Maggie Robinson's Blog

Once a month, I blog with the Maine Crime Writers, and you never know what we come up with, from writing tips to Maine weather to moose sightings. If you’d like to check out my past posts, just click here!

My granddog Georgia waiting for the Islesboro ferry

Here are some links to interviews and reviews of Farewell Blues, the fourth and final Lady Adelaide Mystery.

Publishers Weekly

Kirkus

Goodreads

The Romance Dish

Word Wenches

Woman’s World picked Farewell Blues for the best cozy mystery of the week!

FarewellBlues_CVR (2)

I have been hopping around the Internet talking about the 3rd Lady Adelaide Mystery, Just Make Believe. If you’d like to see more information, just click on the links!

Romance Dish (review and interview)

Word Wenches (interview)

Fresh Fiction (review)

Fresh Fiction (guest blog)

Maine Crime Writers (guest blog)

Last Christmas, I gave Addie’s maid Beckett her happy ending for the historical Christmas event on Ramblings from this Chick. If you’ve read the 1920s-set Lady Adelaide Mysteries, Nobody’s Sweetheart Now and Who’s Sorry Now?, you’ve already met Addie’s rebellious younger sister Cee. Cee likes to think of herself as a flapper who breaks as many rules as a marquess’ daughter can without getting caught. She chafes under her strict mother’s watchful eye and her older sister’s annoying wisdom. She wants to be different, an Original, a Bright Young Person. The very last thing she wants is to do the expected and conventional, like marry her dishy distant cousin Ian. But it’s Christmas, and magic is in the cold, crisp Cotswold air.

Gloucestershire, Christmas Morning, 1925

The procession marched by, and Mama scurried after it to talk to friends in the churchyard. Addie closed her hymnbook and tucked it back between the oak slats. “Shall I invite Ian to breakfast at the Dower House?”

Cee wrinkled her faintly-freckled nose. “No.”

“Why not?” her sister asked. As if she would finally accept the same answer Cee had given a thousand times already.

Lady Cecilia Merrill was not romantically interested in Ian, Marquess of Broughton even if everyone in the county thought she should be, expected it, counted on it. Had already made a wager on the most likely date of their wedding, as they did in Regency gentlemen’s clubs’ betting books.

She did not wish to have breakfast, lunch, or dinner with him. Not a cocktail or a canape.

She pulled down her cloche and pulled up her fox fur collar, as the old stone church was invariably freezing no matter what time of the year. She could see her breath, for heaven’s sake! Cee wished she was wearing long woolen underwear and boots, but as a Bright Young Person, fashion was everything, so silk stockings and smart suede pumps it was.

“You know why. If he comes to breakfast, Ian is going to ask me to marry him when he finishes his kippers. I can feel it in my bones.”

“So what if he does? A Christmas engagement is most suitable. You can be a June bride. And your bones are twenty-six. It’s time you got settled.”

Addie always thought she knew best. Six years older that Cee, she’d been married and widowed and now was something of a crime-solver, which would be shocking if the news ever reached the upper echelons of society. The Merrill sisters were daughters of the late Marquess of Broughton. Marquess’ daughters did not generally mess about with dead bodies. So far, too many murders had occurred for anyone’s comfort. Why, Cee’s own life had once been threatened!

Addie had driven over from Compton Chase to accompany Cee and their mother to Christmas morning worship in her childhood parish. She must be feeling extra holy, as she’d attended her own church’s midnight service just a few hours ago. It didn’t make her any less interfering, though.

“Don’t you dare leave me!” Cee whispered as her sister sprinted from the pew before Cee finished putting on her kid gloves. Her sister was soon lost in the exiting crowd, and Cee bit back a curse. She was in church after all.

She sat back down and blew her nose into a monogrammed handkerchief, wondering if she’d wind up with pneumonia for following the family’s Christmas tradition in this ancient, arctic church.

Ian had adapted to family traditions remarkably well. There was nothing wrong with him per se. He was a distant-enough half-cousin who had inherited the marquessate when Cee’s father died.

Papa had liked him and thought him a worthy successor. Mama liked him. Addie liked him. Even Addie’s terrier Fitz liked him, but that meant nothing—the dog liked anyone who had the potential to provide a rasher of streaky bacon or a pair of good leather shoes.

Everyone Cee knew liked Ian. And deep down, she did too. He’d been invaluable recently, standing up for them all in the face of scandal when he could have shrugged and walked away.

But Cee didn’t want to be pushed. And right now, she felt prodded on all sides, even if she was last to leave the church. The match was practically ordained, and, as her sister said, very suitable indeed. Cee would return to the house she grew up in, have a lovely batch of fair-haired children, and lead local society, just as her mother had.

Where was the excitement in that?

“Good morning, Cecilia. Happy Christmas.”

Cee turned, and there was Ian, looking straight out of an Arrow Shirt advertisement, golden curls, blue eyes, square jaw. Any girl’s dream, really.

“Hullo.” She sounded surly even to herself.

“Your mother and sister are stopping at the Vincents on the way home with a basket and asked me to take you back.”

No wonder Addie was in such a rush, the fiend.

“They invited me to breakfast, too. I hope that’s all right.” He touched her elbow, steering her down the slate aisle.

Just as he’d do when they were married.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Cee snapped. “One has to eat.”

Ian greeted the still-lingering vicar and shook his hand. Cee followed suit.

“My lord, Lady Cecilia, it warms my old heart to see you two young people in church together. You make a handsome couple.”

“We’re not a couple!” Cee and Ian spoke at the exact same time, Ian quite forcefully, it should be noted. Cee stumbled on the granite step and he caught her.

The vicar’s fluffy white brows knit. “You’re not? I was under the impression—oh, well, never mind. At my advanced age, I get mixed up, or so my wife is only too pleased to tell me at every opportunity. Go on home and enjoy some figgy pudding. Separately, of course.”

They walked down the gravel path through the lych-gate. “You didn’t drive?” Cee asked with some regret, since her pretty new strapped shoes pinched a little.

“No. I walked over from Broughton Park. It’s a glorious day, isn’t it? Look at the color of the sky! I’ve never seen such a blue.”

With her luck, if Cee looked up to admire the allegedly perfect firmament, she might slip on a patch of ice. So she minded her steps, clutching onto Ian’s arm.

He was very quiet. Too quiet. Cee was tempted to chatter with nerves, but she held her tongue. The silence became almost…comfortable.

They took the shortcut, a hedge-rowed lane that eventually led to Broughton Park’s back field. Cee had been this way hundreds of times, but could still admire the jewel-like berries in the frost-tipped bushes and the twittering birds enjoying their Christmas breakfast.

“You’re right. It is a lovely day,” she said. “Chilly, though.” My word, she was discussing the weather. Ian would think she was a flat tire.

“Yes. I wonder if I’ll miss the cold.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you know? I’m off to Australia at the first of the year. It’s high summer there. My friend Matthew and his sister Abigail manage a sheep station in Queensland. I hope to pick up a few tips for my Cotswold flock, but I should be back before spring planting.”

Cee had briefly toyed with vegetarianism last year, but she did like a good lamb chop with mint sauce. She couldn’t imagine personally shearing—or worse, butchering—a living creature, however. “A woman sheep farmer?”

“Oh, Abby’s a great girl. You’d like her.”

Ian sounded far too enthusiastic. “I suppose she’s some Amazon.”

“Oh, no. She’s about your size. Pretty as a picture and smart as a whip, too.”

What rot. They emerged from the tunnel of trees. Cee allowed Ian to help her over the stile and stayed a little too long in his arms. She looked up into his smiling face. His eyes were as blue as the sky above.

“You won’t forget me while you’re out there, will you?”

His smile vanished. “No. I could never forget you. Wouldn’t want to.”

“You’d better not,” Cee said. She lifted her chin, which had frequently been called stubborn. “I haven’t any mistletoe handy, but I would not be averse to a kiss before we get home. To…to celebrate the season. It’s Christmas, you know. Of course you know. We’ve just been to Christmas service. There was a creche and everything. Carols.” Goodness, she was a babbling idiot.

“Really? You’re quite sure?”

“Quite.” Cee closed her eyes and waited.

His gloved hands cupped her face, his lips brushed hers. He was far too gentle—she wasn’t a glass ornament to be hung high on the Christmas tree to prevent breakage. Cee rectified the situation by tugging down on the velvet collar of his Chesterfield coat and was rewarded handsomely. Her toes curled inside her new shoes and she shivered under her fur coat.

Who knew Ian was such a capable kisser? More than capable. If he continued in this extremely satisfactory manner much longer, they’d be late for breakfast.

Kippers be damned.

He broke the kiss too soon. “Cee, will you—”

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

Sighing with relief, Ian held her close. “You are the very best Christmas present a man could ask for. An angel.”

Cee was very sure that wasn’t true, but she’d much rather kiss him again than confess to her many faults. He’d find out soon enough. June didn’t leave much time for her to turn completely angelic, but she’d give it a try. Miracles happened at other times of the year besides Christmas, didn’t they?

Who’s Sorry Now? is a recommended read in the September Reel to Read program at the New York Public Library! As a former New Yorker, I am pleased as punch. Being on the same list as Agatha Christie kind of takes my breath away!

Nobody’s Sweetheart Now made two prestigious lists for last year’s best books: The Romance Dish and All About Romance! Addie, Dev and Rupert are thrilled.

Lady Adelaide Compton, whose husband, Rupert, died in a car crash with his mistress a few months prior, is hosting a house party for the first time since his death. When Rupert, or at least a ghostly version of him, reappears as the house party begins, she’s understandably surprised.

Addie is doing her best to appear sane–while hissing at Rupert to leave her alone–when her dignified servants inform her that a dead person has been found in the barn. The body turns out to be that of Kathleen Grant, the former wife of a local landowner. When the handsome Anglo-Indian Inspector Devenand Hunter shows up to investigate the murder, Addie is nearly driven to distraction. It’s unthinkable that one of her guests could be a killer–her mother, the Dowager Marchioness? Her best friend from school? Her neighbor, the ex-husband of Kathleen? Between pondering their potential guilt and Rupert’s snide comments about the attractive Inspector Hunter, Addie is completely flustered–until the moment she catches out a killer, and the stakes become deadly.

Nobody’s Sweetheart Now is a clever, charming mystery that perfectly captures 1920s society. Bored debutantes and rich bankers mingle in Lady Addie’s world, which is sure to appeal to fans of Ashley Weaver or Rhys Bowen. Likable characters, a well-paced plot and an intriguing detective make Nobody’s Sweetheart Now an excellent first entry in this delightful mystery series from Maggie Robinson. —Jessica Howard, bookseller at Bookmans, Tucson, Ariz.

Discover: In this clever cozy mystery, Lady Adelaide Compton must help solve a murder while distracted by the ghost of her husband.

It’s always so interesting to see foreign covers. In this case, my heroine Nicola in Redeeming Lord Ryder is a blonde, but not according to this still-gorgeous cover! LOL

I was asked to participate in Ramblings from the Chick’s annual historical Christmas event, and wrote a special proposal scene featuring two of the series’ characters. If you’ve read Nobody’s Sweetheart Now, you’ve been introduced to Maeve Beckett, Lady Adelaide’s cheeky and cheerful maid, and Jack Robertson, Addie’s young gardener. We’re jumping ahead a year. Here’s a little romance with your mystery!

Compton Chase, Compton-Under-Wood, Gloucestershire, England

December 24, 1925

Maeve would make him.

Oh, who was she kidding? She’d never met anyone more stubborn than the Scotsman, and she was Irish on both sides. Jack Robertson had his priorities. And she, apparently, wasn’t one of them.

Maeve Beckett worked as a lady’s maid to Lady Adelaide Compton. Lady A was generous to a fault, and not at all draconian. So Maeve had a pretty easy life and a pretty penny saved up, even after she sent some of her wages home and spent too much on lip rouge and cinema tickets.

Jack had come to be head gardener at Compton Chase the summer before last, as handsome as one of the movie stars Maeve watched on the flickering screen. He might have left a leg behind in France, but he was a hard worker, and had the greenest fingers she had ever seen. The flower beds had flourished under his care, and he’d been rewarded accordingly. He had a sweet little cottage on the estate, perfect as a honeymoon house.

If only Jack would ask Maeve to marry him.

They’d pussyfooted around the idea. Maeve knew Lady A had no objections—she wanted everybody around her to be happy, since she herself wasn’t always. But Jack was old-fashioned—he wouldn’t touch Maeve’s nest egg. Wanted everything to be “proper.” What he meant by that, Maeve wasn’t sure, but he’d not once tried to take her into his ground floor bedroom in that sweet little cottage to test out his bed.

Oh, he’d kissed her—how he’d kissed her—until her head spun and her heart beat right out of her modest chest. Rudolph Valentino himself couldn’t have done it better, and Maeve had seen him kiss for years in the dark, never imagining she’d fall in love herself.

Was Jack afraid what she’d think when his prosthetic leg came off? She didn’t care about that a bit. She knew he’d had a lot of trouble after the war getting used to his disability—brave, he’d gone when he was underage, and got unfairly punished for it. If he’d only stayed home—

Well, if he had, Maeve would never have met him, and wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?

So, tonight was the night. Maeve was going to propose to him, and make him say yes. And why not? Life was too short to be old-fashioned and “proper.” Put things off until everything was just right, like that Goldilocks story. Not use the good dishes or wear the fancy knickers. Look at all those poor dead people stopped in their tracks that Lady A had mixed herself up with. Murder! Maeve might be a maid, but was not going to die in her bed an old maid. Just in case someone tried to put a period to her existence, she was going to have some fun beforehand.

Lady A was off to the midnight Christmas Eve service at Compton St. Cuthbert’s in her Lagonda, and told her not to wait up. So Maeve took off her uniform and climbed into her own tub. A dozen stars twinkled outside the window, and she thought about the brightest star all those years ago. If a baby born in a stable could grow up to be the King, anything was possible.

Warm and clean, she put on her best dress, a plain pleated navy jersey, and ruffled up her dark bobbed hair. She had plenty of cosmetics, but decided to go to Jack as she was, a little pale, freckled, and very determined.

Coat, boots, scarf, torch. The house was quiet, the tree in the front hall shimmering under the bright electric sconces left on for Lady A. Maeve slipped out the door, her feet crunching on the frozen grass. The path through the garden was familiar, even as the torch revealed odd and ominous shadows. But she wasn’t afraid, not of bare bushes anyway.

Jack’s cottage was not far past the formal plantings, and stood alone surrounded by a grove of trees. Lady A had fixed it up for him, and the work crew had knocked down the two neighboring cottages that were past saving. So Maeve wasn’t worried about anyone snooping. She was just worried that Jack wouldn’t let her in to protect her unwanted virtue.

What if he was asleep? It was late, and he’d been busy the past few days. He’d brought the giant Yule log in single-handedly, and the tree and greenery and mistletoe to decorate the house as well. Everything looked beautiful indoors, thanks to him.

Light spilled from a window into the inky night. She balled up her small fist and knocked, while her booted feet were poised for flight. A minute passed, then two. Perhaps she was being foolish.

The door opened. Jack was fully dressed in his good suit, right down to the new necktie that she’d given him for Christmas—he’d opened his present early. His brown hair was slicked back neatly, and he smelled of Blenheim Bouquet.

“What…what are you doing here?”

Maeve dropped to one knee, no easy feat on the cold stone step. She angled the torch at his face and he blinked. “I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

“You can’t! I mean, I was about to come to you! Toss pebbles at your window.” He shook his coat pocket, and Maeve heard rattling. “Lure you out under the stars. Be, uh, romantic. Get up, Maeve. Please.” He extended a work-roughened hand.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“It wasn’t a question, was it? Besides, I’m doing the asking—I’m the man. I can’t get down on one knee, though. I’ll never get up. You don’t mind, do you?” He pulled her to her feet as if she were made of feathers.

“No.” She still had to look up at him. “Go ahead.”

“Maeve Rose Beckett, will you be my wife?” He reached into the pebble-pocket and drew out a small box. Inside was a silver ring made to look like a band of roses. “F-for your name. It’s not much, but Lady A said—”

Maeve didn’t care what their employer said. She stood on tiptoes and kissed her answer in a very improper way, leaving no doubt that he might be the man, but she was definitely the woman.