I never have enough bookcases. Every once in a while I have to be ruthless. Recently, I've been ill. Thanks to antibiotics I'm on the mend. And while I'm on the mend I have reorganised my bookcases. I have arranged my non-fiction books in historical order, others according to subject, and fiction in alphabetical order according to the author's name. Not without a few regrets I am disposing of every book I will never refer to or read again. Now I need to decide which magazines I want to keep and declutter my filing cabinet.
Somehow or other when I finish decluttering, whether it is my bookcases, my workspace or, for example, my clothes, the house always seems uplifted. I should find time to do it more regularly.
Monday, 12 November 2012
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Example of the Cockney Spirit in World War II
Today is Remembrance Sunday. As usual, I am thinking of my father. When young he suffered from tuberculosis and, therefore, his applications to join the armed forces in the Second World War were rejected. Determined to ‘do his bit’ for king and country he joined the fire service.
One morning on his way back to the fire station after the East End was cruelly bombed, a little old lady flagged down the fire engine he drove.
“Get yer ladders out,” she said pointing to the upper storey of her house, the front of which had been blown away. “Look lively. Me best ’at’s up there on top of me wardrobe, an’ Mister ‘itler ain’t going to ‘ave it.”
Father retrieved the hat. “No one,” Father said, after he told me the story, “thought we would lose the war, and that little old lady, who had lost nearly everything, represents the spirit of the times.”
One morning on his way back to the fire station after the East End was cruelly bombed, a little old lady flagged down the fire engine he drove.
“Get yer ladders out,” she said pointing to the upper storey of her house, the front of which had been blown away. “Look lively. Me best ’at’s up there on top of me wardrobe, an’ Mister ‘itler ain’t going to ‘ave it.”
Father retrieved the hat. “No one,” Father said, after he told me the story, “thought we would lose the war, and that little old lady, who had lost nearly everything, represents the spirit of the times.”
Saturday, 10 November 2012
Lord George Byron
I am reading a 1943 edition of Britain against Napoleon by Caroloa Oman for which: The author desires to record her most grateful thanks to the maker of the Index - Georgette Heyer.
The opening paragraph is: "A country correspondent wrote from the south of England that filberts were in bloom, and under a shelered bank he had found primroses, though ragged and beaten by the weather. The throstle had sung a little at differenttimes."
Carola Oman, daughter of historian Carol Oman, know her history, which she intersperses with annecdotes and sippets. For example: "A short, stout lady, seated to an unappeteizing meal with a pale child, in lodgings close to the Marischal College (Aberdeen), had no need to invest in fresh black (to mourn Louis VIII) Mrs John Byron, whose temper was the terror of her landlady, already wore widow's weeds.
".... Her sole interest nowadays was her son....She had a taste for books. George Gordon the child seated opposite her in a by-street of the Granite City on this gloomy winter's afternoon, had been so christened in memory of his maternal gandfather, a descendant of the poet King James I of Scotland.
"If Mr Pitt was to declare in the House of Commons on Tuesday that Britain was at war with France....even if the war went on for years, it could not hurt Mrs Byron, her only son could never go to a war, because he was a cripple." His right foot and leg were contracted by infant paralysis.
The opening paragraph is: "A country correspondent wrote from the south of England that filberts were in bloom, and under a shelered bank he had found primroses, though ragged and beaten by the weather. The throstle had sung a little at differenttimes."
Carola Oman, daughter of historian Carol Oman, know her history, which she intersperses with annecdotes and sippets. For example: "A short, stout lady, seated to an unappeteizing meal with a pale child, in lodgings close to the Marischal College (Aberdeen), had no need to invest in fresh black (to mourn Louis VIII) Mrs John Byron, whose temper was the terror of her landlady, already wore widow's weeds.
".... Her sole interest nowadays was her son....She had a taste for books. George Gordon the child seated opposite her in a by-street of the Granite City on this gloomy winter's afternoon, had been so christened in memory of his maternal gandfather, a descendant of the poet King James I of Scotland.
"If Mr Pitt was to declare in the House of Commons on Tuesday that Britain was at war with France....even if the war went on for years, it could not hurt Mrs Byron, her only son could never go to a war, because he was a cripple." His right foot and leg were contracted by infant paralysis.
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
"Kiss of Youth and Love."
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled them above;
Such kisses as belong to early days
Where heart and soul, and sense in concert move,
And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake – for a kiss’s strength,
I think, it must be reckoned by its length.
Lord George Byron
Poet 1788 - 1824
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled them above;
Such kisses as belong to early days
Where heart and soul, and sense in concert move,
And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake – for a kiss’s strength,
I think, it must be reckoned by its length.
Lord George Byron
Poet 1788 - 1824
A Kiss - Courtesy of Lord George Byron
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past –
For years flee away with the wings of the dove –
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memory the first kiss of love.
Lord George Byron
Poet 1788 - 1824
For years flee away with the wings of the dove –
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memory the first kiss of love.
Lord George Byron
Poet 1788 - 1824
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Tangled Love has been shortlisted
I am delighted because Tangled Love, set in Queen Anne Stuart's reign, has been shortlisted by the Festival of Romance to be held soon in Bedford.
More Kisses and Romance
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in those lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
Christopher Marlow
Playwright and poet 1664 - 1693
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in those lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
Christopher Marlow
Playwright and poet 1664 - 1693
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Kisses - An Invitation to the Feast
Thomas died at the age of thirty. I wonder what he would have expressed in prose and poetry if he had lived longer.
Are kisses all? – they but forerun
Another duty to be done:
What would you of that minstrel say,
Who tunes his pipe, and will not play?
Say, what are blossoms in their prime
That ripen not in harvest time?
Oh what are buds that ne’er disclose
The longed for sweetness of the rose?
So kisses to a lover’s guest
Are invitations not the feast.
Thomas Randolph
Poet and playwright 1605 - 1635
Are kisses all? – they but forerun
Another duty to be done:
What would you of that minstrel say,
Who tunes his pipe, and will not play?
Say, what are blossoms in their prime
That ripen not in harvest time?
Oh what are buds that ne’er disclose
The longed for sweetness of the rose?
So kisses to a lover’s guest
Are invitations not the feast.
Thomas Randolph
Poet and playwright 1605 - 1635
Friday, 2 November 2012
Commonplace Diary - Romance and Kisses
I have not made entries in it so much, looking for quotes about romance and kisses, that I am neglecting the revision of my mediaeval novel.
Among thy fancies tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss?’’’
It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips all cherry red,
By love and warm desires fed.
Robert Herrick
Poet and Clergyman 1591 - 1674
Among thy fancies tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss?’’’
It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips all cherry red,
By love and warm desires fed.
Robert Herrick
Poet and Clergyman 1591 - 1674
Thursday, 1 November 2012
More Romance and Kisses
My sweet did sweetly sleep
And on her rosy face
Stood tears of pearl, which beauty’s self did weep;
I, wondering at her grace,
Did all amazed remain,
When Love said, “Fool can looks they wishes crown?
Times past comes no again.’
The did I bow me down,
And kissing her fair breast, lips cheeks and eyes,
Proved here on earth the joys of paradise.
William Drummond of Hawthornden
Poet 1585 - 1649
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Today's Romance and Kisses
Oh that joy so soon should waste!
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss
Might not for ever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,
When the morn itself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Or rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another,
It should be my wishing,
That I should die kissing.
Ben Johnson
Playwright and poet 1572 – 1637
Or so sweet a bliss
As a kiss
Might not for ever last!
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
The dew that lies on roses,
When the morn itself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Or rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another,
It should be my wishing,
That I should die kissing.
Ben Johnson
Playwright and poet 1572 – 1637
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
Romance and Kisses
I'm sharing some of the verses I find inspirational.
I am sharing some of the verses I have collected - hope you are enjoying them - they bring many images to my mind.
For love’s sake kiss me once again;
I long and should not beg in vain –
Here’s none to spy or see:
Why do you doubt or stay?
I’ll taste as lightly as the bee
That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.
Ben Johnson
Playwright and poet 1572 - 1637
I am sharing some of the verses I have collected - hope you are enjoying them - they bring many images to my mind.
For love’s sake kiss me once again;
I long and should not beg in vain –
Here’s none to spy or see:
Why do you doubt or stay?
I’ll taste as lightly as the bee
That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.
Ben Johnson
Playwright and poet 1572 - 1637
Saturday, 27 October 2012
Last Kiss
Last kiss.
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part;
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we not one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life, thou might’st him yet recover.
Michael Drayton
Poet 1563 - 1631
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part;
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we not one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life, thou might’st him yet recover.
Michael Drayton
Poet 1563 - 1631
Kisses and Henry VIII
Kisses and Henry VIII
“No more to you at this present, mine own darling, for lack of time. But I would that you were in my arms, or I in yours – for I think it long since I kissed you.
Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn. 1528
“No more to you at this present, mine own darling, for lack of time. But I would that you were in my arms, or I in yours – for I think it long since I kissed you.
Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn. 1528
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Kisses and Romance
To celebrate the publication of my new mystry/romance novel False Pretences I’m quoting Flavius.
“Drink to me with thine eyes only; or if thou wilt, putting the cup to my lips, fill it with kisses, and so bestow it upon me. I, as soon as I behold me, thirst; and, taking hold of the cup, do not apply that to my lips but thee.”
Flavius Philostratus
Orator and Author c..170 – c.244
False Pretences by Rosemary Morris - Chapter One
False Pretences
By
Rosemary Morris
Chapter One
1815
“I have good news for you, Annabelle,” said Miss Chalfont, the well-educated head mistress and owner of The Beeches, an exclusive school for young ladies.
Seated on a straight-backed chair opposite Miss Chalfont’s walnut desk, Annabelle clasped her hands tightly on her lap. “Has my guardian told you who my parents are?” she asked in a voice quivering with excitement.
Regret flickered across Miss Chalfont’s face before she shook her head. “No, I am very sorry, he has not. For your sake I wish he had. In fact, I do not know who he is. I receive instructions from a lawyer in Dover. To be honest, for no particular reason, I have always assumed your guardian’s identity is that of a man, but it could be that of a woman.”
Dover! Annabelle thought. The town where she had lived with her nurse before a nameless elegant lady, with a French accent, brought her to The Beeches. Time and time again she had wondered if the lady was her guardian or whether she was a stranger ordered to bring her here. She had no way of knowing, for the lady had not answered any of her questions. Annabelle looked into Miss Chalfont’s eyes. “Who is the lawyer, ma’am?”
“I do not know for he does not identify himself. He merely arranges for your…er…upkeep, and sends me your guardian’s instructions.” No clue to the mystery of my own identity, Annabelle thought and gazed down to conceal
her disappointment. “Has the lawyer given you permission to tell me who my guardian is?” she asked, despite her suspicion that he had not. Miss Chalfont looked down at a letter. “No, your guardian, whom I have no doubt has your welfare at heart, still wishes to remain anonymous. But, my dear child, you are fortunate. Your guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron de Beauchamp.”
Annabelle looked up with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and intense indignation at the arrangement that took no heed of her wishes. “I am to marry a man I have never met?”
With restless fingers, Miss Chalfont adjusted her frilled mobcap. “Yes, your guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron tomorrow.”
Annabelle stared at her kind teacher as though she had turned into a monster. “Mon dieu!” she raged, reverting to the French she spoke when she was a small child. “My God! Tomorrow? My guardian expects me to marry a Frenchman tomorrow? Miss Chalfont, surely you do not approve of such haste.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Miss Chalfont tapped her fingers on her desk. “My approval or disapproval is of no consequence. Your guardian wishes you to marry immediately so there is little more to be said. A special licence has been procured and the vicar has been informed.” Miss Chalfont smiled at her. “You have nothing to fear. This letter informs me that Monsieur speaks English and lives in this country.”
Annabelle scowled. Her hands trembled. For the first time, she defied her head mistress. “Nothing to fear? My life is to be put in the hands of a husband with the right to…beat me…or… starve me, and you say I have nothing to fear, Miss Chalfont? Please believe me when I say that nothing will persuade me to marry in such haste.”
Not the least display of emotion crossed the head teacher’s face. “You should not allow your imagination to agitate your sensibilities. For all you know, the monsieur is charming and will be a good, kind husband.”
“On the other hand, he might be a monster,” Annabelle said.
Miss Chalfont ignored the interruption and continued. “At eighteen, you are the oldest girl in the school. It is time for you to leave the nest and establish one of your own.”
“Twaddle,” Annabelle muttered. “My education is almost complete and I suspect you wish to be rid of me.”
Miss Chalfont smoothed the skirt of her steel-grey woollen gown and looked at Annabelle with a cold expression in her eyes. “I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say twaddle? As for wishing to be rid of you child, that is not true. However, I will admit that in recent months I have worried about your guardian’s future plans for you. But I need not have worried. As a happy bride, I daresay you will go to London where those pretty blue eyes and long lashes of yours will be so much admired that Monsieur le Baron will be proud of you.”
At any other time Miss Chalfont’s rare compliment would have pleased her. On this occasion it only served to increase the fury she tried to conceal. Losing her temper would be pointless. Before Annabelle spoke, she took a deep breath to calm herself. “It is unreasonable to order me to marry the man without allowing me time to become acquainted with him.”
“Do not refer to your bridegroom as the man. I have told you his name is de Beauchamp.”
Rebellion flamed in Annabelle’s stomach. “What do you know of my…er...bridegroom-tobe, ma’am?”
Miss Chalfont looked down at the letter. “He is described as a handsome gentleman of mature years.”
“One would think the description is of a piece of mature cheese or a bottle of vintage wine.”
Miss Chalfont frowned. “Do not be impertinent, Annabelle, you are not too old to be punished.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but please tell me how mature he is,” Annabelle said, her eyes wide open and her entire body taut with apprehension.
“Monsieur le Baron is some forty-years-old.”
“How mature?” Annabelle persisted with her usual bluntness.
“He is forty-two-years-old.”
Annabelle stood, bent forward, and drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Please be kind enough to inform my guardian that I will not play Guinevere to an aging Arthur. I would prefer to build my nest with a young Lancelot.”
Miss Chalfont’s shoulders heaved as though she was trying not to laugh. “Regardless of your preference, you must marry according to your guardian’s wish.”
“Dear ma’am, you and your mother have always been kind to me. I cannot believe you approve of—”
“As I have already said, my approval or disapproval is of no importance. Your duty is to obey.” Annabelle’s anger boiled and she felt somewhat sick in the stomach. Now that she was old enough to leave the seminary, it seemed that unless she refused to co-operate, she really would be disposed of without the slightest consideration for her personal wishes. Simultaneously afraid to obey her guardian and furious because not even Miss Chalfont seemed to care about her dilemma, Annabelle straightened up. She looked around the cosy parlour, with its thick oriental rugs, pretty figurines on the mantelpiece, and a number of gilt-framed pictures on the wall, one of which she had painted. “I will consider the marriage.” Annabelle looked down again, in case rebellion revealed itself on her face. But she had not lied. She would consider the marriage proposal, but not in the manner Miss Chalfont expected, for she would find a way to reject the elderly baron.
Miss Chalfont stood, walked round her desk, and patted Annabelle’s shoulder before resting her hand on it. “My dear child, there is little for you to consider. I dread to think of the consequences if you disobey your guardian. You could be cast penniless from here with only the clothes on your back. After all, your guardian does have complete power over you.”
Annabelle wanted to jerk away from her uncaring teacher’s hand but forced herself to remain passive. She did not want the woman to suspect the nature of her rebellious thoughts and have her closely watched. Inwardly, she seethed and decided that whatever the cost, she would escape the fate in store for her. An image of her former nurse, with whom she corresponded, flashed through her mind. With it came a sense of security and purpose.
http://tinyurl.com/8fwzcxx
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
By
Rosemary Morris
Chapter One
1815
“I have good news for you, Annabelle,” said Miss Chalfont, the well-educated head mistress and owner of The Beeches, an exclusive school for young ladies.
Seated on a straight-backed chair opposite Miss Chalfont’s walnut desk, Annabelle clasped her hands tightly on her lap. “Has my guardian told you who my parents are?” she asked in a voice quivering with excitement.
Regret flickered across Miss Chalfont’s face before she shook her head. “No, I am very sorry, he has not. For your sake I wish he had. In fact, I do not know who he is. I receive instructions from a lawyer in Dover. To be honest, for no particular reason, I have always assumed your guardian’s identity is that of a man, but it could be that of a woman.”
Dover! Annabelle thought. The town where she had lived with her nurse before a nameless elegant lady, with a French accent, brought her to The Beeches. Time and time again she had wondered if the lady was her guardian or whether she was a stranger ordered to bring her here. She had no way of knowing, for the lady had not answered any of her questions. Annabelle looked into Miss Chalfont’s eyes. “Who is the lawyer, ma’am?”
“I do not know for he does not identify himself. He merely arranges for your…er…upkeep, and sends me your guardian’s instructions.” No clue to the mystery of my own identity, Annabelle thought and gazed down to conceal
her disappointment. “Has the lawyer given you permission to tell me who my guardian is?” she asked, despite her suspicion that he had not. Miss Chalfont looked down at a letter. “No, your guardian, whom I have no doubt has your welfare at heart, still wishes to remain anonymous. But, my dear child, you are fortunate. Your guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron de Beauchamp.”
Annabelle looked up with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and intense indignation at the arrangement that took no heed of her wishes. “I am to marry a man I have never met?”
With restless fingers, Miss Chalfont adjusted her frilled mobcap. “Yes, your guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron tomorrow.”
Annabelle stared at her kind teacher as though she had turned into a monster. “Mon dieu!” she raged, reverting to the French she spoke when she was a small child. “My God! Tomorrow? My guardian expects me to marry a Frenchman tomorrow? Miss Chalfont, surely you do not approve of such haste.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Miss Chalfont tapped her fingers on her desk. “My approval or disapproval is of no consequence. Your guardian wishes you to marry immediately so there is little more to be said. A special licence has been procured and the vicar has been informed.” Miss Chalfont smiled at her. “You have nothing to fear. This letter informs me that Monsieur speaks English and lives in this country.”
Annabelle scowled. Her hands trembled. For the first time, she defied her head mistress. “Nothing to fear? My life is to be put in the hands of a husband with the right to…beat me…or… starve me, and you say I have nothing to fear, Miss Chalfont? Please believe me when I say that nothing will persuade me to marry in such haste.”
Not the least display of emotion crossed the head teacher’s face. “You should not allow your imagination to agitate your sensibilities. For all you know, the monsieur is charming and will be a good, kind husband.”
“On the other hand, he might be a monster,” Annabelle said.
Miss Chalfont ignored the interruption and continued. “At eighteen, you are the oldest girl in the school. It is time for you to leave the nest and establish one of your own.”
“Twaddle,” Annabelle muttered. “My education is almost complete and I suspect you wish to be rid of me.”
Miss Chalfont smoothed the skirt of her steel-grey woollen gown and looked at Annabelle with a cold expression in her eyes. “I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say twaddle? As for wishing to be rid of you child, that is not true. However, I will admit that in recent months I have worried about your guardian’s future plans for you. But I need not have worried. As a happy bride, I daresay you will go to London where those pretty blue eyes and long lashes of yours will be so much admired that Monsieur le Baron will be proud of you.”
At any other time Miss Chalfont’s rare compliment would have pleased her. On this occasion it only served to increase the fury she tried to conceal. Losing her temper would be pointless. Before Annabelle spoke, she took a deep breath to calm herself. “It is unreasonable to order me to marry the man without allowing me time to become acquainted with him.”
“Do not refer to your bridegroom as the man. I have told you his name is de Beauchamp.”
Rebellion flamed in Annabelle’s stomach. “What do you know of my…er...bridegroom-tobe, ma’am?”
Miss Chalfont looked down at the letter. “He is described as a handsome gentleman of mature years.”
“One would think the description is of a piece of mature cheese or a bottle of vintage wine.”
Miss Chalfont frowned. “Do not be impertinent, Annabelle, you are not too old to be punished.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but please tell me how mature he is,” Annabelle said, her eyes wide open and her entire body taut with apprehension.
“Monsieur le Baron is some forty-years-old.”
“How mature?” Annabelle persisted with her usual bluntness.
“He is forty-two-years-old.”
Annabelle stood, bent forward, and drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Please be kind enough to inform my guardian that I will not play Guinevere to an aging Arthur. I would prefer to build my nest with a young Lancelot.”
Miss Chalfont’s shoulders heaved as though she was trying not to laugh. “Regardless of your preference, you must marry according to your guardian’s wish.”
“Dear ma’am, you and your mother have always been kind to me. I cannot believe you approve of—”
“As I have already said, my approval or disapproval is of no importance. Your duty is to obey.” Annabelle’s anger boiled and she felt somewhat sick in the stomach. Now that she was old enough to leave the seminary, it seemed that unless she refused to co-operate, she really would be disposed of without the slightest consideration for her personal wishes. Simultaneously afraid to obey her guardian and furious because not even Miss Chalfont seemed to care about her dilemma, Annabelle straightened up. She looked around the cosy parlour, with its thick oriental rugs, pretty figurines on the mantelpiece, and a number of gilt-framed pictures on the wall, one of which she had painted. “I will consider the marriage.” Annabelle looked down again, in case rebellion revealed itself on her face. But she had not lied. She would consider the marriage proposal, but not in the manner Miss Chalfont expected, for she would find a way to reject the elderly baron.
Miss Chalfont stood, walked round her desk, and patted Annabelle’s shoulder before resting her hand on it. “My dear child, there is little for you to consider. I dread to think of the consequences if you disobey your guardian. You could be cast penniless from here with only the clothes on your back. After all, your guardian does have complete power over you.”
Annabelle wanted to jerk away from her uncaring teacher’s hand but forced herself to remain passive. She did not want the woman to suspect the nature of her rebellious thoughts and have her closely watched. Inwardly, she seethed and decided that whatever the cost, she would escape the fate in store for her. An image of her former nurse, with whom she corresponded, flashed through her mind. With it came a sense of security and purpose.
http://tinyurl.com/8fwzcxx
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
False Pretences by Rosemary Morris
My publisher, MuseItUp publishing, sent the following link to my novel.
http://tinyurl.com/8fwzcxx
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
http://tinyurl.com/8fwzcxx
All the best,
Rosemary Morris
Monday, 22 October 2012
Back Cover False Pretences by Rosemary Morris
England 1815
Five-year-old Annabelle arrived at boarding school fluent in French and English. Separated from her nurse, a dismal shadow blights Annabelle’s life because she does not know who her parents are.
High-spirited Annabelle is financially dependent on her unknown guardian. She refuses to marry a French baron more than twice her age.
Her life in danger, Annabelle is saved by a gentleman, who says he will help her to discover her identity. Yet, from then on nothing is as it seems, and she is forced to run away for the second time to protect her rescuer.
Even more determined to discover her parents’ identity, in spite of many false pretences, Annabelle must learn who to trust. Her attempts to unravel the mystery of her birth, lead to further danger, despair, unbearable heartache and even more false pretences until the only person who has ever wanted to cherish her, reveals the startling truth, and all’s well that ends well.
Five-year-old Annabelle arrived at boarding school fluent in French and English. Separated from her nurse, a dismal shadow blights Annabelle’s life because she does not know who her parents are.
High-spirited Annabelle is financially dependent on her unknown guardian. She refuses to marry a French baron more than twice her age.
Her life in danger, Annabelle is saved by a gentleman, who says he will help her to discover her identity. Yet, from then on nothing is as it seems, and she is forced to run away for the second time to protect her rescuer.
Even more determined to discover her parents’ identity, in spite of many false pretences, Annabelle must learn who to trust. Her attempts to unravel the mystery of her birth, lead to further danger, despair, unbearable heartache and even more false pretences until the only person who has ever wanted to cherish her, reveals the startling truth, and all’s well that ends well.
Friday, 19 October 2012
False Pretences by Rosemary Morris
I am delighted to announce the publication of my novel False Pretences on the 27th October.
Annabelle runs away from school into the arms of a charismatic gentleman…but can she trust him to help her to find out who her parents are?
There is a pre-order discount of 20% from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/
False Pretences Chapter One
Chapter One
1815
“I have good news for you, Annabelle,” said Miss Chalfont, the well-educated head mistress
and owner of The Beeches, an exclusive school for young ladies.
Seated on a straight-backed chair opposite Miss Chalfont’s walnut desk, Annabelle clasped
her hands tightly on her lap. “Has my guardian told you who my parents are?” she asked in a
voice quivering with excitement.
Regret flickered across Miss Chalfont’s face before she shook her head. “No, I am very
sorry, he has not. For your sake I wish he had. In fact, I do not know who he is. I receive
instructions from a lawyer in Dover. To be honest, for no particular reason, I have always
assumed your guardian’s identity is that of a man, but it could be that of a woman.”
Dover! Annabelle thought. The town where she had lived with her nurse before a nameless
elegant lady, with a French accent, brought her to The Beeches. Time and time again she had
wondered if the lady was her guardian or whether she was a stranger ordered to bring her here.
She had no way of knowing, for the lady had not answered any of her questions.
Annabelle looked into Miss Chalfont’s eyes. “Who is the lawyer, ma’am?”
“I do not know for he does not identify himself. He merely arranges for your…er…upkeep,
and sends me your guardian’s instructions.”
No clue to the mystery of my own identity, Annabelle thought and gazed down to conceal
her disappointment. “Has the lawyer given you permission to tell me who my guardian is?” she
asked, despite her suspicion that he had not.
Miss Chalfont looked down at a letter. “No, your guardian, whom I have no doubt has your
welfare at heart, still wishes to remain anonymous. But, my dear child, you are fortunate. Your
guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron de Beauchamp.”
Annabelle looked up with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and intense indignation at
the arrangement that took no heed of her wishes. “I am to marry a man I have never met?”
With restless fingers, Miss Chalfont adjusted her frilled mobcap. “Yes, your guardian has
arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron tomorrow.”
Annabelle stared at her kind teacher as though she had turned into a monster. “Mon dieu!”
she raged, reverting to the French she spoke when she was a small child. “My God! Tomorrow?
My guardian expects me to marry a Frenchman tomorrow? Miss Chalfont, surely you do not
approve of such haste.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Miss Chalfont tapped her fingers on her desk. “My
approval or disapproval is of no consequence. Your guardian wishes you to marry immediately
so there is little more to be said. A special licence has been procured and the vicar has been
informed.” Miss Chalfont smiled at her. “You have nothing to fear. This letter informs me that
Monsieur speaks English and lives in this country.”
Annabelle scowled. Her hands trembled. For the first time, she defied her head mistress.
“Nothing to fear? My life is to be put in the hands of a husband with the right to…beat me…or…
starve me, and you say I have nothing to fear, Miss Chalfont? Please believe me when I say that
nothing will persuade me to marry in such haste.”
Not the least display of emotion crossed the head teacher’s face. “You should not allow your
imagination to agitate your sensibilities. For all you know, the monsieur is charming and will be
a good, kind husband.”
“On the other hand, he might be a monster,” Annabelle said.
Miss Chalfont ignored the interruption and continued. “At eighteen, you are the oldest girl in
the school. It is time for you to leave the nest and establish one of your own.”
“Twaddle,” Annabelle muttered. “My education is almost complete and I suspect you wish
to be rid of me.”
Miss Chalfont smoothed the skirt of her steel-grey woollen gown and looked at Annabelle
with a cold expression in her eyes. “I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say twaddle? As for
wishing to be rid of you child, that is not true. However, I will admit that in recent months I have
worried about your guardian’s future plans for you. But I need not have worried. As a happy
bride, I daresay you will go to London where those pretty blue eyes and long lashes of yours will
be so much admired that Monsieur le Baron will be proud of you.”
At any other time Miss Chalfont’s rare compliment would have pleased her. On this
occasion it only served to increase the fury she tried to conceal. Losing her temper would be
pointless. Before Annabelle spoke, she took a deep breath to calm herself. “It is unreasonable to
order me to marry the man without allowing me time to become acquainted with him.”
“Do not refer to your bridegroom as the man. I have told you his name is de Beauchamp.”
Rebellion flamed in Annabelle’s stomach. “What do you know of my…er...bridegroom-tobe, ma’am?”
Miss Chalfont looked down at the letter. “He is described as a handsome gentleman of
mature years.”
“One would think the description is of a piece of mature cheese or a bottle of vintage wine.”
Miss Chalfont frowned. “Do not be impertinent, Annabelle, you are not too old to be
punished.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but please tell me how mature he is,” Annabelle said, her eyes
wide open and her entire body taut with apprehension.
“Monsieur le Baron is some forty-years-old.”
“How mature?” Annabelle persisted with her usual bluntness.
“He is forty-two-years-old.”
Annabelle stood, bent forward, and drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Please be
kind enough to inform my guardian that I will not play Guinevere to an aging Arthur. I would
prefer to build my nest with a young Lancelot.”
Miss Chalfont’s shoulders heaved as though she was trying not to laugh. “Regardless of
your preference, you must marry according to your guardian’s wish.”
“Dear ma’am, you and your mother have always been kind to me. I cannot believe you
approve of—”
“As I have already said, my approval or disapproval is of no importance. Your duty is to
obey.”
Annabelle’s anger boiled and she felt somewhat sick in the stomach. Now that she was old
enough to leave the seminary, it seemed that unless she refused to co-operate, she really would
be disposed of without the slightest consideration for her personal wishes. Simultaneously afraid
to obey her guardian and furious because not even Miss Chalfont seemed to care about her
dilemma, Annabelle straightened up. She looked around the cosy parlour, with its thick oriental
rugs, pretty figurines on the mantelpiece, and a number of gilt-framed pictures on the wall, one
of which she had painted. “I will consider the marriage.” Annabelle looked down again, in case
rebellion revealed itself on her face. But she had not lied. She would consider the marriage
proposal, but not in the manner Miss Chalfont expected, for she would find a way to reject the
elderly baron.
Miss Chalfont stood, walked round her desk, and patted Annabelle’s shoulder before resting
her hand on it. “My dear child, there is little for you to consider. I dread to think of the
consequences if you disobey your guardian. You could be cast penniless from here with only the
clothes on your back. After all, your guardian does have complete power over you.”
Annabelle wanted to jerk away from her uncaring teacher’s hand but forced herself to
remain passive. She did not want the woman to suspect the nature of her rebellious thoughts and
have her closely watched. Inwardly, she seethed and decided that whatever the cost, she would
escape the fate in store for her. An image of her former nurse, with whom she corresponded,
flashed through her mind. With it came a sense of security and purpose.
On the 27th October, False Pretences will be available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookshop2/
1815
“I have good news for you, Annabelle,” said Miss Chalfont, the well-educated head mistress
and owner of The Beeches, an exclusive school for young ladies.
Seated on a straight-backed chair opposite Miss Chalfont’s walnut desk, Annabelle clasped
her hands tightly on her lap. “Has my guardian told you who my parents are?” she asked in a
voice quivering with excitement.
Regret flickered across Miss Chalfont’s face before she shook her head. “No, I am very
sorry, he has not. For your sake I wish he had. In fact, I do not know who he is. I receive
instructions from a lawyer in Dover. To be honest, for no particular reason, I have always
assumed your guardian’s identity is that of a man, but it could be that of a woman.”
Dover! Annabelle thought. The town where she had lived with her nurse before a nameless
elegant lady, with a French accent, brought her to The Beeches. Time and time again she had
wondered if the lady was her guardian or whether she was a stranger ordered to bring her here.
She had no way of knowing, for the lady had not answered any of her questions.
Annabelle looked into Miss Chalfont’s eyes. “Who is the lawyer, ma’am?”
“I do not know for he does not identify himself. He merely arranges for your…er…upkeep,
and sends me your guardian’s instructions.”
No clue to the mystery of my own identity, Annabelle thought and gazed down to conceal
her disappointment. “Has the lawyer given you permission to tell me who my guardian is?” she
asked, despite her suspicion that he had not.
Miss Chalfont looked down at a letter. “No, your guardian, whom I have no doubt has your
welfare at heart, still wishes to remain anonymous. But, my dear child, you are fortunate. Your
guardian has arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron de Beauchamp.”
Annabelle looked up with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and intense indignation at
the arrangement that took no heed of her wishes. “I am to marry a man I have never met?”
With restless fingers, Miss Chalfont adjusted her frilled mobcap. “Yes, your guardian has
arranged for you to marry Monsieur le Baron tomorrow.”
Annabelle stared at her kind teacher as though she had turned into a monster. “Mon dieu!”
she raged, reverting to the French she spoke when she was a small child. “My God! Tomorrow?
My guardian expects me to marry a Frenchman tomorrow? Miss Chalfont, surely you do not
approve of such haste.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Miss Chalfont tapped her fingers on her desk. “My
approval or disapproval is of no consequence. Your guardian wishes you to marry immediately
so there is little more to be said. A special licence has been procured and the vicar has been
informed.” Miss Chalfont smiled at her. “You have nothing to fear. This letter informs me that
Monsieur speaks English and lives in this country.”
Annabelle scowled. Her hands trembled. For the first time, she defied her head mistress.
“Nothing to fear? My life is to be put in the hands of a husband with the right to…beat me…or…
starve me, and you say I have nothing to fear, Miss Chalfont? Please believe me when I say that
nothing will persuade me to marry in such haste.”
Not the least display of emotion crossed the head teacher’s face. “You should not allow your
imagination to agitate your sensibilities. For all you know, the monsieur is charming and will be
a good, kind husband.”
“On the other hand, he might be a monster,” Annabelle said.
Miss Chalfont ignored the interruption and continued. “At eighteen, you are the oldest girl in
the school. It is time for you to leave the nest and establish one of your own.”
“Twaddle,” Annabelle muttered. “My education is almost complete and I suspect you wish
to be rid of me.”
Miss Chalfont smoothed the skirt of her steel-grey woollen gown and looked at Annabelle
with a cold expression in her eyes. “I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say twaddle? As for
wishing to be rid of you child, that is not true. However, I will admit that in recent months I have
worried about your guardian’s future plans for you. But I need not have worried. As a happy
bride, I daresay you will go to London where those pretty blue eyes and long lashes of yours will
be so much admired that Monsieur le Baron will be proud of you.”
At any other time Miss Chalfont’s rare compliment would have pleased her. On this
occasion it only served to increase the fury she tried to conceal. Losing her temper would be
pointless. Before Annabelle spoke, she took a deep breath to calm herself. “It is unreasonable to
order me to marry the man without allowing me time to become acquainted with him.”
“Do not refer to your bridegroom as the man. I have told you his name is de Beauchamp.”
Rebellion flamed in Annabelle’s stomach. “What do you know of my…er...bridegroom-tobe, ma’am?”
Miss Chalfont looked down at the letter. “He is described as a handsome gentleman of
mature years.”
“One would think the description is of a piece of mature cheese or a bottle of vintage wine.”
Miss Chalfont frowned. “Do not be impertinent, Annabelle, you are not too old to be
punished.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but please tell me how mature he is,” Annabelle said, her eyes
wide open and her entire body taut with apprehension.
“Monsieur le Baron is some forty-years-old.”
“How mature?” Annabelle persisted with her usual bluntness.
“He is forty-two-years-old.”
Annabelle stood, bent forward, and drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk. “Please be
kind enough to inform my guardian that I will not play Guinevere to an aging Arthur. I would
prefer to build my nest with a young Lancelot.”
Miss Chalfont’s shoulders heaved as though she was trying not to laugh. “Regardless of
your preference, you must marry according to your guardian’s wish.”
“Dear ma’am, you and your mother have always been kind to me. I cannot believe you
approve of—”
“As I have already said, my approval or disapproval is of no importance. Your duty is to
obey.”
Annabelle’s anger boiled and she felt somewhat sick in the stomach. Now that she was old
enough to leave the seminary, it seemed that unless she refused to co-operate, she really would
be disposed of without the slightest consideration for her personal wishes. Simultaneously afraid
to obey her guardian and furious because not even Miss Chalfont seemed to care about her
dilemma, Annabelle straightened up. She looked around the cosy parlour, with its thick oriental
rugs, pretty figurines on the mantelpiece, and a number of gilt-framed pictures on the wall, one
of which she had painted. “I will consider the marriage.” Annabelle looked down again, in case
rebellion revealed itself on her face. But she had not lied. She would consider the marriage
proposal, but not in the manner Miss Chalfont expected, for she would find a way to reject the
elderly baron.
Miss Chalfont stood, walked round her desk, and patted Annabelle’s shoulder before resting
her hand on it. “My dear child, there is little for you to consider. I dread to think of the
consequences if you disobey your guardian. You could be cast penniless from here with only the
clothes on your back. After all, your guardian does have complete power over you.”
Annabelle wanted to jerk away from her uncaring teacher’s hand but forced herself to
remain passive. She did not want the woman to suspect the nature of her rebellious thoughts and
have her closely watched. Inwardly, she seethed and decided that whatever the cost, she would
escape the fate in store for her. An image of her former nurse, with whom she corresponded,
flashed through her mind. With it came a sense of security and purpose.
On the 27th October, False Pretences will be available from: https://museituppublishing.com/bookshop2/
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