Chapter One Newport, Rhode Island August 1898 A pair of footmen in livery lifted the wheelchair, one on either side, while two others opened the rear doors of the Bailey’s Beach clubhouse. The foursome exchanged not so much as the slightest glance, yet operated in perfect precision like the automated works at a factory that turned wool into yarn and yarn into fabric. I, on the other hand, held my breath and questioned not for the first time the wisdom of this outing Aunt Alic
Newport, Rhode Island July 1897 Bits of grass and earth pelted the air as a thunderous pounding rolled down the polo field. Long-handled mallets swung after a ball no larger than a man’s open palm. Each time a mallet connected with the ball, ponies and riders raced in a fresh, ground-shaking burst of speed. With my pencil and tablet in my hands, I stood just beyond the sidelines, out of danger of being hit with the ball yet with a view worthy of the highest-paying spectators.
Ever since I started writing my Gilded Newport series, fun things have begun happening when my husband and I visit the city. Magical things. Things that don't typically happen to ordinary tourists. Specifically, places normally closed to the public have been graciously opened to us, providing me with invaluable research material for my stories. Once such opportunity has made it much easier for me to write my current work in progress, MURDER AT OCHRE COURT. Ochre Court was own
Last week, I sailed away from my normal, solitary writing schedule across the wide, beautiful Gulf of Mexico with the Florida Romance Writers. Readers nowadays know me as a mystery author, but that wasn't always true. I began my career writing historical romance, and much of what I learned about the craft and business of writing I owe to that generous, supportive group. One of the special events they host every two years is their Cruise with Your Muse Conference, and this yea
Newport, RI September 1896 “You will come down from there this instant. Now, sir.” I clapped my hands for emphasis, but to no avail. The individual whose disorderly bulk presently concealed the newest tear in the leather seat of my buggy merely tilted his head at me with an infuriating mixture of defiance and incomprehension. That look begged the question: How could I possibly object to his accompanying me? Yes, well. Such had been my morning thus far. The same individual had
Newport, RI, June 29, 1896 I sat up in bed, my heart thumping in my throat, my ears pricked. I’d woken to high-pitched keening, an eerie, unearthly sound that gathered force in the very pit of my stomach. There had been no warning in last night’s starry skies and temperate breezes, but sometime in the ensuing hours a storm must have closed in around tiny Aquidneck Island. I knew I should hurry about the house and secure the storm shutters, yet as I continued to listen, I hear
I know that whether it's mystery or romance, contemporary stories sell better than historicals. I know that, but I choose to write historicals anyway. Am I a glutton for punishment? Afraid of success? Just plain stubborn? The answer to that last one is probably a resounding "yes!" but the real reason I write historicals is because I can't NOT write them. Seriously. Now, I'm a modern woman with modern beliefs and values - I think women should follow their dreams and be given t