pierre smiled. ‘Do they think I’m about to steal a rowing boat?’ His laugh sounded hollow, a sadness in his shrug. ‘I’m allowed this far … yet they don’t like me being so near their fortifications.’

Later, Captain Pierre de la Croix carves a seagull out of the driftwood and it becomes Madelaine’s symbol of escape. The beach, too, features several more times: indeed this scene foreshadows a turning point in the story which is why I have chosen to share it with you.

 

http://nicolapryce.co.uk/

HISTORICAL NOVELIST NICOLA PRYCE ON HOW SHE APPROACHES HER RESEARCH

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My books are set on the south coast of Cornwall, 1793-1800, so it’s wonderfully fitting that Cornwall’s new archive centre has moved to the old Redruth Brewhouse, built in 1792. The former Brewery has been transformed and incorporated within it is Kresen Kernow which houses 1.5 million records, covering 850 years of Cornish history. I believe there are fourteen miles of shelving!

I loved the Records Office in Truro, but this new centre is fabulous. Starting with the user friendly catalogues, the e-mail lists of chosen archives, the spacious research rooms, and the efficient and charming archivists, it adds to the serious problem of deciding when to stop researching and start writing!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Other writers tell me they start with a kernel of an idea, a spark that fires their interest, and they expand it from there. I, however, like to start with the whole picture, gradually narrowing it down to the themes I want to explore.

I began my journey into historical fiction knowing the place I wanted to set my stories in – an area I have loved for thirty years. The date was an easy decision because since my Open University degree I’ve been mildly obsessed with the end of the Eighteenth Century, and as the books were to be set on the coast I had a community of shipbuilders, fishermen, clay speculators, merchants, and landowners around whom I could weave my stories.

Hoping my books might make a series, I decided to keep separate areas of research for each book and not cram everything into the first. It was a matter of holding back. Britain was at war with France and the areas I wanted to research were the high levels of bankruptcy among shipbuilders, raising the Volunteer Militia in the face of the very real threat of invasion, the patent row between the engine builders Boulton and Watt and how it impacted Cornish mining, the influx of French prisoners into the prisons, and building the new Infirmary. So much, and yet there is still so much I haven’t mentioned.

We are spoilt for on-line information. The touch of a key brings facts, dates, names, portraits, maps. We can access academic research papers detailing the lives of shipbuilders, midshipman, physicians tackling tropical fevers and the stories in my head slowly become plausible. But I need to know what I say happens could have happened. Every detail is checked – every inn, every stagecoach, every boatyard, even evidence of a French dressmaker in Truro.

I march round the area. I have a plot that could have happened to people who could have lived in the houses I identify. I have the setting, the time, the characters but missing is the most vital aspect of all – authentic voices of people living at the time.

And that’s where the days previously spent in the Records Office are now spent in the stunning Kresen Kernow. I only feel able to start a new book when real voices jump at me from the pages of primary sources – the threat of invasion, the woeful state of the sea defences, the lists of returns in case of subscription. The writs and legal wrangling that kept the price of tin high. The building of the sea-lock, details of rents charged to the tenants in the new harbour, Charlestown. The shambles at Pendennis Castle. The Naval ships awaiting orders in Falmouth.

The words they use, their tone, their sense of urgency or frustration leap from the pages. I can hear my characters and I can finally start writing.

 

Find out more about Nicola and her novels at: https://nicolapryce.co.uk/

 

My Writing Process Rachel Billington

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A bit about you. 

Place matters to me. In books and in life. I’m a hybrid: city and country, I need both. London, always London, apart from two years when I worked in New York and met my husband, Kevin, there.  In 1968 we bought a fourteenth century house in Dorset. We still have it. I’ve always written. I edited a magazine when I was eleven. I published my first novel in my twenties. I have to write every day. When I had four children in day school, I still wrote. I can’t imagine how people manage without writing. Now I have five grandchildren and my youngest wrote a book so I illustrated it. That was a surprise. From 1998-2001 I was President of PEN. I am Associate Editor of Inside Time, the National Newspaper for Prisoners. I write for every issue. I have always reviewed and written comment pieces for various newspapers.

What you have written, past and present.

I’ve published over thirty books. 23 novels, last 3 historical, Glory – The Story of Gallipoli and Maria and the Admiral. My favourites before that are A Woman’s Age, Bodily Harm and Lies and Loyalties. All very different subjects which publishers complain about. I have also written six novels for children, including Poppy’s Hero and Poppy’s Angel, about a girl whose Dad is in prison. Plus four religious books for children and a sequel to Jane Austen’s Emma.

What you are promoting now. 

Clouds of Love and War is about a Spitfire pilot in WW2 and a young isolated woman. It tells the story if their love affair against a background of war. Eddie wants to escape the world and reach the clouds. But he hadn’t counted on killing. Eva wants to paint and she wants Eddie. The war makes their coming together rare and remarkable. 

A bit about your process of writing.

Until my last book, I wrote longhand with a pen (black ink) and then paid a friend to put it on the computer. Once it was there I went through many drafts, editing down, particularly the opening chapters because I like to write forward without doing more than minor corrections until I’ve finished the whole book. This means I am over-writing early on and self-editing as I progress. 

Do you plan or just write?

It depends on the book. Longer books need more planning, chapter by chapter, bit shorter books can be freer. Often I know everything except how the story will end. But sometimes the ending is what inspires me to write the book. Characters come first of all and continue their wayward path through the book. When their personalities change, I change their names. Sometimes I’ll run through three or four. I write to surprise myself.

What about word count?

Again it depends on the book – or rather on the subject, although my books were much shorter when I started writing, one was only about 60,000 words while Glory was well over the 200 hundred mark. Circular books tend to be shorter, books with a strong narrative flow longer. The book I’m working on at the moment, They Were Sisters, is about 120,000 words.

 

What do you find hard about writing?

I find it all difficult but absolutely enthralling.  I do find it really hard when my characters are suffering. I wrote a novel called ‘The Missing Boy and found the thirteen year old’s unhappiness horribly upsetting. I long to write books with happy endings but seldom achieve it. 

 

What do you love about writing? 

I love being totally in charge of interesting people and events, but totally on my own. I love the look of a blank page – or blank screen. I love the way I challenge myself to make my brain imagine and invent.  I love the excitement when an idea comes into my head; my heart beats as fast as if I was running. I love using words like an artist uses paint. I love the balance of certain sentences, like a musical phrase.  

 

Advice for other writers.

Write! If you’re not sure what to write, write a diary. Write every single day. When you do set off on a bit of work, finish it. This very important. Anyone can begin a piece of writing but not many can get to the end. Keep at least something about it secret. Great ideas can dissipate if shown too much light of day. Only show it for criticism when you have gone as far as you can. Never despair. Often the best writing comes out of the worst. Good luck!

 

SISTER SCRIBES GUEST: STEPH HAXTON ON MOVING THE MUSE

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Steph Haxton was one of the first local writers I met when I moved to Cornwall. Historian turned author (or gamekeeper turned poacher, as she’d have it), her research is meticulous and her wit legendary. Unfortunately for me she’s now moved to Scotland, but how would the sometimes elusive Mrs Muse take to the change?

 

Mrs Muse, plugging a new novel set in Scotland, by June should have been sitting on the doorstep of our new home. But I’d had not a peep for weeks. She’d showed briefly at Holyrood Palace; she’s a sucker for anything royal. But after a quick tap on the shoulder, she scarpered again.

A month later I decided to head up the M90 to Innerpeffray Library, a place highly recommended by a fellow bibliophile. With an overview of where I was headed, I let the Sat Nav tell guide me. My relationship with it being troubled, when it directed me off the dual carriageway not far outside Perth, I was immediately suspicious.

‘Turn right to Roman Road.’ It didn’t look likely, was signposted something else.

But round two sharp bends, there it was! Only a bloomin’ Roman road; straight, classic width, ditches either side bordered by beautiful woodland. Wow!

I had to stop a few miles on, when the trees dropped away.  On a ridgeway, I faced a breath-taking view over the Strathearn. Thirty seconds later, four police motorcyclists in formation swept past, easily doing 50mph. Incongruous on a rural lane, they were clearly enjoying a Roman road too!

Before long the brown sign for Innerpeffray Library sent me down a potholed track. A turf path though trees, a red squirrel bouncing ahead of me, led me past ancient yews surrounding a tiny chapel where a rash of goose-bumps swept me from head to toe. Around another corner stood the Library.

‘Hello! You took your time!’ said my precocious afflatus.

Beautiful books and friendly faces greeted me. A lovely volunteer explained the Roman origins of the site and the library’s history. I took a sharp intake of breath: 1680, a date central to my next novel. I had been looking for somewhere to ‘place’ the female protagonist. Even if Mrs Muse hadn’t been elbowing me in the ribs, I’d have known – this was it!

The weird coincidences continued: the gentleman giving me a tour of the reading room originally came from the Roseland. That might account for his choice of pages in Camden’s ‘Britannica’. But his finger, pointing straight at Pendennis, the castle at the core of my books? No. THAT was extraordinary. There was more.

The exhibition in the display cases was on ‘Emigration’. A member of the Library had researched and highlighted a name amongst the many hundreds in the borrowers’ registers.  Haxton. Ours is not a common surname anywhere so, of all the names in Perthshire, the odds of that had to be pretty long.

I was still shaking my head in disbelief when a charming couple came in. We were introduced. Roman re-enactors, they live about 500 yards from our new address. When they shared an experience that Mrs Muse began applauding with gusto, I beat a retreat on ‘overload’!

Deliberately taking a different road back to the A9, I found myself approaching the junction that I’d taken so warily almost exactly two hours earlier, but from the opposite direction.

There, sweeping across the carriageway ahead and disappearing into the trees, were four police motorcyclists. The same ones? I’ve no idea.

All I could hear was Mrs Muse yelling, ‘They aren’t police riders! They’re the ghosts of Romans, horsemen, and they continually ride the same route on one day every hundred years. They’ve just updated their steeds …’

I don’t care where she’s been, but Mrs Muse is definitely back!