Ringo Starr and the Real Story About Octopus Gardens by Karla Stover

Click here to visit Karla's BWL author page for book details and purchase links to your favorite bookseller.

A TIME LINE:

1. On 22 August 1968, Ringo Starr temporarily walked out of sessions for the White Album after becoming disenchanted with the increasing tensions within the group.

2. Actor Peter Sellers owned a yacht named Amelfis. (The name comes from he word, Amelfi and means, you like to make your own decisions and to be the master of your domain.)

3. At that time, the Amelfis was moored in a bat at Sardinia, and Sellers loaned it to Starr and his family.



4. The Starrs went out on it for a day and the captain told Ringo how though octopuses hang out in their caves, they have been known to go around the seabed finding shiny stones, tin cans, and bottles to put in front of their cave, a bit like creating a garden.

5. A guitar and "a couple of tokes later," Ringo had a song.,

George Harrison provided uncredited assistance in developing the song's chord changes. (Both Harrison and Starr often felt their musical accomplished were dismissed by Paul McCartney and John Lennon.) In the documentary, Let It Be, he can be seen helping Starr work out the song on piano. John Lennon later joined in on the drums.

But, do octopuses actually make gardens?

 According to John Forsythe, a marine biologist at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston, "Octopuses like to hide in a den -- any crevice or hole that is protected. Often they conceal the opening to that den by piling up rocks, broken shells, broken glass, bottle caps, lost wedding rings, anything they can find or sucker. That pile is called an octopus midden -- or garden, if you prefer."

 We who live on Puget Sound and have interacted with octopuses know that they are friendly and will lay a tentacle casually over you if you stroke them. Also that they have at least three different temperamental humors: passive, aggressive and paranoid and that they are playful.  Their aquarium caregivers are extremely fond of them.

 Octopuses are not the most attractive creatures, but not much of what lives under the sea is. How many times have  we been told, "Do not judge a book by its cover.)?

Do You Believe in Time Travel?

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You're standing in front of a time travel machine that will take you into the past. Your heart is pounding; your hand shaking as you reach forward. All you have to do is push the button for why you want to go.
      * a sense of adventure
      * a love of history
      * to find romance
Would you do it??

If you ever find that time machine, let me know. I would love to go back in time for all the reasons above. But since I haven't come across such a wonderful device, I content myself with writing just such stories.

Writing time travel combines the best of both worlds. I can have a modern, independent, free loving heroine and still have an alpha type hero who’s possessive, self-made, and believes women should be protected and revered. Being thrown back in time will take you out of your comfort zone. There were no modern conveniences such as microwaves, cell phones, cars and expressways. Horsepower in the 1800’s was literal! None of your job skills or your MA in computer technology or Political Science will help you as you try to find your place in a world long forgotten.

In the time travels I’ve written, the heroine travels back in time, taking with her the knowledge of the future, but not the ability to change history except perhaps on a personal level. Think of this – In HOLD ON TO THE PAST, Brianna is helping with the excavation of the steamboat Arabia when she accidentally goes back to be on board the steamboat on its last fateful voyage. If she prevented the steamboat from sinking, thereby changing history, she wouldn’t have been at the excavation site to begin with.

Even without being able to change history, the fact that the heroine knows things the hero doesn’t can lead to some interesting conversations. For example, in SPINNING THROUGH TIME, Jaci makes Nicholas and his niece a pizza, which they eat with their hands. Nicholas comments that it’s not bad tasting, but it will never catch on as a dinner dish.

Things that haven’t been invented yet, or have particular significance in one century or the other, are always fun to incorporate into a story. Ellie, in PROSPECTING FOR LOVE is discovered with nail polish on her toes, which only the “working girls” at the saloon would do. She finds “real junk food” in the form of potato chips and Van Camp’s Pork and Beans in the general store in 1850, believing things like that had only been invented in her lifetime. The opposite side of the coin is that she doesn’t know how to cook without a microwave or start a fire in the stove.

Some of the challenges inherent to writing time travel are: (1) the methods I use to get the heroine back in time, (2) what can or can’t be transported with her when she goes, and (3) how and when she has an opportunity to return to her own time. The “rules” have to be established before I start writing and then they cannot be broken. I can’t decide half way through the book that Brianna needs her cell phone to convince Jake she’s from the future, so she miraculously finds it under a rock somewhere (HOLD ON TO THE PAST).

Now that being said, I can have different rules for different books. For example, the methods of taking the heroine back in time are very different in each of my books. I didn’t  just have them fall and bump their heads. That would be far too easy. Also, in some, whatever they have on their person goes back with them, but in one if what they have (plastic buttons on a shirt; a zipper) had not been invented yet, it doesn’t travel back in time.

The real climax for a time travel isn’t finding the treasure or solving the mystery. It’s whether the heroine and hero can stay together. Since my heroine didn’t have a choice when she accidentally went through time, I do give her a choice as to whether she stays. There has to be a point when either the opportunity or the threat of “transportation” exists, so my heroine has a free choice in her future. Whether she takes it, or whether the hero can stay with her, either in his time or hers, would be giving away the endings! I hope, instead, that you grab a time travel and stay up late finding out.

You can find HOLD ON TO THE PAST, as well as my other time travel, historical and contemporary romances at http://bookswelove.net/authors/baldwin-barbara-romance/. If you enjoy a time travel or two, please leave a review at your purchase site. It helps both my publisher and me as we look at marketing.

And while you are reading, I am currently writing my next time travel, which doesn’t have a name yet and is listed on my computer as “new story idea.” But it will have a bit of a twist that I haven’t tried before so I'm excited to see where it will go.

Happy New Year!

Barbara Baldwin

http://authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

January's Featured Genre at BWL Publishing, Contemporary Romance

January's Featured Genre is Contemporary Romance

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New Year, New BWL Contest

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Click the link above, then scroll to the bottom of the page on the website and fill out the entry form.  Be sure and take a few minutes to check out all the great books our authors are releasing this year as you scroll down the page.

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Pope Francis Owns a Copy of Kelegeen!

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There are unexpected benefits to working for the Church.  One is that the office I work in, the Diocesan Tribunal, is across the hall from the Office of the Bishop.  Our offices interact frequently and I see the bishop on a fairly regular basis.  After my debut novel,
Kelegeen, was released in March of 2018, I presented a signed copy to Bishop McManus.  Since one of the main characters is a priest, I thought he might enjoy it.

Apparently, I was correct.  For the next week every time I saw him he gave me an update on what was happening in the story.  One day he even complained that he hoped he would finish it soon because it was keeping him up at night.  “I was reading your book and I looked at the clock and was stunned to see it was four o’clock in the morning but I just couldn’t put it down!” he told me.

So when I heard that he would be traveling to Rome in October for a meeting with a group of cardinals at the Vatican, I asked if he would mind bringing a signed copy of Kelegeen with him to give to the pope and he readily agreed.  I packaged it up nicely in a gift bag, included a short, personal letter to His Holiness and gave it to Bishop McManus to take with him.

Bishops tend to have extremely full schedules.  Hardly a day goes by when he does not have to be at some event, celebrating a special Mass, attending a conference, or chairing one of many committee meetings.  Immediately before his trip to Rome, he had a conference to attend in Texas.  Everything was being done in the usual rush and flurry of getting from one place to the next to the next.  Finally, the date I knew he was taking off for Rome arrived and I imagined my novel on its way to the Holy Father.

Shortly after his return, Bishop McManus appeared at my desk looking a bit sheepish.  “I have a confession to make,” he said.  

I resisted the temptation to voice any of the multitude of jokes that statement brought to mind.  

“I was so busy with all the things I had to do before leaving for Rome,” he continued, “that I completely forgot to pack your book.”  I tried not to appear as crestfallen as I felt, though I’m not sure I succeeded.  

“However,” he continued, “Monsignor Kelly will be visiting from Rome in November.  I will ask him to take it with him when he returns.”  

ll, I thought, patience is a virtue.  I’ll just have to wait a bit longer.

Perhaps the bishop’s forgetfulness was an act of divine intervention.  You see, Bishop McManus was not expecting to see the pope in person on this particular trip so he would only have been able to hand the book to someone in the Vatican with the request that they make sure it got passed on to the pope.  Heaven only knows what long chain of relays that might have involved.  However, Monsignor Kelly works at the Vatican and has access to the pope on a regular basis.  This could work out even better.

And so it did.  

In mid-November the bishop informed me that Monsignor Kelly had indeed taken the book and my letter with him upon his return to Rome and had emailed him to let him know that he had brought the book directly to the pope’s residence.  I could not have hoped for better than that!

In early December a letter arrived in the mail.  Upon opening it, I was delighted to note the Vatican letterhead.  It was a thank you letter written by Monsignor Paolo Borgia on behalf of Pope Francis.

Me holding the letter from the Vatican

In my letter to the pope, I wrote: The character of Father Brian O’Malley is based on a composite of the many wonderful priests I’ve had the good fortune to know and work alongside.  It was my intention to embody the sincere holiness and humanness I see every day in the dedicated, faith-filled priests of our diocese.  I hope I have accomplished that in the character of Father O’Malley.

Apparently, His Holiness was pleased by this affirmation in a time when the Church is beset by the evil of the sex abuse scandals, an issue I am sure tears at his heart every day.  But my words were sincere.  I have worked for the Diocese of Worcester for over eleven years and have been very active in my church and in Catholic education for even longer.  My own experience with the priests I’ve encountered and worked alongside has been overwhelmingly a witness of very good, dedicated, devout men who, though imperfect, strive to give their best to God and their fellow human beings.

As an added blessing, the date at the top of the letter reads 26 November 2018.  November 26^th just happens to be my birthday.  A good omen, I’d say!

I realize that English is not one of the languages in which Pope Francis is fluent, though watching him on television when he visited the United States, I thought he held his own with it quite well.  I do hope he will be able to read and enjoy Kelegeen.  I am thrilled just knowing he owns a copy of it.  I would be tremendously honored to know he found enjoyment in reading it.

Letter from the Vatican

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To Bounce or not to Bounce, that is the question....

Many of my readers have asked me to elaborate on one of my occupations before becoming a writer, namely on how I became a bouncer in a disco on the French Riviera. This is the abridged version.

 May 1971, Montpellier, South of France

“There are no summer jobs in Montreal”. After a winter spent on a shoestring budget in Montpellier studying law, the news from my friend Jeffrey is disappointing, to put it mildly. I’m about to run out of money and  been counting on finding work back home, in order to continue my law studies at University of Ottawa.

My landlord Albert Legrand, the restaurant owner over which I rented a room, had just hired a dishwasher, his nephew, so my temporary services are no longer needed.“There’s that new place Tiffany’s, a disco in Palavas. Why don’t you try there?” said Albert  while stirring a pot full of his traditional bouillabaisse.

 I splurge for a bus ticket and head for Palavas, a quaint fishing village on the Mediterranean, a dozen kilometers south of Montpellier. Just before reaching the village, the bus stops at an intersection and to the right I see a modern structure in white stucco and cement.  A garish sign on the left side in huge red letters reads “Tiffany’s”. I get out and walk towards the long flat white building with a slightly undulating roof, its red tiles retaining a hint of the traditional.

At the front, two large wooden doors adorned with bronze knockers form the entrance.  I knock.
After a moment a petite brunette appears, leaning against one of the half -opened doors.” Oui?”
“I’m looking for un job”.
She looks me up and down, turns and yells. “Mario, someone here pour un job.”
A voice back in the room yells back : “ Pas besoin.”
“Dommage,” she says, hunching her shoulders in powerlessness. She looks genuinely sorry.

I take in a deep breath and start to walk back towards the street, when she says: “ minute. I’ll talk to Mario.”She turns, and moments later, Mario and she appear. Mario is tall, thin, has a pallid complexion and a head full of unkempt, frizzy black hair.

“Tu veux un job?”

“Oui.”

“Come”. He signals for me to follow him, and we enter the discothèque.  Before us, a wide open room in an undulating shape, at the right of which is a bar. To the left, down a couple of steps the dance area, where workers are sanding the wooden floor.
We cross the main room, enter a small office where Mario goes behind the desk and sits down. He gestures me to the chair in front.
After a brief exchange, he says: “We open this Saturday and we need a cashier.”
My mood brightens, but I try not to look too eager. “How much does it pay?”
“500 francs per week. 6pm to 3am. Mondays off.”
“Sounds good.”
“Fine. You’ve met Annette. Come meet my brother.”

We go to the adjoining room, and Mario introduces me to Sergio, a man with an easy smile, probably early thirties, tanned complexion and shoulder- length wavy brown hair. After I tell them I’m a Canadian law student at Université de Montpelllier, their interest in me increases.  I learn that Sergio and Mario Ganzoni are Swiss entrepreneurs who are developing disco franchises. Montpellier is their third, after Tel-Aviv and Torremolinos.

I’m hired, and my spirits soar. A summer in Montpellier presages busloads of Scandinavian blondes coming to learn French at the University, and develop their tans on the sandy beaches of the French Riviera. As a bilingual Canadian, I am the perfect interpreter cum teacher. Yes!
(As it turns out, the blondes turn out to be more Dutch than Swedish, and I take a liking to Jolette from Amsterdam, whose French improves dramatically by frequenting yours truly.)

Weeks turn into months and the long white nights take their toll, and by the time 3 am, (read more 5 am) rolls around every morning, I’m completely wiped and looking forward to a day’s rest. By the end of July, I know every song played by the disco guy, and can’t wait till he plays “Satisfaction”, signaling the close of the night. My little cashier’s cubicle next to the entrance is hot, stuffy and very uncomfortable. Plus I’m bored out of my mind.

That’s when it all changes. So far, next to my cubicle at the entrance stand two Brits from Leeds, bouncers Alan and Dave. Dave says he’s spent four years in the Marines, and I have absolutely no reason not to believe him. He’ll routinely lift a boisterous drunk with one hand and toss him out onto the pavement. End of commotion. Thin but wiry Alan is there for good measure, or when a fight breaks out inside the disco, which is not infrequent. Unfortunately one day Dave doesn’t show up for work, never to be seen again. Instantly rumors abound.  Did he piss off the wrong people? Remember, Montpellier is only a couple of hours away from Marseille, the crime capital of France at the time. He is replaced by Jean, a weight lifter built like a Panzer tank and a Judo specialist.

But there’s a problem. Every time there’s a commotion or a brawl, Jean isn’t there. Coincidence at first ? Until someone notices that every time there’s a fight, Jean’s in the toilets.
End of Jean. The next evening, Mario calls me to his office. “How would you like a promotion?”

I laugh. “How much?”
“750 francs, plus free suppers.”
“1000.”
“D’accord. You start tonight.”

The first week is relatively uneventful. Alan and I get along well, and we get rid of some undesirables without too much fuss. A bit of strong-arming, not much more. But then one night, while standing guard outside at the entrance, we hear gunshots coming from inside the disco.

“Shit!” yells Alan.

We peer cautiously inside the disco hall and see Roger, a regular but consummate hothead and alky, tottering out of control, waving a pistol at the ceiling. More shots, as everybody panics and makes a run for the exits. We realize he’s trying to shoot the small flashing lights of the disco’s ceiling. Finally he collapses in a drunken stupor, murmuring incomprehensibly.

I grab Roger’s pistol from him, while Alan pins him to the floor. After a moment, we carry him to his car, and a couple of friends drive him home. Mario, who has seen all this, tells his friends to tell Roger he’s not coming back.
Now you must understand the Southern French culture. These guys are all buddies from Marseille, grew up together, know each other inside out, their families, their friends. It’s one thing not to hold one’s liquor, but way worse to be ostracized, banned from the best watering hole in the area, the “in” place to be and to be seen every weekend. Suddenly you’re no longer part of the crowd.
Roger comes back the next day to apologize, but Mario and Sergio are implacable: no.

A few days go by, until one night I think I recognize a car coming to a stop in the parking lot, a couple of hundred yards away.
“Isn’t that Roger’s car?” I say to Alan.
“Yeah, think so.”
The driver gets out slowly. It’s Roger.
“Not good,” says Alan.
Roger sees us and waves, then slowly goes to the back of his car and opens the trunk.
He pulls out what looks like a duffle bag and sets in on the pavement, next to the car. He opens the bag and pulls out a tripod, then the business end of a machine gun.

“Jesus Christ !” says Alan.
We enter the disco, close the doors. Alan runs to the office, and tells Mario who rushes to the cashier cubicle to see for himself. Roger is now preparing the ammunition box next to his machine gun. “Il est completement fou.”
I turn to Mario :“Time to call the cops.”
Mario chuckles. “They won’t come unless there are dead bodies. For them, this is gang warfare, out of their jurisdiction.” Mario turns to Alan : “is Néné here?
“I think I saw him at the bar.”
“Get him here quick.”

Minutes later, Néné Azais, a 5 ft 2 inch Gitan, successful Marseille restaurateur and respected patron of Tiffany’s, is peering through the cashier window.

“Merde. ¨Ça, c’est trop!

Néné, long black mane, wearing a white open blouse, gold bracelets and fitted bell bottom pants, imposes respect by his presence, and a look that could cut through tungsten steel. He goes back to the bar, gets a pistol from one of his friends, and tucks it in his belt behind his back.

“Open the door,” he tells me.
“Are you sure?”
“Oui.”
I open, Néné walks out, very slowly, hands up in the air. He stops about 20 ft out. I close the door.

We watch from the cubicle as Néné talks to Roger, who is sitting behind his gun, ready to open fire. After what seems like an eternity Néné lowers his hands slowly, takes his gun from behind him and deposits it slowly on the ground. More interminable minutes go by, more talk and finally we see Roger get up, start dismantling his weapon, and putting it back in the duffle bag.

A few days later, Mario calls me to his office, thanks me for keeping my cool, and makes me another offer: to become part of their organization on a permanent basis, and help develop other franchises. He and Sergio are planning to expand into North America and he thinks Canada, particularly Quebec, would be the perfect place to start.
I say I’ll think about it.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d accepted his offer.

.

Queen Anne Stuart Part Three The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

To find out more about Rosemary Morris' books please click the cover above.

Queen Anne Stuart
Part Three
The Cinderella Princess

Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough would last into her middle age.
Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen-year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.
At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: ‘We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.’
Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.
It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.
Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.
Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was not unlikely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In her day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is likely that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her religious education which was rigorous and the foundation of her belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.
Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-father. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that both their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.
Lax though King Charles II’s morals were, he took some interest in Anne who would be one of the best guitar players at court. She also had a pleasing voice and he ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt when she and Mary took part in some of the masques and plays popular at Charles II’s Court.
‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.
Despite boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay in bed suffering from smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages, purported to be from Mary asking about her health, were delivered to Anne.
While Anne’s tutor fretted in case her fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her when Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for his nieces. This tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.

Extract from Tangled Love
1693

Nine-year-old Richelda Shaw sat on the floor in her nursery. She pulled a quilt over her head to block out the thunder pealing outside the ancient manor house, while an even fiercer storm raged deep within. Eyes closed, she remained as motionless as a marble statue.
Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, removed the quilt from her head. “Stand up child, there’s nothing to be frightened of. Come, your father’s waiting for you.”
Richelda trembled. Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire Lilies of the Valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she had picked the flowers to welcome Father home, and then arranged them with tender care. Now, the bowl stood on a chest, beneath a pair of crossed broadswords hanging on the wall.
Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father waited at one side of an enormous hearth. Richelda hesitated. Her eyes searched for her mother before she walked across the floor, spread her skirts wide, and knelt before him.
Father placed his right hand on her bent head. “Bless you, daughter; may God keep you safe.”
He smiled. “Stand up, child. Upon my word, sweetheart, your hair reminds me of a golden rose. How glad I am to see roses bloom in these troubled times.”
Richelda stood but dared not speak, for she did not know him well.
Putting an arm round her waist, he drew her to him. “Come, do not be nervous of your father, child. Tell me if you know King James II holds court in France while his daughter, Mary, and William, his son-in-law, rule, after seizing his throne?”
“Yes, Mother told me we are well rid of King James and his Papist wife,” she piped up, proud of her knowledge.
With a sigh, Father lifted her onto his knee. “Richelda, I must follow His Majesty, for I swore an oath of allegiance to him. Tell me, child, while King James lives, how can I with honour swear allegiance to his disloyal daughter and her husband?”
Unable to think of a reply, she lowered her head, breathing in his spicy perfume.
Father held her closer. “Your mother pleads with me to declare myself for William and Mary. She begs me not to return to France, but I am obliged to serve King James. Do you understand?”
As she nodded, her cheek brushed against his velvet coat. “Yes, I understand, my tutor told me why many gentlemen will not serve the new king and queen.”
“If you remain in England, you will be safe. Bellemont is part of your mother’s dowry, so I doubt it will be confiscated.”
If she remained in England! Startled, she stared at him.

Sil’s Five Star Review of Tangled Love
A Superb Page Turner

Rosemary Morris has crafted a superb novel set in the Queen Anne time-period in London. The historical details are accurately researched and artfully presented, making excellent use of vivid sensory details. Further, the characters spring to life, each fully moulded into his or her unique personality.
Bound by a childhood promise made to her father, protagonist Richelda faces tough challenges nearly a decade later. Poor and now orphaned, she dreams of a better future with all the trappings of the good life. But, to keep her promise, she must regain the ancestral home, Field House, which is said to contain hidden treasure. Her vow to her father is sealed by a ruby ring that she wears on a chain around her neck--a constant reminder of her promise.
Dudley, her childhood sweetheart, plus the charismatic Viscount Lord Chesney, her suitor in an arranged marriage by her wealthy aunt, set the stage for Richelda's doubts and uncertainties. Dudley won her heart years earlier, but is he all that he appears to be? Chesney, on the other hand, is the owner of Field House and could offer her the life she dreams about in her ancestral home. Further, Aunt Isobel has promised to make Richelda her heiress on the condition she does indeed marry Lord Chesney. Yet are her push-pull feelings for Chesney strong enough to merit a marriage vow? Throughout the story, Richelda never disappoints. She is spirited, fiercely independent, sweet, and loving--truly a three-dimensional character.
Author Rosemary Morris takes her readers gently by the hand and leads them down a highly entertaining pathway filled with love, intrigue, deceit, and mystery. Highly recommended. A 5 Star winner!



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’m not writing, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research my new romantic historical novel. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not twenty-first 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 eras 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 swim and enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna.
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