It's A Snow Day by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE ON THESE PLATFORMS

We knew our long, hot summer would not last forever. For the past week, I’ve been watching the weather forecast, mindful of the falling temperatures and gathering cloud cover.

Yesterday was one last brave hurrah of sunshine and mellowness, this morning we woke up to a winter wonderland with snow ten inches deep sitting on top of the cars. It doesn’t matter that what is falling now is a mix of snow and rain, today is the demarcation line between seasons.

My children, who all live in England, do not understand how their mother, who is so not a winter person, ended up in a country where there is so much of it. All I can say is that I make the most of it. On clear days I’m happy to go snowshoeing, but mostly I’m with the bears – hibernation sounds good.

I like to have a stack of books to read, titles by my fellow Books We Love authors, or thrillers by numerous authors like Lee Child, Anthony Horowitz, or Ken Follet.. I’ll compile a list of movies I’d like to watch, oldies but goodies (Casablanca, anyone?) as well as more recent heartwarming romances. Hot chocolate and a cozy fire add to the ambience, and on days when it really is too miserable to venture out of doors, it is time to get down to writing.

My next book, a contemporary western romance, is already underway, so being indoors writing will take up much of my time. Before I know it, the release date of September 1^st, 2023, will roll around, and I will have another title under my belt. I have to say, I love the writing life, whatever the season. How will you prepare for and deal with winter?

Victoria Chatham

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The Magic of a Horse by Victoria Chatham

 

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Most people have an interest or hobby about which they are passionate. It could be gardening, golf, quilting or fishing. For me, it is horses. My parents, as non-horsey people, never understood where my passion for all things equine stemmed, but I lay this lifelong love of horses squarely on my father’s shoulders.

After surgery that had nothing to do with war wounds at the end of WWII, my father faced a lengthy recovery period. His occupational therapy of choice was making soft toys for his then unseen baby daughter. He arrived home when I was two years old. I promptly howled at him but was quickly pacified by the beautifully made animals he brought with him—a pink rabbit, an elephant, two dogs, one white and the other black, and a blue felt horse with an arched neck and flowing mane and tail. ‘Horsey’ became my instant love and constant companion.

In the post-war era, we still had door-to-door deliveries, and I quickly learned the sound and names of the vendors’ horses and ponies. At six and seven years old, spending long summer holidays in Cornwall, I knew and rode every one of the beach ponies. At eight years old, I had my first formal riding lesson. At nine and ten, I spent the summer holidays with my grandmother and two cousins who were as horse-mad as me. It wasn’t long before we found riding stables where we worked all summer for our rides. We handled the most bloody-minded ponies imaginable, unaware at the time of the valuable lessons they taught us. When I was thirteen, we moved to an urban area with not a horse in sight, but I read about horses, drew horses, and hand-crafted horses from pipe-cleaners and wool.

 When I was sixteen and contemplating a career, my parents refused to let me leave home and take up the prized working-pupil position I so coveted, which would have earned me a horse riding instructor’s certificate. At eighteen, I left home anyway and worked in hunting stable until marriage and family ended that career. When my daughter, now a teenager, became interested in riding, we haunted our local riding stables. Most evenings after riding, we would go to the local pub, The Ragged Cot. It was here one evening that, after some quick calculations on a napkin, she announced, “You know, Mum, with what we spend at the stables, we could have a horse of our own.”

 My old dream of having a horse resurfaced. If we did this together, then having a horse became financially viable. Between us, we agreed on our criteria. Our horse would have to be of medium height and hardy as, having no stable, it would have to live out. It had to be good in traffic as we had the prospect of a lot of road riding before we got to bridle paths and other off-road tracks. Sex, age, and colour were optional. Versatility for combining our equestrian ambitions was essential. We started scouring the classifieds and travelled all over our county and two neighbouring ones, only to become quickly disillusioned with the vagaries of advertising.

 A horse described as ‘onward bound’ had no brakes. A mare described as a ‘good jumper’ proved it by jumping out of the paddock where we put her several times. After four days of a two-week trial and seeing the probability of numerous looming liabilities, we returned her to her owner. As summer came to a close and we had not found our dream horse, we decided to end our search for that year. Then, in the last week of September, I opened the local paper and was immediately drawn to an advert that read: ‘15hh chestnut gelding for sale. Six-hundred pounds including tack.’

 Right size, great price and, I thought, too good to be true. I put the paper aside but picked up the phone two days later. The young woman who answered sounded breathless, as if she’d been running, and said, “Oh, I’m so glad you called!” Did we know each other? But no, Diana was simply anxious to sell her horse as her wedding to a non-horse person was only weeks away.

“Could you tell me a bit about your horse?” I asked.

“Well,” she began, “his name is Paunt House Royal Lancer, and he’s a full-bred Arab and—”

I stopped her there. I didn’t want a full-bred anything, especially something as exotic as an Arab horse.

“But you must at least come and meet him,” she exclaimed. “He’s a lovely person.”

Now, the concept of a horse being a ‘lovely person’ was a bit beyond me, but I got swept up in her enthusiasm and arranged to meet her and her horse the following Sunday. She said to look for a white-walled house with a red-tiled roof beside a bus stop. We had no trouble following her directions. Paddocks and neatly kept flowerbeds surrounded the house. As my daughter and I walked up the garden path, the front door opened, and Diana greeted us like old friends.

“You’re perfect,” she said as she looked us over. “Lancer is going to love you. This way.”

We followed her around the back of the house, slightly bemused by her certainty that we would be Lancer’s new owners. We stopped at the paddock gate, immediately entranced with the sight before us. Beauty, it is said, is in the eye of the beholder, but here beauty stood almost knee-deep in lush green grass. 

Here was a horse whose coat glowed as brightly as the crust of a loaf of bread fresh from the oven. The graceful curve of his neck and head, the crescent-shaped tips of his ears and the flaring, questing nostrils declared him a true Arab horse, the fabled drinker of the wind. Behind the fringe of his thick forelock, we could see one full, round eye, gleaming with interest, intelligence, and unmistakable kindness.

We stood silent and stunned as he came toward us. His legs parted the grass soundlessly, making him appear to glide rather than walk. His warm and moist, sweet-smelling breath washed over us as he gently nuzzled us in turn. We drank in his greeting and called him ours.

We had so much fun with him for the following four years.We jumped him, sometimes successfully, I rode him in dressage classes and showed him in-hand. He became a much-loved part of the family and was as happy on our back-lawn as he was in his paddock. But then our lives changed and we had to find him a new home, as had Diana. For a while we kept in touch with his new mom, but even though that connection finally faded, the magic of a horse called Lancer never did.

Victoria Chatham

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NB: Images from the author's collection.

 

Oh, to be in England....by Victoria Chatham

 

RELEASES JUNE 15TH, 2022

 

 Sunlight filters between the newly unfurled tender green leaves of beech, oak, and ash. The air is heavy with the scent of Hyacinthoides non-scripta, the English bluebell, which covers the woodland floor like a blanket from late April into May.

 

There are approximately nine varieties of bluebell, but the United Kingdom is home to roughly half of the world’s bluebell population. This iconic springtime flower can take five to seven years to develop from seed into a bulb, then bloom into the flower most people know. They are a protected species, and there is a heavy fine for anyone found digging them up. It is also a surprisingly delicate plant. If careless footsteps crush the leaves, they can no longer photosynthesize and will die back from lack of nutrition. Some bluebells can be white or pink. Often a white bluebell is lacking its blue pigment, or it may be a version of the Spanish bluebell.

In Scotland, bluebells are known as harebells because folklore has it that witches turned into hares and hid amongst the flowers. That could be why it is sometimes known as Witches Thimble or Lady’s Nightcap. You may also have heard the folksong, The Bluebells of Scotland. If not, check out this YouTube clip https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq14cPI0LW8. The bluebell is reputed to ring at daybreak to call fairies to the woods. If you pick a bluebell, those fairies could lead you astray, and you would be lost forever, so best not to pick them just to be on the safe side.

Symbolically, bluebells represent grace, everlasting love, good fortune, and truth. They epitomize Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, and the Virgin Mary who represents calm and peace. They were also once dedicated to the patron saint of England, St. George. Bluebells stand for constancy, humility, and gratitude in the centuries-old language of flowers used throughout Europe and Asia. Might Shakespeare have been referring to the bluebell when he wrote of 'the azured hare-bell?'

Bluebells also have their practical uses. The Elizabethans used starch from the bulbs to stiffen their ruffs. Gum from the roots was used as glue for feathers and in bookbinding. Snake bites supposedly could be cured by their juice, although the plant’s chemical makeup is potent and can be toxic in large doses. Today bluebells inspire the perfume for hand creams and soap and are used as dyes or pigments.

 

Whichever way you look at it, whether you believe in witches and fairies or not, there is nothing more magical than sitting in an English bluebell wood in springtime.

Victoria Chatham

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NB: Images from author's collection.

Seasons and Stories by Victoria Chatham

 

COMING IN JUNE

It is now officially Spring 2022. In my part of the world, it still doesn’t feel like it. I envy friends in England who have posted pictures of gardens full of colour, from gorgeous golden daffodils to blue grape hyacinths and multi-coloured primulas. I wonder how many authors use not just the weather the seasons in creating their settings.

April has a hopeful sense of the summer to come, but Charles Dickens writes: Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade, which speaks to the duality in this more than any other season of the year.

Writers look for ways to enhance the drama in their plots and the nuances of their characters, either physically or metaphorically. Just as we sometimes use the weather to create a mood or direct the way a scene goes, we can use the seasons in both our settings and in our characters’ perspectives.

I have certainly used the seasons in my books. My character, Emmaline, is abducted on a perfect September afternoon in my first Regency romance. By the time she is rescued and returns home, it is a whole month later, and the trees in the estate park have already turned colour.

In the second Regency, a lot of the book takes place at sea and in Jamaica, but Juliana calculates that she left England in January, and it’s now September. The seasons are not plot lines in either book, but more indicate the timeline.

In One for the Money, Janet Evanovich uses the season to describe Stephanie Plum’s New Jersey ‘hood: During summer months, the air sat still and gauzy, leaden with humidity, saturated with hydrocarbons. It shimmered over hot cement and melted road tar.

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling writes of fall: Autumn seemed to arrive early that year. The morning of the first of September was crisp and golden as an apple.

In the movie The Winter Guest, set in northern Scotland, the husband of Emma Thompson’s character Frances dies suddenly, leaving Frances distraught. Her mother (in real life and in the movie), played by Phyllida Law, comes to stay with her. The film opens with a shot of the mother walking across frozen fields and with the camera later panning across a frozen sea. Set in any other season but winter, I’m not sure that Frances’ grief would have seemed so soul-deep. The bleakness of the setting seemed to represent the bleakness in her soul and vice versa.

Just as light and shade, time of day, rain or sunshine influence the moods we try to create for our characters, so can the season lead our readers through the seasons of our stories.

Victoria Chatham

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Writing Phoebe Fisher by Victoria Chatham

 

COMING IN JUNE 2022

 

I think most authors have a favourite book, hero or heroine, amongst the books they write. I would have said my first heroine, Emmaline Devereux (His Dark Enchantress), was my favourite, with her sister-in-law Juliana Clifton (His Ocean Vixen) a close second. Now, I think my latest heroine, Phoebe Fisher, has topped the lot.

When I first had the concept for my series, Those Regency Belles, I wanted characters who were young ladies but not necessarily titled. Hester Dymock (Book 1) did marry a lord and so became a lady, Charlotte Gray (Book 2) accepted a proposal from the gentleman in her life, and Phoebe Fisher, an educated farmer’s daughter, becomes a lady in her story.

Right from the beginning, Phoebe, as had Julian Clifton when I was writing His Dark Enchantress, kept intruding in the writing of Hester and Charlotte’s stories. If I hadn’t already had plans for her, I would have had to come up with something, so insistent was she to be on the page. Phoebe, having no pretensions, quite sound common sense, and giggling a lot was fun, right from the beginning. She was also quite a little flirt in an honest-to-goodness way.

I set the story in my home county of Gloucestershire, in England, and thought I knew its history well. In researching several themes to make sure I had my facts right, I came across other snippets of history and information that I thought might be fun to include. Other facts came from books I read and internet searches, although that can be a dangerous route to take as one fact often leads to another and then it becomes like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates – which one do you pick? One I could not let go of was the exhibition of animals from the Royal Menagerie held in Well Walk, Cheltenham, on June 12^th, 1812. What animals were exhibited? You'll have to read the book to find out!

I also found that catalogue shopping for their homes was something applicable to both the Georgian and Regency eras. How about this hand-dyed leather chair and

 

Persian silk rug? Both appear in my story.

Phoebe Fisher will be released in June, 2022. I hope you enjoy reading her story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Victoria Chatham

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A Wayward Girl by Victoria Chatham

 AVAILABLE HERE

 Here she is. Miss Charlotte Gray in all her glory. Finally. I don’t know about my fellow authors, but some of my books have been easier to write than others and Charlotte’s story was the one I have least liked writing. Why? Because Charlotte defied me at every turn. This girl was hard work.

Now, to a non-writer, that might sound really weird. You’re the author, they might say. You pick and choose what your characters do. That’s what being an author is, you direct your cast just as a stage or movie director does theirs. Any artistic endeavor has it's challenges, but few, I imagine, as those authors might have.

AVAILABLE HERE

I rarely have any trouble creating characters. Often, they have simply turned up in my mind like a mental visitor, sometimes welcome and sometimes not. All three heroines of Those Regency Belles (Charlotte Gray is Book 2 in the series) came one after the other without me having to think them into being. Hester Dymock (Book 1) very clearly wanted to be involved with healing and medicine, Phoebe Fisher (Book 3 and due out in 2022) wants to have fun and is a tad saucy. But Charlotte?

I had her pinned for a lady’s companion in a secluded, quiet, Hampshire estate. There would be a love interest, of course. Probably a nephew of the lady to whom our Char was going to be a companion. An impossible match to the outside world because of her lowly status, but with wit and charm Charlotte would win her hero. Would Charlotte have that? Not a bit of it. She wanted action, adventure, and a hot-blooded hero.

Many Regency purists might point out that young ladies would not do the things they sometimes do in my stories, especially Emmaline Devereux in His Dark Enchantress when she drives a team of four horses. Can’t be done, one critic told me. However, this aspect of Emmaline’s character was based on Mrs. Cynthia Haydon (1918-2012) who raised and trained Hackney horses and ponies and drove them in many combinations (single, pairs, tandem, four-in-hand) and competitions and was an exceptional lady for her time.

Mrs. Cynthia Haydon

My thinking is that in any era there are women who step outside of the box society has built for them and quite literally break the mold. Most are familiar with Jane Austen, but what about Maria Edgeworth, Sarah Guppy, Harriott Mellon, and Elizabeth Fry. If you want to read more about these ladies check out What Regency Women Did for Us by Rachel Knowles. In more recent years, look at what the ladies in the movie Hidden Figures achieved.

Charlotte was never going to lead a quiet, orderly life. My character notes for her changed practically every day. I think, in the end, I like her better for it. If you decide to read her story, I hope you agree with me.

Victoria Chatham

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