Connections by June Gadsby

While doing some research on my family tree and coming up with quite a few surprising connections, it struck me that ‘connections’ came in all shapes and sizes and were not necessarily those of relatives or ancestors.

I have one non-family connection of which I am immensely proud. It goes back to Captain Robert Falcon Scott, CVO, RN, who was a British Royal Navy officer and explorer and led two expeditions to the Antarctic regions: the Discovery Expedition and the ill-fated Terra Nova Expedition. A famous explorer who took a group of men to the South Pole in 1912. They discovered, during this expedition, fossilised plants, which proved that Antarctica was once forested and attached to other continents. Unfortunately, the return journey came to a tragic and unnecessary end. Scott and his companions died only 11 miles from a depot that would have saved their lives. 

So, you are wondering, what is my ‘connection’ with the famous Captain Robert Falcon Scott. It was with his only son, Peter, later to become Sir Peter Scott, famous naturalist, writer and artist who founded the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. Peter had been many things before becoming a naturalist, including an Olympic ice skater, yachtsman and, ironically, a hunter – which he soon gave up when he discovered his love of wildlife, especially birds. When I met and married my husband, Brian, he worked for Sir Peter as Manager of the Washington branch of the WWT. [The original Washington in the north-east of England, rather than the Washington in the USA, where our mail very often ended up.]  HRH Prince Charles, whom I have also met twice, was at the time President of the charity, which has been and still is largely supported by the Royal Family.

My first meeting with Sir Peter and his wife Lady Philippa was a memorable occasion. They were not only visiting the wildfowl park that my husband managed, they were to have a meal in our house on the edge of the 100-acre piece of land that housed 1200 rare species of wildfowl. I rushed home from the hospital where I worked in order to smarten myself up and prepare the meal.  I was in my slip when I heard a huge crash coming from the kitchen. A cabinet full of my collection of Bronte pottery had fallen from the wall, knocked a tea-caddy and a kettle full of water onto the floor making a terrible, brown gunge. Sir Peter and Lady Philippa were due to arrive in a few minutes, and, in fact, we were still clearing up the mess when they joined us. It was a very embarrassing situation, but bless them, they were sympathetic and we eventually enjoyed a good meal together. It turned out to be a lovely social occasion. [1] 

Sir Peter had a great sense of humour – he loved playing practical jokes on his colleagues and was famous for his odd choice of brightly coloured socks. Lady Philippa was charming, which is how we found all the VIPs we met during this period of our lives. 

One memory I have is of Sir Peter walking into our kitchen while I was painting a bird portrait. I had heard how he had a habit of altering other people’s paintings. This was affectionately known as ‘Scottying’ and I held my breath, waiting for this to happen to my work. However, he was extremely kind in his praise for my little bird [2] and didn’t offer to change it in any way. I was both thrilled and disappointed. I would have loved him to ‘Scotty’ my painting. Sir Peter Scott’s paintings now sell for thousands of pounds. Unfortunately, we only have signed prints of his work and no originals. However, we did have the honour and the pleasure of visiting his studio and seeing many of his original paintings – mostly of geese flying across beautiful skies. [3]

We were invited to Sir Peter’s 80^th birthday party down at HQ Slimbridge and were so looking forward to it, as were many other people. Sadly, dear old Peter died two weeks before his birthday. Philippa, who continued his work for a few years has also now left us and we are no longer living with 1200 rare birds in our ‘front garden’, but enjoying life in rural France. My husband, now approaching his 84^th birthday, is just as passionate about wildlife and nature and is never seen without camera in hand. I still paint animals, among other subjects and write books that take the reader to the far ends of the earth – like my favourite novel set in the wilds of Patagonia, which is not all that far from the South Pole; and while I was there among the icebergs and the glaciers a few years ago, it was almost like walking in the footsteps of Robert Falcon Scott.

[1] Lord Brassey, June Gadsby, Sir Peter Scott & Lady Philippa Scott.

(2) Greenfinch

 

 

3] “In Winter Dusk”  Xmas 1984

Decorating with Dad by Eileen O'Finlan

Find buy links to this book on my Books We Love author page

This Christmas will mark the twenty-second time we’ve celebrated the holiday since my dad passed away at the age of sixty-six.  My family is big into holidays.  When I was a kid the house was decorated for every one of them, even the minor ones.  Christmas, though, was the ultimate.  No one got more into the decorating than my dad.  He turned our home into Christmas Land, inside and out.

Christmas decorating got underway once we’d returned from Thanksgiving weekend at my grandparents’ home in Bennington, Vermont.  Dad was in a festive mood after several days of feasting and visiting with a houseful of relatives.

First the living room had to be rearranged.  Over the years Dad, an engineer by trade, developed a strategy for furniture placement.  One layout was for Christmas, the other for the rest of the year.  It wasn’t just the furniture, either.  Knick-knacks and whatnots all over the house exchanged living quarters with the Christmas decorations boxed and stored in the basement.

Once the room was rearranged, the tree set securely in its stand and watered (until we switched to artificial trees), the most difficult and least fun part began - stringing the lights and garland.  Extra bulbs were kept on hand since if one went out they all went out. That meant testing every bulb on the string until the culprit was found, replacing it, and hoping that one worked.  Heaven help us if more than one bulb went out at the same time.  Dad wasn’t much for swearing, but those bulbs were almost guaranteed to elicit a few words more colorful than the lights. 

My sister, Cindy, and I endured the interminable wait in order to pounce the moment Dad finished.  It was our job to help hang the tinsel and ornaments.  We delighted at seeing these old friends that had been out-of-sight, out-of-mind for a year, especially the ones that hung on the trees of my mom’s childhood.  My favorite was a set of three delicate, sparkly silver shoes each with a tiny child inside representing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.  Mom and Dad joined in the tree trimming while we all sang along with the Christmas albums on the record player.

Once the tree was completed, we moved to the rest of the room.  The top of the huge black and white TV was large enough to hold the snow village.  Each house and the church were painted cardboard fitted with a light bulb making their colored cellophane windowpanes glow.  There were decorated pine trees and elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners and felt.  Flimsy it may have been, but it was cherished.  A tinkerer at heart, Dad kept adding to the village.  A mirror became a skating pond, tiny lamp posts graced the “street”.  The village eventually outgrew the TV top and had to move to a new location.

A gold bell that played Silent Night hung from one doorway, mistletoe from another.  A lighted church sat on the end table on top of sparkly white cotton batting emulating snow and surrounded by Nativity vignettes.  Mr. and Mrs. Claus stood on either side of the fireplace.  The last thing to be displayed was the crèche.  I loved the smell of the papier mache figures and the soft glow from the blue light illuminating Mary’s robe.  In the weeks to come I would spend hours playing with the crèche as if it were a doll house.

Not a room escaped decoration.  Every window had a candle either on the sill or hanging inside a red wreath.  Even the bathroom had a bubble lamp and a candle in the window.

Then came the outside.  A large plastic lantern, later to be replaced by a Santa, brightened the front porch.  Dad strung colored lights along the porch railing and throughout the hedge in front of the house.  After a heavy snowfall red, blue, yellow, green, and purple lights shone through giving the hedge an otherworldly glow.

There was no such thing as too many Christmas decorations as far as Dad was concerned.  Over the years, he made tree ornaments including drums and sleds with each of our names on them.  He outdid himself the year he made a perpetual calendar.  The scene at the top was attached with Velcro and could be changed with the seasons.  Naturally, the Christmas scene was the best.  It was a miniature replica of our living room right down to the same wallpaper and the clock and candlesticks on our fireplace mantel.

 

 

With the decorating complete, our home was transformed.  Every day of the Christmas season I played in the wonderland of my own personal Christmas Village.  Every night glowed with colorful splendor.  The saddest for me was the weekend after New Year’s when everything came down, packed away in the basement, the magic gone, the house returned to normal.  It was like waking up from the best ever dream.

Since Dad’s been gone, I decorate the house.  Though my taste is a bit different from my dad’s, I seem to have inherited his love for holiday decorating. I still move furniture, to give the tree pride of place.  I miss the smell of papier mache from the long lost crèche, my current one being made of sturdier material.  I love to sit in the living room in the evening, gazing at the lights on the tree, the one remaining Wynken, Blynken and Nod ornament always prominent.  I can feel Dad’s presence in the quiet of the evening.  Our styles are very different, but unlike me, he was decorating for kids.  His joy came as much from the glee his efforts brought to us as from his own enjoyment of the holiday.  I think he is smiling with me as I create my grownup version of Christmas Land.  And I’m certain he would appreciate the invention of pre-strung lights on the Christmas tree.

Ian Foster and Nancy Hynes - A Week In December [Official Video]

Translation, as in "Lost in."

Translation:  as in” Lost in.”

 

(NB. I wrote this article when I began looking for a French translator of my first thriller “Dead Bishops Don’t Lie”. This eventually gave birth to  “La Danse Des Évêques”.)

 

Has anyone priced the cost of translation recently? When I did, I nearly fell out of my writer-worn wicker chair. After contacting a few Quebec translators and one in particular, I realized I would be giving her the equivalent of a brand new Camry, for what seemed like perhaps fastidious but relatively easy work.  ( .30$ X 90,000 words = Camry LE.)

Besides, my wife says that if I’m going to spend that kind of money, the much awaited, much postponed, infamous Kitchen Renovation Project will come first.
Undaunted, to the internet I go, to eventually stumble onto a Parisian woman’s website: “ Multi-disciplinary translation experience, Cambridge and Sorbonne - educated, price can vary according to your budget,” it says. Wonderful. I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me of the cliché: If it sounds too good to be true…..” Anyway, I immediately email her my budget and deadline. No problem, she answers.
She sends me a small sample of her work, which reads well.

My spirits buoyed, I send her my manuscript along with a substantial down payment. (Everyone wants money up front in this game).

And then, I wait. And wait. Weeks go by, the deadline eventually passes. No reply to my many, increasingly terse emails, and of course, nooo translation.
Curiously, I can’t find a phone number on her website.
Yet another scam?
Frustration reaching the boiling point, I’ m about to send her a lawyer’s letter, when I receive a short apology. She’s just recovering from a severe bout of malaria, and could we extend the deadline.
Malaria, poor woman. I picture her lying in bed under the mosquito net, (probably hard to find in Paris) high fever, delirious, too weak to work on her computer. How could I have been so distrustful?
My faith in human nature immediately rebounds, like the Dow Jones on a rare, good day, with the same unquestionable logic. I instantly reacquire Blind Faith and write back, extending the deadline.   
She thanks me but, oh, a minor point: could I send more money, since her bank deducted a hefty conversion fee on my first payment.
Not so fast.  “Can you send me a few chapters?”I dare write.
“Of course “she replies,” I’ll send the first ten right away.”
Wonderful, I think. Progress at last. I briefly imagine my new book --for it is a new book--  enhanced into a novel of Balzacian proportions by this erudite, young Parisian woman.
I begin reading her attachment, and my heart sinks into the basement. Her translation has all the passion, flavor and excitement of my Honda    Odyssey ’s Technical Manual. I breathe deeply, trying to convince myself that maybe I’m, surely I must be, overreacting. So I give it to my wife to read. Moments later, her eyes glaze over and she begins to doze off. “Nice.” She says. “Nice travel brochure,” she utters before falling asleep.
I’m …up the paddle without a creek.
So, I decide to fire my French translator and start from scratch.  Disheartening.  Enter fellow writer Shirley to the rescue, and she gives me the name of a friend looking for translation work. After a few emails I realize she’s not as experienced as I would like, but she seems to understand my punchy, often fragmented style of novel writing, and she can deliver same in French.
I forge ahead. Exit more money, enter more anxiety until I’m able to judge a sizable chunk of her work. Next, I learn that my publisher, who will accept or reject the translation, has caught ….. pneumonia. More delay, more uncertainty.
Malaria, pneumonia, insomnia, paranoia: positively unhealthy, this writing business.
Then at last, some good news: the publisher  has recovered and has accepted the translation. Everyone is ok……well…for the moment. Who is the saint one prays to for good health?

 Lessons learned:

1) When looking for a translator, never trust his or her small sample. Get at least 3-4 chapters of your work.

2) Hire a translator who is familiar with your genre, or a least a translator experienced in translating novels.

3) If possible, find a translator in your area, whom you can contact and work with by phone: you will have continuous interaction with your translator.  

4) Avoid wire transfers and conversion fees: you’ll be asked to ante up the difference.

5) If  possible have your publisher deal with the matter. Canadian publishers are often eligible for Canada Council translation grants.

Queen Anne Stuart Part Two ~ The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

Click on the cover to discover more about this title and Rosemary's other titles.

Author’s Note My novel, Far Beyond Rubies, in which the heroine is another Cinderella, is set in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign 1702 – 1714.

Princess Anne’s mother died. Her father, James, Duke of York, had taken the unpopular decision to become a Roman Catholic. Her uncle, the childless King Charles II, knew politics demanded his heirs, Anne and her elder sister, Mary, be raised in the Protestant faith. He appointed Lady Frances Villiers, a committed Anglican, as their governess and leased Richmond Palace to Frances and her husband.
The princesses benefited from country air and were privileged to live by the Thames in the days when due to bad roads the river was of great importance.
Anne’s indulgent father visited his daughters regularly, showered them with gifts and often stayed for several nights at Richmond Palace. Yet all was not well with the family. In 1673, due to the Test Act, which excluded anyone who did not take communion in the Anglican Church from public office, James was forced to resign as Lord High Admiral and to give up all his other official positions. In that age of fervent religious allegiances, I wonder what effect religious controversy had on Anne, a stubborn child.
What did Anne think when her father married fifteen-year-old Mary of Braganza? History relates that James was captivated by his bride. Looking at a copy of her portrait, I’m not surprised. She was tall with a good figure, jet black hair, a fair skin and large eyes that her contemporaries at court described as ‘full of sweetness and light’. The proud bridegroom introduced his new wife to his daughters as a ‘playmate’, but Anne formed a bond, not with her stepmother, whose children would be raised in the Roman Catholic faith, but with vivacious Sarah Churchill, who would have such a profound influence on Anne’s life.
Motherless Anne, a Protestant ‘Cinderella’ of her era, has all the ingredients of a fictional heroine, but – a member of the tragic Stuart family - what would she make of her life?

Extract from Far Beyond Rubies

Chapter One

1706

“Bastards, Juliana! You and your sister are bastards.”
Aghast, Juliana stared at William, her older half-brother, although, not for a moment did she believe his shocking allegation.
It hurt her to confront William without their father at her side. At the beginning of April, she and Father were as comfortable as ever in his London house. Now, a month later, upon her return to her childhood home, Riverside House, set amongst the rolling landscape of Hertfordshire, his body already lay entombed in the family crypt next to her mother’s remains. Would there ever be a day when she did not mourn him? A day when she did not weep over his loss?
A cold light burned in the depths of William’s pebble-hard eyes.
Juliana straightened her neck. She would not bow her head, thus giving him the satisfaction of revealing her inner turmoil.
William cleared his throat. His eyes gleamed. “Did you not know you and your sister were born on the wrong side of the blanket?”
Anger welled up in her. “You lie. How dare you make such a claim?”
Hands clasped on his plump knees, William ignored her protestation. “You now know the truth about your whore of a mother,” he gloated.
Well, she knew what William claimed, but did not believe him. “You are wicked to speak thus. My mother always treated you kindly.”
“As ever, you are a haughty piece.” William’s broad nostrils flared. Anger sparked in his eyes. “My dear sister, remember the adage: ‘Pride goes before a fall’. However, do not look so worried. I shall not cast you out without the means to support yourself.”
William rang the silver handbell. When a lackey clad in blue and gold livery answered its summons, he ordered the man to pour a glass of wine.
Juliana watched William raise the crystal glass to his lips. What did he mean? How could she maintain herself and her sister? She had not been brought up to earn a living.
She looked away from her half-brother to glance around the closet, the small, elegantly furnished room in which she kept her valuables and conducted her private correspondence before her father’s death.
Now it seemed, William, the seventh Baron Kemp, and his wife, Sophia, had sought to obliterate every trace of her by refurbishing the closet. Where were her books and her embroidery frame? Where was Mother’s portrait? Rage burned in the pit of her stomach while she looked around her former domain. Juliana wanted to claw William’s fat cheeks. It would please her to hurt him as he was hurting her. No, that wish was both childish and unchristian. She must use her intelligence to defeat him.

Five Star Review of Far Beyond Rubies
By
Janet Glaser

When reading Far Beyond Rubies, I felt I had stepped into the 18th century. Ms Morris has done her homework to bring us such a rich story with all the historic background and social graces of the era. I especially loved her description of the gentlemen's fancy outfits. They dressed as brightly as male peacocks and wore make-up and wigs that even outshone the ladies of the day.
The dialogue filled with authentic words used in that time period and the way her characters expressed themselves added to the enjoyment of the story telling. I read the book on my Kindle and truly appreciated the dictionary just a click away to find the definition of the words used in that time period.
I wasn't familiar with the history of England, so I enjoyed learning about kings, queens, and politics etc. The author made it easy to understand. The sweet romance was filled with interesting characters and so many secrets.
I would recommend this book for lovely escape reading and for the historical value.


About Rosemary Morris

Writing a novel is a solitary occupation. Every day, I am alone with my desktop working for at least eight hours, When I am not thus engaged, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research the romantic historical novel which I am writing. I visit places of historical interest to convey the lives and times of the characters in my novels. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not 21sr characters in costume.
As a historical novelist I don’t think it is possible to portray every minute fact about the past accurately, but I have a responsibility my readers to thoroughly research the era in which my novels are set. In addition to reading non-fiction and making detailed notes, I visit libraries, museums, stately homes and other places of historical interest.
When my words flow well, I am tempted to work for many hours without a break. That would be detrimental. Writing is mentally and physically tiring, so I have a five-minute break every hour, during which I stretch and exercise my eyes. If the weather permits, I work in my organic garden. I also visit the health suite at the leisure centre to enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. Water aerobics are beneficial, but I’m not keen on the loud modern music played to encourage the participants to keep up the pace.
I don’t want to be a writer in a garret but sometimes I wish I lived in an ivory tower with nothing to distract me from my imaginary companions. However, the daily chores, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping etc., keep my feet on the ground, so does time with family and friends.




Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

The Murder of Sir Thomas Overbury by Katherine Pym

What better way than something different for Christmas:

Buy Here

~*~*~*~*~

Sir Thomas Overbury

Love all the intrigue in the courts of kings. One particular one rivals the death of Rasputin, also a courtier murder. This is of Sir Thomas Overbury, a poet and essayist. He was verbal in what he believed whether or not it offended anyone.

September 1613, Tower of London

Part of King James VI & I’s court, Sir Thomas was great friends with Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, later the Earl of Somerset. They met in Scotland as young men and became fast friends.

Rumour has buzzed about the head of King James re: his preference to pretty men even as he married and fathered children. Word has it he enjoyed planting wet kisses on his favourites’ lips, all male. 

King Jas VI & I

His favour fell onto Robert Carr who had literally fallen off his horse and broke a leg in front of the king. Even as Robert became the king’s favourite, Thomas did not mind. As a courtier in the Court of King James, he knew his limitations.

Enter Lady Frances Howard, Countess of Essex, already married. She set her sights on Robert Carr, something Sir Thomas did not appreciate. He was a misogynist, filled with ambition and a sharp edged tongue. He did not like Frances and let everyone know about it. His slander grew wearisome. Lady Frances continued her conquest of Sir John despite Thomas’ spreading vitriol, but her hate simmered. She schemed.

Sir Thomas had been thrown in the Tower of London by King James for declining the ambassadorship to a court in Russia. It was not long before he became very ill by what was called an infectious disease, and died Sept 15, 1613.

Sir Robert Carr, 1st Earl of Somerset

Now, for the rest of the story.

Lady Frances planned a diabolical murder. She almost got away with it when the ruling came down Overbury had died of an illness, but 2 years later, suspicion fell on hers and Somerset’s heads.

Here’s where Overbury paralleled Rasputin. He would not die for the longest while.

Overbury was poisoned with aquafortis (nitric acid), white arsenic, mercury, powder of diamond, lapis cortilus (I cannot find a modern translation of this), great spiders, and cantharides (Spanish fly). The arsenic was mixed in his salt. Once he desired pig for dinner, and Lady Frances’ accomplice added lapis cortilus to it. Another time, he wanted 2 partridges for dinner and cantharides were used instead of pepper. When that failed he was given “poisoned enema containing copper vitriol (sulfuric acid).

Sir Thomas Overbury finally died.

Lady Essex, later Countess of Somerset

Justice served: Everyone involved in the murder was executed except Lady Frances and Sir Robert. Their punishments were commuted to the confiscation of their property and imprisonment for some years in the Tower.

~*~*~*~*~

Many thanks to:

Timbs, John, FSA. The Romance of London: Strange Stories, Scenes and Remarkable Persons of the Great Town, Vol. I., Frederick Warne & Co., London.

And:

https://hauntedpalaceblog.wordpress.com/2014/02/09/lady-frances-howard-magic-murder-and-mysogeny-at-the-court-of-james-i/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Overbury

http://www.earlystuartlibels.net/htdocs/overbury_murder_section/H0.html