A few people have been asking lately about my writing process so I thought I’d share a little about my approach – a mix of scribbles and dodgy sketches in notebook. Then I weave these together on the word processor before the tedious editing process begins. I’d love to say once done I leave it alone. No, like a good old scab, I pick it apart! Nothing I have written in this series is the exact same as it originally was in my notebooks but I guess that’s why they call it a craft, right? 😆

Some weeks ago I introduced you to one of the lead protagonists of the ‘Of Social Standing‘ series, Mr. Emmett Rosland. The self-assured, spirited young legal professional, with an unsatiated appetite for social contact is the antithesis of his younger brother, Edward Rosland. Below is a little sneak peak of this unassuming fellow from book one in the series, Lady Dixon’s Niece. I hope you enjoy 🙂

Unlike his brother, Edward was quite happy to fade into obscurity. He loathed social outings. Without fail the room would fill and the heat would be stifling. He would sweat profusely for the evening and the music would ring his ears. He always went home with a headache. It was too difficult to sustain a conversation once the musicians started playing and he wasn’t inclined to dance. Scratch that, if he was being honest, he couldn’t think of anything more daunting. This was precisely why he preferred to stay hidden away at the back of the ballroom.

As the night progressed, the chatter of the women would grow louder, and the men would sit in silence drinking… one slurp leading to the next. Inhibitions would be loosened and scenes unpleasant always arose. He much preferred not to bear witness to these hedonistic displays, but it was impossible on this occasion for his mother insisted upon his presence. Perhaps he could sneak away after the musician’s first set? That should be just enough hours accrued to avoid his mother’s consternation.

‘For God’s sake Edward, slap a smile on that face, and ask a pretty girl to dance.’
Edward chose to ignore his brother’s demands and watched on as he gracefully moved across the polished floor, keeping all the young ladies in suspense as to who would be picked as his chosen partner to open the dance. He was expecting Miss Price to be selected. His eye kept getting drawn to the twinkling of her diamond necklace. He was sure this would not escape the notice of his brother either. She even looked quite confident too, poised to take position under the crystal chandelier in the centre of the room. But they were both wrong. The younger brother’s eyebrow’s arched as Emmett floated past her and extended his hand to Boxmoor’s newest arrival, Miss Schmidt.

Edward’s eyes drifted towards Louisa Price once again. That necklace truly was exquisite, twinkling in the light of the evening sun. Her face had reddened. She feigned a smile as the two glided past her on the dance floor. He observed her self-conscious glances around the ballroom, to ascertain if others were watching her. She was no doubt mortified at her own presumptuous blunder. Luckily, all eyes were firmly on the host and the mysterious blonde figure in his arms.

Edward couldn’t help feeling sorry for Miss Price. Did his brother even realise the slight he had made? Probably not. Nor would he care. She appeared at a loose end as couples took to the floor. Everyone had assumed the host would single her out for the first dance. The men had already committed to other ladies’ dance cards. They couldn’t just abandon their dance partners at will. Had Emmett filled out her dance card? No. That would not be his style. He’d not be shackled to conventions. Best avoid commitment of any sort!

His mother’s unrelenting lectures about never leaving a lady alone on the dance floor circled around in his brain. If he were not so plagued by a fear of dancing, he would at that instant do the decent thing and ask her to dance. He’d be a poor consolation, of course, but it would lessen the blow of rejection. The dance concluded. He stood up with intention as the guests applauded. A good man wouldn’t let a small foible, such as an aversion to exhibitionism, stand in the way of chivalry. He ought to do the right thing after all it was his brother that had injured her and amends must be made.

Feeling emboldened, he approached the lady. Wait! He stopped abruptly, showing signs of retreat. In his haste, he hadn’t even considered what to say to her. How should he phrase it? He couldn’t make it obvious that he had seen her face redden or that he was taking pity on her. This would require some crafting.

His attempts to return to his seat were thwarted by Mrs. Winters, who had watched him make his way towards the dancing. ‘How good it is to see you getting up to dance. You are a good sort supporting your brother so,’ she beamed. He nodded obligingly. He could not take his seat now. He would have to continue with his original spur of the moment plan. The audience were still applauding. Ever the showman, his brother was bowing graciously and looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Miss Price,’ he croaked. Instantly regretting not clearing his throat before attempting to speak. She turned around with a surprised expression. It was unusual to see Lord Bovingdon’s youngest son in the vicinity of the dance floor. She looked at him expectantly as his eyes lifted towards her shimmering necklace, before fleetingly looking up at her. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed uncomfortably. The music was starting up again. Time was of the essence. If he didn’t act now, he need not bother.

He grappled with the words he had practiced in his head but they wouldn’t come out. Drat! A wave of panic washed over him. Speak you fool! Why was she wearing that jewellery? It was distracting. Didn’t she know that men would be leering at her chest all night? He took refuge in staring at the ground. Now just spit it out you nincompoop! The muscles in his neck tensed. ‘Mi…mi…mi… mi.’ He wished that the ground would swallow him up. ‘Miss Pr…Pr… Price‘. She smiled magnanimously. They said that Helen was the face that launched a thousand ships but Miss Price’s radiant beam could ascend a man to heaven. She always gave that generous smile and it always made him feel at ease. ‘Would you do me the honour of .…’

Before he could finish (and quite strongly at that), his artful sibling swooped in with an egotistical grin, wrapped his arm around the lady in question and whisked her across the floor for a tango. ‘dancing the next dance with me,’ he continued pointlessly. His words tapering off as his eyes followed them around the dance floor. He’d very much like to have used an expletive in that moment but restrained himself from admonishing his brother in public. It was clear to him that Emmett had merely used Lady Dixon’s niece as a pawn to make Miss Price jealous. No doubt, a tactic he employed to keep her keen on him.

Admittedly it has been a while. The old ‘progressing with life’ kind of got in the way for a bit but I’m back chomping at the bit to start the edit on book 2 – Lord Bovingdon’s Son. The second installment you say? Where was the first one? I can hear you say. Yes, I’m editing book 2 whilst starting to contact publishers and put feelers out. Will anything stick? Who knows but I’ll give it a whirl and see what comes back.

Meanwhile I have decided to give you lovely readers a little taste of Lady Dixon’s Niece to whet the appetite. I hope you enjoy 🙂

Introducing Mr. Emmett Rosland

The air was alive with music and laughter as revellers began arriving enmasse at Lye Green Manor.  The full moon acted as a spotlight illuminating the entire parkland. Against the backdrop of the Chiltern’s rolling hills sat Lye Green Manor beseeching full recognition. From the veranda, the sounds of approval could be heard, bringing an instant smile and gratification to the owner. Downstairs he could hear the hum of party-guests exchanging opinions. None of the particulars really mattered a great deal to him as-long-as their views were favourable of Lye Green Manor.  

He deliberately waited until just enough attendees were inside the ballroom to make his grand entrance. Bounding down the stairs, impeccably attired, his thick mass of dark locks neatly slicked back with petroleum jelly and his chiselled jawline immaculately shaved, Mr. Emmett Rosland, the son of Lord Bovingdon, oozed charisma and charm. He was met at the foot of the grand staircase by his butler, scotch whiskey in hand. Knowing all eyes were now watching him, he of course made ceremony by taking the tumbler in his hand, raising it up to Heaven as if to toast the maker and all civilisation, before pursing his lips around the crystal glass, and letting the taste of the amber hued liquor linger on his tongue. He raised an eyebrow as he moved the tumbler away from his face. His lips curled, giving way to a wry smile, before he nodded to his audience. This was his crowning moment, he thought proudly. Throngs of jubilant guests were flocking to his home for the first of what he hoped would be many lavish parties.

He was determined to be a most gracious host. One, who ensured that all guests were given a personal welcome, made feel important by being asked at least two questions about themselves, and above all were entertained. Fastidious in nature, he took it upon himself to see to every detail of the engagement, from appointing a string quartet for musical entertainment, personally selecting the hors-d’oeuvres for the buffet table to importing cases of the finest wine and spirits. He had observed from his vast experience of socialising that the best parties were ones where the liquor flowed freely and lively music provided ample opportunities for the guests to dance and engage in merriment, after all nobody enjoyed dull parties. He had endured his fair share of those parties at Hamilton Court, and they always reeked of pretension. This was his chance to showcase his beautifully restored Georgian home and have all in his circle congratulate him on his fine eye for design. His Palladian style residence would be the talk of society for some time.

He floated around the entrance hall greeting his guests, enquiring after their health, allowing them to bestow their praise of Lye Green Manor on him, before making enthusiastic introductions between strangers when he felt he had spent too long with one set. He could lap the entire room in minutes, dipping in and out of conversations artfully. He had a talent for overhearing others discourse before joining them. That way he was armed with a quip or a casual innuendo that nearly always had the women in convulsions. Sometimes, if he particularly admired a lady, he would make sure to overhear her opinion on a topic before engaging with her so that he could repeat it back to her as his own point of view. He found it to be the best way of attracting the attentions of the opposite sex.

He also had a great way to ensure he never forgot a name. As soon as an introduction was made, he would find something about the person that made them distinctive, such as a long nose or learn their profession. He would then make up a moniker or rhyme, a little musing to help him remember them. For instance, Mrs. Manning’s first name is Myrtle. He thought it a very unusual name. He was sure he would not remember it, so he always says to himself … Mrs. Manning is Mrytle the Turtle! For the most part it worked, and on those rare occasions when it failed him, he would simply pretend he knew them. Something he could do exceedingly well.

He scanned the ballroom partly to ensure musicians were setting up. He had made several requests, among them the latest offerings of Elgar and Ralph Vaughn Williams. Everybody who was anybody was raving about them in London. Some of his gentleman club acquaintances were attending tonight and he didn’t want to disappoint. As for talent, this season’s debutantes didn’t thrill him and the ones that did were already engaged in some arrangement. Lord Byron had famously referred to the debutante balls as marriage marts. It was true, so many of the pretty young things would be engaged by the end of the season… it was a shame, he reflected. Every season he enjoyed making acquaintance with the latest array of coming-of-age females, some of whom, he particularly enjoyed the company of, but he wasn’t ready to offer marriage. For if he committed to one of the prospective ladies that would mean he could no longer publicly toy with the affections of the others.  

There were two ladies that he was curious to meet that evening; the first was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Lord Walcott. Lady Jane had spent the earlier part of the season in Bath. Lord Walcott promised so faithfully to bring her, but Emmett did question if it were mere lip service in exchange for a discount on legal representation. Alas, it was nothing more than an empty promise. He spotted Lord and Lady Walcott, but the daughter was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lord and Lady Walcott, what a pleasure it is to have your company this evening,’ he greeted in good spirits. They nodded graciously before shaking his hand.

‘And your daughter? What a shame she has been detained. The beauty of Bath is too great an attraction I fear’.

They unapologetically conceded that she was to spend the rest of the season in Bath.

‘What a shame. Bath’s victory and Lye Green’s loss.’

With little else to converse about, he rather wondered why he bothered extending an invitation to them. The only consolation was that their title would be received well amongst his father’s generation in attendance. Perhaps the Lord’s only daughter was not that pretty after all. If that were the case, then he really ought to congratulate himself on escaping having to flatter a plain Jane.

The second lady of interest on that evening was rather more mysterious. An elusive niece of Lady Dixon. He knew little about the wife of the late knight, Sir William Dixon. She was as much above his notice as beneath until now. He knew that all the young ladies at the party would want to know more about this latest arrival to Boxmoor and what better way to quell their curiosity than to invite her. After all, they would more than likely spend much of the evening speculating about her. She might as well be in their presence. He had heard that Miss Annaliese Schmidt was quite pretty and spoke German. Though, the latter piece of information was hardly surprising considering Lady Dixon was from one of the German speaking countries.

Was this niece from the continent? According to his source, she spoke fluent English and it was considered that she grew up in England. As for the precise whereabouts, his source could not say.

‘Mr. Rosland, I congratulate you on a fine home you have here.’

His trail of thought now interrupted, he turned to see Mr and Mrs. Price and their two daughters, Louisa and Eleanor, standing before him. He smiled graciously as he shook hands with Mr. Price and bowed to the ladies. Louisa was looking particularly attractive in a turquoise blue kimono style gown. ‘Miss Price you are looking rather delectable this evening’, he simpered. Her face lit up.

‘Why thank you sir’, she replied politely. Her father was now eager to draw Mr. Rosland into a discussion about the particulars of the restoration. Giving him just half his attention, he could answer satisfactorily, whilst continuing to leer at his eldest daughter, as she confidently moved around the ballroom. He had to credit Louisa; her choice of gown was impeccable. No doubt it cost a small fortune and was probably one of Lady Duff Gordon’s collection, but it certainly was worth every penny. If love was a game, Louisa Price, was quite a good challenger. She would drive him wild with desire and hope that he would grant her the one thing she desired – to be the lady of the house at Lye Green. Her family clearly desired a match between them too. Such was their attentiveness to Mr. Rosland over the past year, having been invited for dinner on more occasions than he had digits on his hands, and more often than not struggled to find acceptable excuses to turn down their hospitality.

When he finally did find an opening to take his leave of Mr. Price, he was immediately thwarted by the arrival of another family, Mr. and Mrs. Winters and their daughter, Penelope, or Penny as she was more commonly called. Pushing their daughter forward awkwardly, Mr and Mrs. Winters were full of praise of Lye Green Manor.

‘Our daughter was in London these past two months. You didn’t happen to see her?’, asked Mr. Winters. Emmett responded that he had not the pleasure of happening upon her.

‘Oh, but it was thought that you might have been at the same showing of Pygmalion in the West End’, added Mrs. Winters, nudging her daughter to speak.

The shy young lady grimaced.

‘It is highly possible for I was in attendance. Were you at one of the opening week showings Miss Winters?’

Miss Winters blushed as he focused his attention on her.

‘I can’t recall the exact date, but I was fortunate to see the show on the fifth or sixth night,’ he continued. His hopes that he would be asked how he came upon a ticket to one of those highly sought-after initial showings were dashed. 

She dared not look up at him and her parents were too concerned with willing their daughter on to say something. With nothing forthcoming, Mr. Rosland continued, ‘Perhaps you saw me but were too bashful to come speak to me. You really ought to have come hither. One always enjoys meeting acquaintances from home whilst in London.’ He was lying. They were precisely the people he wanted to avoid in London.

‘What did you think of Pygmalion?’ she voiced meekly, finally plucking up the courage to speak. He gave his gargantuan smile. This was his opportunity to let all those around him know how well-heeled he is.

‘It was bloody great’, he replied jovially. He was hoping for the family to burst into laughter, for the word ‘bloody’ was highly controversial. Surely the Winters would know this. It was all theatre goers could talk about – whether Stella Patrick Campbell was going to say the contentious line; ‘not bloody likely’? Oh, how he hated when he had to explain his humour. How laborious, he thought. On this occasion he chose not to bother for he deemed the family not to be worth the effort.

‘What did you think of the show Miss Winters?’ he enquired out of civility.

She hesitated. This was rather testing his patience.

‘I enjoyed it immensely’, she replied softly.

‘Any part in particular?’

She simpered. The pressure of having to give a preference was too great so she remained silent.

‘Perhaps the part when Stella Patrick Campbell says that controversial line?’

he suggested, willing her to say it, explaining his original reference.

She continued to simper. Oh, how tedious this is, he thought.

‘You know Miss Winters the part when she says, ‘not bloody likely’ and the audience were in hysterics for I kid you not a solid sixty seconds. We all waited with bated breath. We didn’t know if she would say it, but she did. It was ‘bloody’ marvellous,’ he declared gaily.

A forced laugh followed from her parents as their daughter’s cheeks continued to redden. Having grown so impatient with the reaction of his present company, he did not even wait for them to say something, for he knew it would be exceedingly dull indeed.

‘As I said, I was most fortuitous to have front of house seats on the fifth or sixth night. I am acquainted with Herbert Beerbohm Tree and most obliged to be given a personal invitation to the show’. That was not entirely accurate. Mr. Rosland did get the chance to shake hands with Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the star of the show, following that night’s performance. They had never met before this and nor were likely to meet again. In fact, he had not been a recipient of a personal invitation from Herbert. In truth, he had been invited along by a client, Mr. Thomas, who was in the theatre business. Though, it was tenable that Mr. Thomas knew Herbert Beerbohm Tree. It was now the turn of Mr. and Mrs. Winters to simper politely. It was evident they had not a clue that Herbert Beerbohm Tree was the lead actor.  The daughter though did react. Her plain face lit up at the very mention of him knowing Herbert. Well thank Heavens! he thought.

‘You know him?’

He nodded. If the term ‘know’ was the same as once had the pleasure of meeting than he was not perjuring himself.

‘Is he really so outrageous? People say he is quite the bombast,’ she continued, gaining new- found confidence with every syllable.

His reply would have to be vague. ‘Oh, you know those thespians, they are all quite dramatic when they have an audience.’

This should satisfy them, he thought. Now that he had accomplished what he set out to do, he could take his leave of them. He was glad he had persisted despite it being long drawn out. Mrs. Winters would be relied on to spread the news for she was a proficient gossiper. Soon the whole room would know of the company he keeps, he thought satisfactorily.

                         

Why now? Why get serious about fiction writing at this stage in your life? Why not wait till your child is older and less demanding on your time? Believe me when I say I have asked myself this and yet I can’t shake the impetus within me to finally get ‘Of Social Standing’ down on paper.

Will there be a better time in my life to write this series? Possibly…. but is that reason enough to shirk the overwhelming sense of immediacy that has come upon me? You see it is just that… a sense of immediacy.

Truth be told, the bare bones of this book series began some years ago now…… over twenty in fact. It was around the time I started getting piano lessons and instead of diligently practicing the scales, my homework, I was whiling away the time listening to the classical excerpts on the electronic keyboard’s library. You know the ones…. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and a bit of Chopin if you had a fancy piece of equipment. I can actually say with certainty that from those little sound bites grew not only a love of classical music but the beginnings of the plot formation for ‘Of Social Standing: Lady Dixon’s Niece’, the first installment in the book series. Listening to the lively ‘allegretto’ tempo of Mozart’s Turkish March, I suddenly found myself imagining what it would have been like to attend balls and dances like those mentioned in Jane Austen’s classics. Surely it would be exciting? Surely it would be nerve-wracking if say the character actually didn’t belong in that world….say they were lower middle-class or even a peasant. How might they have come to be dancing with a duke? …. Several replays of the highly charged march and I had a plot.

The compulsion to write as I call it came upon me as a teenager. So compelled to write down what had now become more than just a few ball scenes, I took to typing it up on a word file on the family’s personal computer and carrying it around with me on a floppy disk, lest the Millennium Bug would steal it away from me.

That floppy disk came to university with me… yes, that’s how old I am… floppy’s were still a thing! The story sat on that dusty disk, and later on a USB, untouched for years. It didn’t mean the story left me. In fact I often found myself propelling the story forward in my head during a long bus ride. Strangely enough I didn’t have the passion for it when I was working in print journalism. I put it down to spending my long working days writing and staring at screens and obsessing over punctuation and speech marks and the like. There was also that small obstacle called progressing with life to blame for my lack of time and commitment to it; building a career, setting up home, getting married, re-training, furthering academia, having a child…. the list is endless.

Anyway …skip on a few years and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with that compulsion to write again. It grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I knew I had to get that story out of my head and onto paper. I dug out that USB key and rolled my eyes at the terrible prose, dodgy sentence construction, and overused adjectives, and began an overhaul ….. scratch that… I started again!

What I found was absolute contentment. It has been therapeutic in a time when the world is in chaos. It has offered total escapism. It kept me sane during maternity leave and brings me hours of enjoyment. If nothing else comes out of this experience then I’ve already won!

I’ve read that there has been a huge increase in the number of people writing during the pandemic. It’s not surprising. Human’s suddenly have less distractions and find themselves reflecting much more too. So it seems that it’s not just the coronavirus spreading…. the ‘writing bug’ is also catching. I won’t go as far as saying I have hypergraphia, a behavioural condition characterized by the intense desire to write or draw, but I certainly have succumbed to the ‘writing bug’ and I don’t think it’s planning on going away any time soon.