Today my third
historical romance novel is out. You might think that by now, this would be
a “ho-hum” event for me. It isn’t. The publication of every book, for me,
at least, is like the birth of a child. Unfortunately, I’m better at
researching and writing than I am at promotion. In an attempt to improve, I’ve
been thinking about key words. You probably know what those are, if you’ve ever
done a search on the Web: type in “night soil”, for which your results would
include the definition, articles like “Before
There Was Plumbing, These Men Discreetly Got Rid of Human Waste” and “The Stink
About Human Poop As Fertilizer - Modern Farmer”.
If you write historical romances like mine, you might assign the
following key words: historical romance, Georgian romance (because
my books are set in the Georgian period—the 18th century—rather
than the Regency, from 1810 to 1820), clean romance (i.e., no
explicit sex), like Georgette Heyer, and like
Jane Aiken Hodge (because the stories I write are more like Georgette
Heyer’s and Jane Aiken Hodge’s than (for example) Jo Beverley’s or Mary
Balogh’s—both of whose books I enjoy very much, though unlike mine, they’re
definitely steamy.
I should define what I mean by “clean romance”, because you hear
that term, and “clean and wholesome”, and “sweet”, and it isn’t easy to
determine exactly what’s meant by each. I specifically mean there are no
explicit sex scenes. Male characters may admire a lady’s ankles or cleavage,
female characters may feel yearnings, and there is the occasional embrace and
kiss. There is occasional language, like “Rot my guts”, “Damme”, or “Damn my
eyes”. There’s mention of night soil, harlots, and murder, among other things.
And because I began by talking about Captain Easterday’s Bargain,
here’s a sample from Captain Easterday's Bargain:
Two days before they were to start for London, Mariah did
not come down to breakfast.
“Such a slugabed!” her aunt Henrietta remarked. “That
maid of hers is not in the habit of waking her because of the late nights in
Town, but after almost two weeks, she should know one rises earlier in the country.
Even if the chit doesn’t ring for her.” When she sent Mariah’s hatchet-faced maid
to wake her, the woman returned precipitately to report that her bed was empty.
Mistress Easterday was a sensible lady and had four boys,
ranging from newly come of age down to fifteen years, but she had only one
daughter, a placid child of twelve. While the others were wondering where Mariah
could be and Marcus Easterday frowned with a presentiment of trouble, his
sister-in-law quietly instructed the maid to return to the bedchamber to see if
she could find any clue to her whereabouts. Might she have dressed and gone out
for an early walk? If her dressing gown and slippers were gone, mayhap she had
wandered into some part of the rambling house which the maids had not yet
visited.
Mariah’s maid
returned, white-faced. “Two of her gowns and shifts are gone, ma’am. And her
cloak, and some other things.” At this point she was overcome and had to be
revived with sal volatile. Mistress Easterday then sent her to lie down.
“Wherever can she have gone?”
Little Sophie observed, “I expect she took them because
she would need a change of clothing, wouldn’t she?”
After a pregnant pause, Mistress Easterday asked, “Dear,
are you suggesting that Mistress Mariah has run away? Why would you think such
a thing?”
“Mariah likes Mr. Beresford.”
Ellis Beresford was staying with the family of Sir
Manfred Knott, a baronet with several daughters and a pimply son who had
completed his first year at Oxford. The Easterdays had traded several visits
with the Knotts and dined at each other’s homes twice, with the second turning
into an impromptu dance. New faces, rare in the neighborhood, always led to a
spate of entertainments. Marcus Easterday had not paid much attention to Beresford,
beyond noticing the blond youth possessed pleasing manners, if a little too lively.
Still, a lad of one-and-twenty cannot be expected to be as serious as a man of
six-and-thirty.
“What is that to the point, child?” her papa asked. He
knew even less about young ladies than his wife.
Sophia wriggled. “He likes her, too. You can tell by how
they look at each other.” She cast an apologetic glance toward Marcus. “I know
it sounds silly, Mama…but Mariah is rather like Alice, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Alice.” Mistress Easterday sniffed. “Sir Manfred’s youngest
daughter. I’m afraid she reads novels of the most foolish sort.” The men at the
table gazed at her, Geoffrey Easterday and his sons blankly, Marcus with
growing disquiet.
“Sophia,” he said quietly, “do you think Mariah may have
gone away with Mr. Beresford?”
Nigel, seventeen, snorted. “She doesn’t know anything.
She’s still in the schoolroom.”
“I know Alice is always talking about how romantic it
would be to go to Gretna Green with a gentleman who was handsome and titled.
Mariah and Mr. Beresford talked together when Sir Manfred and his family came
and we ate our supper down by the river. They stood looking at the river, and
she sighed several times, and he patted her hand. I suppose it was very
affecting, if one likes that kind of thing. It was like something out of one of
Alice’s books.”
“Sickly stuff,” the youngest boy said.
“But Beresford has no title.” Mariah settle for a mere
gentleman, when she had been determined to marry a duke?
At the same moment, his sister-in-law demanded, “Sophia
Easterday, do you mean to tell me that you read Alice Knott’s foolish novels?”
“Only when she will lend them to me, Mama,” Sophie
admitted in a small voice, “which is not very often.”
Mistress Easterday frowned at her daughter, and returned
to the main issue.
“Marcus, the boy became Viscount Franley’s heir a year or
two since, when his brother died. We think of him as the boy who introduced
frogs into the children’s beds and who once tied walnut shells onto the cat’s paws
and released her into the uncarpeted hall in the middle of the night.”
“I think I had best ride over to see Beresford.” Marcus
stood up and inclined his head to his sister-in-law, and added, “Thank you,
Sophie. What an observant girl you are.”
“I wish it weren’t so, Uncle Marcus. It’s exciting to
read of such things, but one wouldn’t wish to actually do them.”
He managed a wry smile at her, as his brother said, “I’ll
go with you.”
The baronet’s home, too, was in turmoil. Beresford had
left a note on his unused bed. “Gone to visit a friend. Back in a week or so.”
He had taken a portmanteau but left most of his clothing. Ralph, the baronet’s
heir, could tell them little more than that Ellis liked to ride out by himself
most days. The previous day he had taken his sketch pad and gone to draw some
scenic vista or other and had not returned for hours. After finding his note,
inquiry of the head groom revealed that Beresford’s groom was gone, as well as
their horses. “Seemin’ly they left in t’neet, wi’out mekkin’ a sound.”
Geoffrey Easterday drew Sir Manfred aside to apprise him
of Mariah Saltstall’s absence.
“Stap me!” Sir Manfred rapped out. “They’ll not have gone
far with Mistress Mariah riding pillion. They would hire a coach in Preston or
take the stage. The border—and Gretna Green—is not much more than a hundred
miles. Two days’ coach travel, mayhap, unless there’s rain. I’ve a speedy
horse, Captain, which you are welcome to borrow. I will follow by coach, for I
ride too heavy for such a race.”
“Thank you, Sir
Manfred. I accept your offer.”
The baronet shouted to one of his grooms to saddle Lightning
and be d—d quick about it. The groom ran to obey. Word would be through the
stable and the house, too, without doubt. Next it would be the neighborhood.
Captain Marcus Easterday could not recall when he had
last been so furious.
My books:
