Showing posts with label False Pretences Mystery and Romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label False Pretences Mystery and Romance. Show all posts
Tuesday, 26 August 2014
Rainy Day Activities
It rained steadily all day. The sky a light but dull grey, the light soft on the grass and trees in the garden which seemed greener than ever. I popped out to the green house to feed the cucumbers and tomatoes then returned indoors to greet 9 year-old grandson and 4 year-old granddaughter. My grandson and I cooked together while granddaughter watched a dvd of Cinderella for the umpteenth time. She is besotted by 'fairy princesses' and girlie Walt Disney films. Grandson was delighted with our freshly made gulab jamons (spelling?) Indian sweetmeats fried in ghee and then boiled for five minutes in sugar syrup. They are delicious but definitely not slimming. However, he loves them, and I don't begrudge him a special treat once in a while. Not sure whether he likes them or his his new Manchester United Football kit most which his Mum bought him for the new football season.
Sunday, 24 August 2014
Not a Bowl of Cherries
Two weeks ago my car broke down.
The AA mechanic said it needed a new starter motor and said: “Don’t turn off the ignition and take it to a garage.” I replied that it was Sunday and the garages were closed so I would prefer to take the car home and, if it would not start on Monday, ask the AA to relay it to a garage.
The mechanic instructed me to take it to Quick Fit. He told me that the AA would not take the car to a garage on the following day because I could not call on them for a problem which had already been dealt with by him. Pressurised and vulnerable I took the car to QF.
From then on there as a long saga at the end of which the starter motor had been replaced after which a new ignition (coil?) was needed. After the coil had been fitted the sensor (?) did not recognise it.
Fortunately, I have AA repair cover so I will be reimbursed for the above repairs which add up to £461. However, the car had to be taken to Mercedes-Benz. When I first approached the AA I was refused a relay. I then queried it and, finally, after ‘your call is important to us…etc., explained the tale of the breakdown and my need for the car to be relayed. Thank goodness the relay was authorised.
I will have to pay Mercedes £120 for looking at the car and further repairs, if the car can be repaired.
Deep, deep sigh, heaven only knows if or when I will get my car back.
Saturday, 23 August 2014
Z is for Zest
I deleted this post by mistake so I am reposting it.
Z is for Zest
Zest, or enthusiasm and keenness, are essential for a novelist. Would be published novelists have told me they wrote, for example, a quarter or half of a novel and gave up. Either they lost interest in the plot and theme, or they abandoned their would-be masterpieces because they couldn’t find time to write or because it was too difficult to finish them.
Published or unpublished authors need zest, by which I mean enthusiasm for the novel, and they also need to be keen enough to persevere no matter how many times their books are rejected.
In my early twenties my first novel was accepted by a reputable publishing company. I didn’t know that to ensure publication the date on which my novel would be released needed to be included in the contract. The publishing house changed hands and the new commissioning editor didn’t like my novel. I continued to write for some years before my circumstances changed and I did not have the opportunity to do so. Years later, my late husband encouraged me to pursue my dream of writing historical fiction. It was the nudge I needed to write all the stories which had been in my mind for years. After enough rejections to paper the wall in my lavatory I acquired an agent. Deep, deep sigh, he didn’t secure a contract for me. More disappointments followed until my publisher accepted Sunday’s Child.
My keenness to be published and a string of rejections are not uncommon. Many other novelists have had similar experiences.
It is zest which separates published and unpublished writers from those who don’t finish a novel, which is a huge achievement, from would-be-writers.
e-books available from https://museituppublishing.com, www.amazon.com, www.amazon.co.uk & elsewhere. Sunday’s Child, False Pretences, Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, also available as a print book, & The Captain and The Countess.
Rosemary Morris
Pleasant day, today, the weather slightly chilly but warm enough to dry the washing on the line. I like the smell of clothes dried in fresh air. Finally, II planted out some black kale which had outgrown its pots.Son number two popped in to replace the lock on the garden shed. As part of out lunch we had thinly-sliced, fresh runner beans and decided they are one of my favourite vegetables.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
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
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