Today we have as
our guest, New York Times best-selling author, Mary Balogh. Author of more than
sixty novels and thirty novellas set predominantly in the Regency and Georgian
era, she is the recipient of numerous awards, including the 1993 Romantic Times
Career Achievement award for Regency short stories.
Welcome, Mary
and thank you for being with us and sharing a bit about yourself, today!
Q: What are your fondest memories of growing up in
Wales?
A: I grew up in
post-WWII Wales, in the heavily bombed city of Swansea. Although we were
surrounded by rubble, it didn't seem strange to us children. We used to talk
about going to play on the bomb-buildings as if they were playgrounds. We had
very little. Everything was rationed and had to be bought with precious
coupons. We had few clothes, few toys, few books. But—before anyone rushes into
pitying such a deprived childhood—let me say what a rich, happy childhood it
was. What we had we treasured. When we were taken to a park or the beach or on
a train ride, we thought we were going to heaven. Our imaginations became our
best friend. We created a world out of next to nothing, and what a magical
world it was. I could write a book about growing up in Wales, but these were
the memories that rushed to mind when I read the question.
Q: I’ve always lived in the same state, so the idea of
packing up everything at twenty-three to accept a teaching position in another
country, seems glamorous. How glamorous was it?
A: It was a bit
scary. I knew I was going to have to leave home to teach. Teaching positions
were scarce in Britain at that time, but, strangely enough, there seemed to be
a huge shortage almost everywhere else in the world. I thought that if I wanted
some adventure in my life, here was my chance. I would travel around the world
for a few years, teaching. The first interview I had was for Saskatchewan,
Canada, and the interview basically consisted of a contract being slid across
the desk for my signature. I signed for two years and set off on my adventure
before moving on. I arrived in a small, prairie farming town of 1,000 people.
Glamorous it was not! But there I met the man who became my husband, and I am
still in Saskatchewan more than 40 years later.
Q: In 1985, after the publication of your first novel, MASKED
DECEPTION, you received the Romantic Times award for Best New Regency Writer. I
know there’s an interesting story behind your journey to become a romance
novelist. Would you mind sharing how the manuscript for your first novel ended
up with Signet?
A: I wrote my first
Regency romance longhand at the kitchen table and then typed it into an old
typewriter. I didn't have a clue what to do with it at that point. There was no
internet in those days, and I didn't know of any other writers or writers'
organizations. I looked inside the front cover of a Signet Regency romance for
an address and found a Canadian one. I sent off the whole manuscript with a
very brief covering letter (more or less saying—I have written this and wonder
if you would like to publish it). Two weeks later I had a letter back informing
me that I had sent it to a distribution center—a big warehouse, in other words.
But someone there had read the manuscript and liked it and had sent it on to
New York. A couple of weeks after that I had a call from an editor, offering me
a two-book contract. It really doesn't seem fair, does it? I did everything
wrong, yet it turned out marvelously right!
Q: You’ve managed to produce an impressive body of work
during your writing career. What would you consider your most satisfying
achievement?
A: As a writer?
That's a difficult one. I suppose the most satisfying thing at the moment is
just to have produced that large body of work. It's a bit mind-boggling
sometimes to look at the shelves of my books and know that I wrote them all. If
I had to pick out one book or one series of books that has been most
satisfying, I would probably pick the Bedwyn series, the SLIGHTLY books, and
all the other books that connect with them—the SIMPLY quartet, ONE NIGHT FOR
LOVE, A SUMMER TO REMEMBER. It was lovely to be able to create a whole world in
those books.
Q: What is the best career advice you have ever
received? Have you ever received advice that you wished later that you hadn’t
taken?
A: After I had
fifteen books in print, I told an agent who spoke to me at a convention that I
really did not need an agent. She phoned me when I was back home and advised me
to reconsider and asked if she could send me some of her own promotional
information. She convinced me and she has been my agent ever since. And what a
difference she has made to my career! I can't think of any advice I have
regretted taking, for the simple reason that as a writer I don't look for
advice. I am my own person.
Q: If you were to offer any advice to a romance
novelist at the beginning of their career, what would you want them to realize?
A: My advice to any
writer just starting out is always the same—don't listen to advice! All people
are unique, and all writers are unique. It's a delicate thing, though,
uniqueness. All of our lives we are bombarded with inducements to give up some
of our individuality in order to be more like the crowd. This can be quite
detrimental to a writer. Every writer has a distinctive voice and it is her/his
most precious asset. Every writer has a unique vision. Yes so many feel they
have to seek out all sorts of help-me books and/or conference workshops so that
they can write like everyone else. Don't do it! It's harder these days, I know,
when there is so much access to the world out there. But somehow shut yourself
away and write your book. And there!—I have just broken my own rule. Here I am
giving advice.
Q: In regard to the writing profession, what would you
say has changed the most since you were first published? Stayed the same?
A: Oh, goodness,
everything has changed! I think the only thing that has remained the same is
the necessity of sitting down and writing the best book that has ever been
written. And that is far harder to do than it used to be. Now one is expected
to have an active web site and to be involved in social media, constantly
relating to readers and advertising one's books and oneself as a person. I can
remember asking my first editor if I should take out a print ad for one of my
books. She asked me why I would want to do that—you write the book, we sell it,
she told me. It's hard to imagine now, isn't it? I enjoy all the extras, but
they certainly take away from writing time. And of course, the advent of the
e-book and the ability to self-publish, whether it be new books or one's
backlist, have complicated the whole publishing scene.
Q: If you had to choose among all of your books, could
you pick a favorite?
A: It's difficult.
I love all my books when I send them in. I suppose a few stand out in my
mind—THE NOTORIOUS RAKE, A PRECIOUS JEWEL, LONGING, A SUMMER TO REMEMBER,
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS, SIMPLY LOVE, SIMPLY PERFECT, A SECRET AFFAIR, THE PROPOSAL.
And I will keep on thinking of others I could have added to the list.
Q: What prompted you to start writing longer books?
A: I loved writing
the 75,000 word Signet Regency romances. They fit me like a glove. However, though
they had a very loyal readership, it was a comparatively small one. And there
were rumblings of rumors about the Regency romance as a separate entity dying.
I was asked to write a few longer Regencies (125,000 words) and found I could
do it. I finally decided that it was in the best interests of my career to
switch entirely to writing historicals (100,000 words). At first I struggled a
bit as I thought they had to be a different type of book, more "historical."
But I had one editor who rejected a synopsis I had labored over for a long time
(I just don't DO synopses) before telling me that she had been reading some of
my old Signets and loved them and wanted me to write THAT type of book for her.
The next morning I sent her a brief outline of MORE THAN A MISTRESS and I have happily
written my old style of book ever since, though a bit longer.
Q: I’ve always been drawn to a wounded hero and was
excited to find out about your newest series “The Survivors' Club”. The first book, “The Proposal” has garnered
some stunning reviews and has recently been released in paperback. Could you
tell us a bit about the series and if you have any upcoming release dates?
A: The Survivors'
Club consists of six men and one woman, all of them variously involved and
variously wounded in the Napoleonic Wars. The Duke of Stanbrook, one of their
number, turned his home in Cornwall into a sort of hospital/rehabilitation
center, and the group once spent three years there together. Now they meet
there for a few weeks each spring to renew their friendship and discuss their
progress and any problems that have resurfaced. The duke is a member by the
fact that he lost his only son in the wars and his duchess committed suicide a
short while later by leaping over the cliffs on their property. The Proposal, out this month in
paperback is Hugo, Lord Trentham's story. He was rewarded with his title after
showing extraordinary bravery while leading a Forlorn Hope on a seemingly
impregnable fortress in Spain. He emerged without a scratch but then went out
of his mind with guilt over surviving when almost all his men had died. He had
to be brought back to England in a straitjacket. The Arrangement is due out at the end of August. It is Vincent,
Viscount Darleigh's story. In his very first battle at the age of 17, Vincent
was blinded and deafened by a cannon blast. His hearing came back, but his
sight never will. The Escape is due
out some time after Christmas. March has been mentioned though I don't think
the date is quite set yet. It is Sir Benedict Harper's story. He was very badly
wounded in a cavalry charge, and now he can walk only with the aid of two
canes. Yet he cannot think of another life than that of a cavalry officer. I am
currently writing Book 4, Flavian, Viscount Ponsonby's story. Flavian suffered
a bad head wound, which left him unable to understand what was said to him and
unable to speak coherently. It left him with headaches and towering rages. Now
it seems the only lingering problem is a slight stammer as he talks. There is
an e-novella coming out at the end of July, The Suitor, which is linked to the Survivors' books. The heroine is
a young lady rejected as a bride by Vincent in The Arrangement, and the hero is the nephew and heir presumptive
(heir unless the duke produces another son before his death) of the Duke of
Stanbrook.
Q: You mentioned on your website that you were
considering electronically publishing some of your backlist. Have you decided
which titles to make available?
A: All of them, I
hope! But I am tied up with contract talks at the moment re. both frontlist and
backlist books and will have to wait a few months for the dust to settle before
I can make any definite decisions and announcements. I would like to see the
longer historicals in both print and e-book format, but I will have to wait and
see. I have been doing a poll at my web site and on my FB page about what
titles readers would particularly like to see available again and have made an
interesting list of the responses.
Q: On a more personal note, how do you like to spend
your time when you aren’t writing?
A: Well, there is
always housework and shopping and cooking—all the fun stuff. Mostly I read—and
I read anything that takes my fancy, though I suppose I have a slight
preference for mystery. I like doing puzzles like Sudoku (but only the beastly
hard ones—I get bored with the easy ones) and Cryptograms. And sometimes I have
knitting binges.
Q: Where can we find current information about new
releases and upcoming books?
A: You can find
information about all my books as well as excerpts and buy links at my web
site— www.marybalogh.com . I have a
weekly blog there too and usually give away a book to one person who leaves a
comment. I have an active Facebook page at www.facebook.com/AuthorMaryBalogh .
GIVEWAWAY ALERT!
Q: I’m really enjoying reading the first book in your
new series, THE PROPOSAL. Could I entice you to leave us with a peek at the
next book, your August release, THE ARRANGEMENT?
A: Yes, and I will
be happy to send an autographed copy of the advance reading edition of The Arrangement to someone who leaves a
comment.
BLURB:
Although Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, is only
twenty-three years old, his female relatives are pressing him to marry. He is
blind and he has recently inherited his title and vast estate. When they
produce a potential bride for him, he feels trapped and flees with his
batman-turned-valet. He ends up six weeks later at his old home and almost gets
trapped into another unwanted marriage. A young woman rescues him, however, and
then faces destitution as a result. When Vincent finds out about what has
happened to her, he has to decide what he is going to do to help. Sophia Fry
grew up with a rakish adventurer for a father, her mother having abandoned them
when Sophia was still very young. Then, when she was fifteen, her father was
killed in a duel. She was taken in by first one aunt and then another, but
neither of them wanted her or gave her anything but the most basic of care. By
the time she steps in to rescue Viscount Darleigh from the matrimonial schemes
of the second aunt and her uncle and cousin, she looks like an unkempt
scarecrow dressed in ill-fitting hand-me-downs. Her relatives turn her out of
the house in the middle of the night with nothing but a small bag of her meager
belongings and the exact fare for a stagecoach ride to London. She is offered
temporary refuge in the vicarage near her uncle's home before boarding the
coach, and it is there that Viscount Darleigh finds her…
EXCERPT
Vincent
has just arrived at Covington House, his old home in the village of Barton
Coombs in Somerset. It is very early in the morning, and he hopes to stay there
without anyone in the village knowing of his return. He does not want to be
fussed over by people who knew him before he was blinded in battle and before
he came into his inheritance. He wants some peace and quiet before going back
to his new home at Middlebury Park and explaining to his mother and sisters
that he is quite capable of living his own life his own way. His hopes to
remain undiscovered are doomed from the beginning, however.
Vincent's arrival had not gone unobserved.
Covington House was the last building at one
end of the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low
hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among those
trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside surrounding Barton
Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March,
though it was not often she was out quite this early. But this morning she had
woken when it was still dark and had been unable to get back to sleep. Her
window was open, and a bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not
noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and
climb back into bed, she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early
morning air was, because there was something rare and lovely about watching the
darkness lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in
particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of
them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they always sang
most earnestly when they were heralding in a new day.
She stood very still so as not to disturb them,
her back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out about
it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin gloves—so thin, in
fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had already sprung a leak. She
drank in the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the cold, which
penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it was not even there, and set her
fingers to tingling.
She looked down upon Covington House, her
favorite building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It
was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also
deserted and had been since before she came here to live two years ago. It was
still owned by the Hunt family, about whom she had heard many stories, perhaps
because Vincent Hunt, the only son, had unexpectedly inherited a title and
fortune a few years ago. It was the stuff of fairytales, except that it had a
sad component too.
She liked to look at the house and imagine it
as it might have been when the Hunts lived there—the absent-minded but
much-loved schoolmaster, his busy wife and three pretty daughters, and his
exuberant, athletic, mischievous son, who was always the best at whatever sport
was being played and was always at the forefront of any mischief that was
brewing and was always adored by old and young alike—except by the Marches,
against whom his pranks were most often directed. She liked to think that if
she had lived here then, she would have been friends with the girls and perhaps
even with their brother. She liked to picture herself running in an out of
Covington House without even knocking at the door, almost as if she belonged
there. She liked to imagine that she would have attended the village school
with all the other children, except Henrietta March, her cousin, who had been
educated at home by a French governess.
She was
Sophia Fry, though her name was rarely used. She was known by her relatives,
when she was known as anything at all, and perhaps by their servants too, as
the mouse. She lived at Barton Hall on sufferance because there was nowhere
else for her to go. Her father was dead, her mother had left them long ago and
since died, her uncle, Sir Terrence Fry, had never had anything to do with
either her father or her, and the elder of her paternal aunts, to whom she had
been sent first after her father's passing, had died two years ago.
She felt sometimes that she inhabited a no
man's land between the family at Barton Hall and the servants, that she
belonged with neither group and was noticed and cared about by neither. She
consoled herself with the fact that her invisibility gave her some freedom at
least. Henrietta was always hedged about with maids and chaperons and a
vigilant mother and father, whose sole ambition for her was that she marry a
titled gentleman, preferably a wealthy one, though that was not an essential
qualification as Sir Clarence was himself a rich man. Henrietta shared her
parents' ambitions, with one notable exception.
Sophia's thoughts were interrupted by the sound
of horses approaching from beyond the village, and it was soon obvious that
they were drawing some sort of carriage. It was very early in the day for
travel. It was a stagecoach, perhaps? She stepped around the trunk of the tree
and half hid behind it, though it was unlikely she would be seen from below.
Her cloak was gray, her cotton bonnet nondescript in both style and color, and
it was still not full daylight.
It was a private carriage, she saw—a very smart
one. But before she could weave some story about it as it passed along the
village street and out of sight, it slowed and turned onto the short driveway
to Covington House. It stopped before the front doors.
Ah. Her eyes widened. Could it be…?
The coachman jumped down from his perch and
opened the carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost
immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked around and said
something to the coachman—Sophia could hear the rumble of his voice but not
what he said. And then they both turned to watch another man.
He descended without assistance. He moved
sure-footed and without hesitation. But it was instantly obvious to Sophia that
his cane was not a mere fashion accessory but something he used to help him
find his way.
She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly,
that it was inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her. He had
come, then, as everyone had said he would.
The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt,
had come home.
Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with
gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and when he came,
Henrietta would marry him.
Henrietta, on the other hand, would not
be gratified. For once in her life she was opposed to her parents' dearest
wish. She had declared more than once in Sophia's hearing that she would rather
die a spinster at the age of eighty than marry a blind man with a ruined face
even if he was a viscount and even if he was even more wealthy
than her papa.
Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the
new arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was not particularly tall
and he had a slight, graceful build. He carried himself well. He did not hunch
over his cane or paw the air with his free hand. He was neatly, elegantly clad.
Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She wondered how much of the old
Vincent Hunt was still present in the blind Viscount Darleigh. But he had
descended from his carriage without assistance. That fact pleased her.
She could not see his face. His tall hat hid it
from her view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.
He and the burly man stood on the driveway for
a few minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of the house and
returned with what must be the key, for he bent to the lock of the front door,
and within moments it swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended the steps before the
door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside with the larger man behind him.
Sophia stood watching for another few minutes,
but there was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse and
carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away and made her way back
in the direction of Barton Hall. Standing still had thoroughly chilled her.
She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she
decided. No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer any
information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know soon enough, anyway.
* * * * *
Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a
quiet stay at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who observed
his arrival.
A farm laborer, on his way to milk the cows,
had the distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his colleagues for days to
come—of witnessing the arrival of Viscount Darleigh's carriage in Barton Coombs
and its subsequent turn onto the short driveway to Covington House. He had
stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch Vincent-Hunt-that-was
descend after the steps had been set down by Martin Fisk, the blacksmith's son.
By seven o'clock in the morning he had told his wife, having dashed back home
for that sole purpose, his baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in the
momentous news, his fellow laborers, the blacksmith, the blacksmith's wife, and
Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had
cast a shoe late the evening before.
By eight o'clock, the farm laborers—and the
original farm laborer's wife—had told everyone they knew, or at least those of
that category who came within hailing distance; Mr. Kerry had told the butcher
and the vicar and his aged mother; the blacksmith's wife, ecstatic that her son
was back home in the capacity of valet to Viscount Darleigh,
Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had dashed off to the baker's to replenish her supply of
flour and had told the baker and his two assistants and three other early
customers; and the blacksmith, also bursting with pride even though he spoke
with head-shaking disparagement of his son, the valett, told his
apprentice when that lad arrived late for work and for once did not have to
recite a litany of excuses, and Sir Clarence March's groom, and the vicar, who
heard the news for the second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared equally
ecstatic both times.
By nine o'clock it would have been difficult to
discover a single person within Barton Coombs or a three-mile radius
surrounding it, who did not know that Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was,
had arrived at Covington House when dawn had barely cracked its knuckles and
had not left it since.
Though if he had arrived that early,
Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly-named vicar, when the
two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back
gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved
rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him too early.
Perhaps Mrs. Parsons would inform the reception committee?
Or should she?
Actually, she would since she was in need of some exercise. Poor dear
gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and
wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been
just the sunny-natured, mischievous son of the village schoolmaster. He was, in
addition to everything else, though, a war hero, who had made a great sacrifice
for his country, even if not the ultimate one. And he did now have that very
impressive title. Best to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk
appearing over-familiar.
Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she
had been planning in her head for weeks. Her son, her beloved only
child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy
boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of
scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She
sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.
At ten o'clock Miss Pamela Granger, aged
eighteen, and her younger sister, Julia, sixteen, walked the length of the
village street to call upon their bosom friend, Miss Pauline Hamilton, aged
seventeen since last Thursday week, to discover what she planned to wear to the
assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had come. Was
Pauline as excited as they were? Squeals and hugs were as eloquent as any
verbal answer might have been. And the three of them proceeded to put their
heads together and draw out memories of Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the
races at the annual village fête by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on
the opposing team who had the courage and audacity to come up to bat against
him and looking so very handsome with his always over-long fair curls and his
blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile,
even at them, though they had been just little girls at the time. He had
always smiled at everyone.
Ah, it was such a shame, they agreed,
that… The trio of young ladies shed a few tears apiece. For Viscount Darleigh
would never now win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or
perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the
assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
Vincent would have been horrified to know that,
in fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was too
strong a word, then at least it had been looked for with eager hope and
cautious anticipation.
For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly
significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they were all
inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had numerous friends
at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those friends when they moved
away. They might not be able to visit them daily, as they had been used to do,
but they could and did write to them.
His mother had not been reassured by the two
notes that had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk. She had
not sat back and waited for her son to come home. Rather she had done all in
her power to discover where he was. Most of her guesses were quite wide of the
mark. But one was that Vincent might retreat to Barton Coombs, where he had
spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so many friends and so many
friendly acquaintances, where he would be comfortable and would be made much
of. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that if
he was not already there, he would end up there sooner or later.
So she wrote letters. She always wrote letters
anyway. It came naturally to her.
And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too,
though they did not share their mother's conviction that Vincent would go to
Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had gone back to Cornwall, where he
always seemed to be so happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the Lake District,
where he could escape their matchmaking clutches. All three of Vincent's
sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in which they had pressed Miss
Dean upon him. She was a sweet and biddable girl, it was true, but it had been
crystal clear that she was not as eager as she might have been to marry their
dear, precious brother. Well-bred though she was, she had been unable quite to
hide her relief when it was discovered that he had left Middlebury Park in the
middle of the night and taken his valet and his carriage with him.
Long before Vincent actually did arrive in
Barton Coombs, then, there was scarcely a person there who did not know for a
near certainty that he would come. The only question that had caused any real
anxiety was when. Everyone, almost without exception, was enraptured as
the news spread through the village and beyond that the wait was at an end. He
was here.
I’m certainly
intrigued! Thanks so much for leaving the wonderful excerpt and giving us a
glimpse of what’s in store for another member of the Survivors’ Club.
*Don’t forget to
leave your contact information when you comment so that Mary will be able to
inform some lucky person that their autographed ARC of THE ARRANGEMENT is on
its way!
