Emily Larkin's Blog - Posts Tagged "discovering-miss-dalrymple"

I’ve been neck-deep in revisions and new software, and all of a sudden October is upon us. How the heck did the last few months pass so quickly?

The sixth book in the Baleful Godmother series, Discovering Miss Dalrymple, comes out in two weeks, so I’d like to introduce the hero to you. Here he is, blissfully unaware that his life is about to be tipped upside down…

Alexander St. Clare, seventh Duke of Vickery, found his father’s diaries by accident. He was working at the massive oak desk in the study, reading through the latest report from the bailiff on his Lincolnshire estate and jotting down notes, when the tip of the quill split.

“Drain the north paddock,” he muttered under his breath, while he opened the top drawer of the desk and searched for a penknife. The penknife was at the very back of the drawer. Alexander groped for it, banged his knuckles against wood—and then the wood yielded and the penknife skittered out of reach, deeper into the desk.

Damn. He’d broken the drawer.

Alexander carefully removed it—and discovered that the drawer wasn’t broken at all; the back was hinged, with a little catch that he must have knocked open.

What the devil?

He got down on his knees and peered into the gaping slot. Was that a secret compartment? In his father’s old oak desk?

He reached in and felt carefully. Yes, a secret compartment. The penknife was in there, and . . . books?

Alexander drew the books out. There were six of them, bound with calfskin. He opened one and saw his father’s handwriting. June 17, 1808.

I would love to find a secret drawer in a desk. Wouldn’t you? But poor Alexander is going to regret it. Well, not finding the drawer itself, but finding his father's diaries…

Here's a picture of Alexander's father—and yes, that's one of the diaries!



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum collection of public domain images.]

In my last post I showed you Alexander St. Clare, the hero of Discovering Miss Dalrymple, finding his father’s diaries hidden in a secret compartment in a desk. This time I’d like to take you a little further…

Alexander flicked through one of the diaries. There was an inscription on the first page: Leonard Aubrey St. Clare, Duke of Vickery. And underneath that: To be burned in the event of my death.

Alexander had a flash of memory so strong that he almost smelled his father’s deathbed—the camphor, the lavender, the beeswax candles. For a fleeting moment he could have sworn he felt his father’s hand in his: the cooling skin, the lifeless fingers. His throat closed. He needed to blink a few times, and then he gathered up the diaries and crossed to the hearth. A fire was laid there, but not lit.

He kindled the fire, watched the flames take hold—and found himself unable to burn the diaries. His father had been dead for two years, but this felt like a second burial; these pages held his father’s thoughts and emotions and experiences.

Alexander examined the diaries. The calfskin was scuffed in places, shiny in others, worn by his father’s hands. What could it hurt to read one entry? The day of his birth, nothing more. An entry that bound him to his father. And then he’d burn the diaries and lay the old man to rest again.

Okay, hands up everyone who thinks he’ll read more than one entry?

Here's a picture of Alexander thumbing through the diaries...



[Image courtesy of the Rijksmuseum collection of public domain images.]

Discovering Miss Dalrymple comes out today, and I’d like to share another glimpse of the hero with you.

Alexander St. Clare might be a duke, but a very un-duke-like and awful thing happened to him when he was very young. And now that he’s found his father’s diaries, he gets to witness that part of his childhood through his father’s eyes.

Alexander drained the brandy glass, put it to one side, and picked up the diaries again. There was a hard, sick knot in his stomach. He found 1789. Found May. Found June.

He turned the pages reluctantly. June 8. June 14. His throat was tight, his shoulders were tight, his chest was tight. He forced himself to inhale, to exhale, to turn the page.

June 20, 1789. An express from Kent. Alexander is missing. The nurserymaids took him into the woods for a picnic and he was abducted by gypsies.

Alexander’s heart was beating too fast. There was sweat on his upper lip. He wiped it away and turned the page and read of his father’s hasty journey to Kent, read of men searching the woods and scouring the nearby villages. I’ve dismissed the nurserymaids, his father had written. How dare they take Alexander into the woods without my permission? And then an anguished: Where is my son?

Alexander thumbed hastily through the next few months, skipping over the details: the advertisements in the newspapers, the posters and the flyers, the search widening beyond Kent into Sussex, into London, into Hampshire.

November, December, January. And there it was:

February 14, 1790. An express from Exeter. One of my men thinks he’s found Alexander in the employ of a chimney sweep.

So, yes, this duke has been a chimney sweep’s climbing boy. It's not a secret--everyone in the ton knows what happened to him--but there is a secret buried in Alexander’s past, and it will tip his world upside down.

Fortunately his childhood friend, Georgiana Dalrymple, is on hand to help him!