When I arrive in good time for today’s ball, a footman directs me to the garden. I’ve occasionally snuck out during a soiree, but I haven’t had the chance to examine it in daylight. As I expect, it’s delightful. A couple of important scenes in my next book, The Ruin of A Rogue, take place in the garden of a London house but that of Beaufetheringstone House is much lovelier. Of course in helps that it’s May and not November. Still, for some things temperature isn’t important. As my hero Marcus Lithgow says, “For a rogue like me, there’s only one thing to be done with a pretty girl in a garden.”

It’s a gorgeous spring day. Lilacs and honeysuckle are heaped with flowers, drowning the London stench with the most delicious odor. A flagstone path winds through beds already aglow with spring blooms, and the first roses are in bud. Espaliered pears trees line a sunny wall. At the far end sits a miniature temple sits beneath a flowering tree.

“Good afternoon, Miss Neville.” Lady B is dressed in quite utilitarian fashion, a massive blue linen apron covering her gown and a lair of leather gloves like gauntlets reaching almost to her elbows. She wields a pair of shears that make me hesitate to get too near.

“I was admiring your garden, Lady B. You look busy. I hope you won’t think me impertinent if I say I am surprised to see you engage in any kind of domestic activity.”

“You are often impertinent, Miss Neville, and I choose to ignore it. [Completely untrue].”

“What are you doing with those?”

“What else would I be doing with pruning shears? I am pruning, of course.”

I notice a pile of branches on the ground next to a large rose bush. “Is it the right time of year to prune roses?”

“Growth follows the knife. Or in my case the shears.:

I am definitely not foolhardy enough to get into an argument with an armed peeress. “Will you give me a guided tour? I see a couple of statues in the corner. I recognize the parrot, of course.”

“Lord B had a statue of Albert made for my birthday a few years ago.”

With an almighty squawk Albert flies down from a tree and lands on his own head. “The sculpture is bigger than the original.”

“The size reflects Albert’s place in my affections. That is Sausage.” She points at the stone figure of a rather handsome dog.

“Sausage?” It’s not a dachsund.

“Lord B’s favorite hound.” She glances up at an upper window and waves. I spin around, hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive one but no luck. Of course.

“How did he come to have such a strange name.”

Lady B blushes. “It’s a private matter between myself and Lord B.”

Oh-kay. I quickly turn to the biggest pot of geraniums I’ve ever seen. “That is an extraordinary plant. How does it come to be so big?”

Lady B look a little worried. “I’m not sure. And the smell …”

Rashly I draw near and am nearly thrown backwards by an indefinable and quite unpleasant odor. “Whatever it is, it’s a brilliant fertilizer. Shall we hold our noses and investigate? Perhaps we could patent it.”

Lady B hands me a trowel, pulled from the capacious pocket of her apron. Gingerly I poke around in the soil around the roots of the geranium and discover

I love London gardens so I’ve provided a few pictures, none of them exactly like Beaufetheringstone House. When you’ve finished guessing the nature of Lady B’s Regency Miracle-Gro, tell us what’s blooming in your garden or window box now.

Limecello!

Congrats, Lime – you’ve won a copy of Anna Cowan’s UNTAMED!

Thanks so much again to Anna for joining us yesterday, and to everyone who commented!

ETA: For some reason, I had the wrong idea in my head that UNTAMED doesn’t come out until May 15th, and that’s what I wrote in yesterday’s post – but it’s already available today!  Huzzah! Sorry for the mixup – I corrected the previous post.

In college I spent hours browsing: bookstores, CD stores, clothing, food markets. If there was a place to wander and browse, I was there. As a result, I stumbled on influences I might have never found otherwise. The way things looked grabbed me. From Carole Maso’s The American Woman in the Chinese Hat to Milla Jovovich’s album The Divine Comedy, I picked things up that caught my eye.

The American Woman in the Chinese Hat by Carole Maso

These days, most of my shopping is done online. After a couple years of wildly searching the net for anything of interest, (Apologies to Lady B for all this talk of Modern Things Crazy Authoresses Discuss) I very rarely browse anymore. I have an idea of what I want and any search I do is extremely narrow. Naturally this limits the chance for pushing the boundaries of my experience.

Which is one of the reasons I love driving up north to San Francisco every few months. My husband and I realized on our most recent trip, that we spend a good portion of our time wandering around bookstores and finding books we would never have found if they weren’t in a physically easy to browse situation. And better yet, bookstores such as City Lights in North Beach and Moe’s in Berkeley aren’t limited as much to the big bookstore chain focus on new releases. (Not that there are many big bookstores around anymore anyway.)

This last weekend I walked away with Joseph Kanon’s Istanbul Passage, which only released in 2012 but likely would have never shown up in my Amazon recommends lists. I’m loving it!

How about you? How do you discover new books outside your usual realm?

I enter the ballroom with my usual sense of trepidation.  Lady B does not summon one to her side without a reason, usually associated with scolding.  And I have done plenty of late worthy of being scolded.  A canal in my rooms, throwing a Carnival ball behind her back, insinuating in writing that Lady B turned Albert into a hat…  Albert had to fly home immediately from his holiday in Majorica to put things to right.  Neither he nor Lady B would speak to me for a week after that.

So, yes, trepidation.  But when I emerge into the ballroom, Lady B greets me with a relieved, “Thank goodness!” and pulls me across the room to where I see two of the footmen in the practice of hanging one of her usual celebratory banners.

“Happy Robinson Crusoe Day?”

“I need someone who can look at this banner and tell me if it’s hung properly.  Miss MacLean is proving difficult.”  Lady B indicates where poor Sarah is standing, judiciously hiding behind a book.  I do wonder how she got roped into this.  I know she’s on deadline.

“I was caught up in a bit of writing and didn’t move fast enough,” she shrugs, by way of explanation.

Robinson Crusoe has the best subtitle: The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner: Who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the Coast of America, near the Mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque; Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself. With An Account how he was at last as strangely deliver’d by Pirates

“But why are we celebrating Robinson Crusoe?” I ask Lady B.

“Because this is the day that glorious tome was published!” Lady B’s eyes gleam with pride up at the (slightly crooked) banner.

I shoot a look to Sarah.  “Yes,” I venture, “but why?”

“Because she couldn’t think of anything else.” Sarah replies drolly.

I nod sagely.  I know the feeling.

“A tart tongue does not become a lady, Miss MacLean.  Even a lady author.”  Lady B sticks her nose up in the air.  “And as every good party needs a theme, why not Robinson Crusoe?  Why it is an elegant tale of… er, a romance?  Yes a romance.  Between a Mr. Crusoe and –”

“The island he is shipwrecked upon for twenty-eight years?”  I venture.  The look on Lady B’s face tells me she hadn’t read it.

“Really?” she asks sadly.

“There are cannibals.” Sarah offers dolefully.

“But also a parrot!  I think.”  At least Albert preens a little at that.  I may be forgiven for my previous slight before the year is up.

“Well, does he at least meet a young woman with whom to fall in love?  Who doesn’t try to eat him, that is.”  Lady B asks.

Sarah and I look at each other.  How to tell Lady B that poor Mr. Crusoe is cast-away, and the only romances he would have engaged in were of the self variety?

Luckily we do not have to.  Lady B simply sighs, and puts her hands on her hips.  “Well then, Miss MacLean, this was your idea… what are our alternatives?”

“It was your idea?”  I whisper to Sarah, crossing the room to join her.

“Idea? No.” Sarah answers.  “Fault.  Yes.”

Then, she shows me her book.  Or rather, I should say, her iPad, hidden in the folds of a book.  All the better to not confuse poor 19^th century Lady B with.  “She needed an idea for a party theme.  She was about to accost poor Monty, but he’s been ducking her ever since she started talking about the family genealogy and his prospects for a proper bride, so I…”

“You found out something that happened today on the internet as a possible theme,” I conclude.  “Well, let’s see what else we can find…”

I begin flipping through web pages.

“What about Shakespeare?  It was his birthday – and anniversary of his death – on Tuesday.  Now, Shakespeare could create some romance!  Although it usually ended in death or cross-dressing,” I try.

“Hmm, a possibility… What else happened this week in history?” Lady B crosses over to us, but Sarah and I keep the iPad out of her line of sight.

I quickly scroll down some more websites. “Er… something about King Brian of Ireland being murdered?  Not exactly conductive to an amorous atmosphere. The Tea Act was introduced in Parliament!  Although that did not end well for the British side of things.  Something more fun…Oh, Studio 54 opened?  No, no — far too late an event…”

“Studio 54?” Lady B’s ears perked up.  “Is that some kind of artists’ garret?  A place for those struck by a muse to explore their creativity?”

“Er… sort of.”

“Well, then.  That’s a wealth of choices.  Which one do you think it should be Miss Noble?”

Indeed, which historical event should be the theme of Lady B’s ball tonight?  Shakespeare’s Life?  Studio 54?  Or should we just stick with Robinson Crusoe?  After all, the banner’s already hanging, if a little lopsided. 

If you’ve read more than about one Regency-era romance, chances are you’ve come across a special license. You see there was this pesky law by which marriages couldn’t take place in England without the banns being published in the resident parishes of both bride and bridegroom three Sundays in a row. In addition, marriages had to take place in church and before noon. This is damnably inconvenient for the writer who wants her couple wed quickly and who doesn’t want the trouble of sending them all the way to Scotland where the laws were less restrictive

Doctors Commons in the early 19th century

Luckily for our desperate heroes (isn’t it always the hero who’s in a hurry?), there was a way out. You could apply to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head cleric of the Church of England, for a Special License which allowed a marriage to take place anywhere and at any hour without a waiting period. This useful document was obtained from the Archbishop’s London offices at Doctors Commons in the City of London.

A few years ago I became frustrated by the fact that I didn’t know what a special license looked like. I couldn’t find a picture on line, or even the text. So during a trip to London I went to the source. Doctors Commons was demolished during the 19th century but the Archbishop has a nice little London pad at Lambeth Palace, just across the River Thames from Westminster.

I imagined a printed form in which the names were inserted, but I was wrong about that. The Lambeth Palace Library possessed no “blank” licenses, only a few dozen completed ones for marriages that had been performed in the Palace chapel.

Lambeth Palace

A license was handwritten on parchment approximately 18 inches wide by 12 inches high, quite an impressive document. All the couple of dozen I saw (dated between 1754 and 1806) looked much the same. In a couple of instances the names of the parties were written in different handwriting from the text (which was boilerplate, scarcely varying by a word) as though a clerk had prepared a blank license when he had nothing better to do. More often the document had been written all at once, not something that could be dashed off in ten minutes.

A license was signed by the “Register” and finished with the Archbishop’s seal, hanging from a ribbon or string  looped through holes in the parchment.

The men are described as either widower or bachelor, the women as widow or spinster. In the case of a spinster, the name of her father is given, for a widow, her late husband’s. For the man the father is recorded if he’s a peer or someone else notable. As you can see by the list of titles for the bridegroom in the following license, they seemed to like to make the whole business seem important.

Here is the text of a typical license, that for the 1806 marriage of Prince Bariatinsky to Lord Sherborne’s daughter. There is absolutely no punctuation and, yes, the word “Honorable” is spelled in what we would call the American way.

Charles by Divine Providence Archbishop of Canterbury Primate of all England and Metropolitan by Authority of Parliament lawfully empowered for the purposes herein written To our beloved in Christ John Prince Bariatinsky of Russia privy counselor to the Emperor of Russia Chamberlain and Knight of the Military Order of St. George and also Knight of Malta now of Sackville Street London a Bachelor and the Honorable [sic] Frances Mary Dutton of Sherborne in the County of Gloucester a Spinster daughter of the Right Honorable James Dutton Baron Sherborne Wheareas As it is alleged ye have proposed to proceed to the solemnization of a true pure and lawful Marriage Earnestly desiring the same to be solemnized with all the speed that may be that since your reasonable desires may the more readily take due effect We for certain causes as thereunto especially moving do so far as in us lies and the Laws of this Nation allow by these presents Graciously give and grant our License and Faculty as well to you the parties contracting as to all Christian People willing to be present at the solemnization of the said Marriage to Celebrate and Solemnize such Marriage between you the said contracting parties at any time and in any church or chapel or other meet and convenient place by any Bishop of this Realm or by the Rector Vicar Curate or Chaplain of such Church or Chapel or by any other Minister in Holy Orders of the Church of England Provided there be no lawful Let or Impediment to hinder the said Marriage Given under the seal of our office of Faculties at Doctors Commons this twenty first day of April in the year of Our Lord One Thousand eight hundred and six and in the second year of Our Translation.

I wish I had a picture, but I had no smart phone back then. Also, the library was very strict with scary Anglican librarians who were polite but firm.  They only let me look at one document at a time and I was too intimidated to ask for a photocopy.

 Since a special license allowed a marriage to take place at any time or in any place, where would you like to see our Regency couple tie the knot?

The paper ribbons are festooning.  The heavy red drapes hang with languor, while brass chandeliers dance next to Tintorettos.  The entire ballroom is packed with people in costumes and masks, creating a delicious air of mystery.  I grin to myself, underneath my mask.  I’ve done it.  And I actually got away with it.

“Miss Noble!” I hear the familiar outrage with my usual guilt.

I turn – Lady B bustles her way through the crowd, tearing off people’s masks, looking for the culprit of today’s injury.

I decide to cut to the chase, and un-mask myself, saving untold characters ruthless unmasking.  Most of them only speak Italian anyway, and are already pretty alarmed to find themselves in a ballroom in London.

“Lady B!”  I cry, painting a smile on my face. “What do you think?  Isn’t it glorious?”

It’s all a little Kubrick

“Miss Noble – you have transposed my beautiful, elegant ballroom into a… a…”

“A beautiful, mysterious ballroom?”

“A DEN OF INIQUITY!”

“It’s not a den of iniquity!” I protest. “I know, it looks a little Eyes Wide Shut, but these Venetian Carnival masks long pre-date Kubrick.”

Lady B blinks at me, and tactfully glazes over my non-period appropriate references.

“It’s just all so… so…”

“Italian?”

We both turn, and I can’t help a relieved sigh.  “Oliver.  Thank goodness you’re here.”

Oliver Merrick, his laughing light eyes a contrast to his silky dark hair and tan (well, of course he’s tan, he’s been in Venice for five years).  I have never been so happy to see one of my fictional characters in my life.  If anyone can smooth Lady B’s ruffled feathers (the plume sticking out of her turban today looks suspiciously like one of Albert’s feathers.  And I suddenly realize just how long it’s been since I’ve seen Albert), it’s Oliver.

“My Lady,” he says with polished grace, bowing over Lady B’s hand.  “And my author,” he winks at me before bowing over mine.  “How can I be of service?”

“Erm, Lady B is a bit thrown by the décor for tonight’s ball… the one celebrating the release of Let It Be Me?”

Oliver nods, understanding my predicament.  He moves gallantly to Lady B’s side, and offers her his arm.

“As well she should be.” Oliver chides.  “The hostess of the ball not having any say over the decorations?”

“Oh, Mr. Merrick,” Lady B trills.  “I’m so glad someone understands.”

This is Bridget. She wasn’t thrown under the gondola.

My brow comes down.  I didn’t think Oliver would smooth ruffled feathers by throwing me under the bus.  Or the gondola, as it were.

“Of course.   An Italian masked ball must be terribly surprising to someone of your faint sensibilities.”

“Faint?  Faint?” Lady B stands up straight.  “I assure you I never faint. I am made of much sturdier stuff.  Good British stock.”

“Then how could a few masks and a bit of drapery ever offend you?”

“They don’t!” Lady B contends.  I smile to myself.  Trust Oliver to figure out Lady B’s weak spot and know how to use it.  As the owner of a theatre, Oliver is adept at handling problems.  And egos.

“I assure you they do not,” Lady B demurred, not wanting to be thought of as stuffy or fainting.  “Drapery would have to work very hard to offend me.”

“I should think so!” Oliver chuckled.  “Would you like to meet someone who will not have to work hard at all to offend you?”

“Absolutely,” Lady B smiles, and leans even more heavily on Oliver.  I should have seen this coming, of course.  Oliver does have some very nice legs.

He takes Lady B to the railing of the balcony, offering her a view of the dance floor below.

“Oh my – who is that?”  Lady B points to a figure holding court at the center of the room.  Even with his mask and harlequin costume, I knew exactly who it was.

“That is my friend Vincenzo Carpenini,” Oliver whispered in Lady B’s ear.  “The composer.  He excels at making trouble.”

“And one assumes he also makes music.”  Lady B returned.  “And who is that – the young lady in the green dress playing the piano?  She’s quite good.”

“Yes, she is.” I can hear the hitch in Oliver’s voice.  The way he leaned forward ever so slightly, to listen to the notes from the pianoforte, spoke volumes.

“That is Bridget Forrester,” Oliver breathes.  “Carpenini’s pupil.  And she…. she is music.”

Lady B sends me a smirk.  Yeah, she clocked his interest too.

“But tell me, Mr. Merrick,” Lady B says.  “If this is an Italian ball – why is Miss Forrester playing Beethoven?”

Oliver gives me a quick glance.  “Well, for that answer, it might be simpler to just read the book.”

I’m so excited that come Tuesday, Let It Be Me will be here! (Obviously, since I threw a Venetian Carnival masquerade in its honor.)  Tell me – what’s your costume to the ball? (by the way I’ve decided to be a 18^th century shepherdess.  I borrowed it from Lady B.)  I’m giving away a copy of Let It Be Me to one lucky commenter!

(oh, and for the curious, here’s the book trailer!)

I spent last weekend at the first SoCal RWA California Dreamin’ writers’ conference – and conferences are quite the place for inspiration!  In between the seeing old friends and making new ones, the speeches, the workshops and the discussion groups… they feed us a decent lunch.  And it was at one of these decent lunches, that The Ballroom’s own Tessa Dare spouted this bit of infallible wisdom:

“If you ever need to punch up a scene, make one or both of your characters wet.  It automatically makes them vulnerable.” 

(Tessa, you’ll have to forgive me for paraphrasing, but I think I remembered the gist of it.)

And as by the clips below you’ll see it’s true!  Water has the most amazing way of forcing characters to be looser, or to be more open, or to be sillier.*

*note: I’m excluding hanky-panky-in-the-pool scenes from this list.  Yes, I know Neve Campbell and Denise Richards making out is hot, but there are a million of those types of scenes and rarely do they expose anything about character except use of silicone as a flotation device.

For instance, perennial holiday favorite It’s a Wonderful Life –

Now, after Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed fall into the pool, they walk home entirely disheveled and lasso the moon, and Donna Reed gets stuck naked in some shrubbery.  Do you think their walk home would have been so filled with laughter if they hadn’t been messy and damp?  Do you think those first few moments of falling in love would have happened?  Or would Jimmy Stewart have just dropped her off on her doorstep with a handshake and gone back to college?

But what about something that’s not a first act integral plot moment? What about a moment that would occur, wet or not?

At the end Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly Golightly is in an alley calling for the cat she just tried to give up, because she’s not tied to things or people except she is tied to things and people and she just realized it.  She wants her cat back, and George Peppard is there and they make out.  And find the cat.

Now, imagine this scene without the rain.  Completely different tone for the characters, right?

And of course, there is the classic example we all watched and rewatched… and rewatched.  And rewatched.  Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy meeting Elizabeth Bennet on the grounds of Pemberley after he happened to take a little non-skinny dip in his personal pond.

But it didn’t happen that way in the book.  When Darcy comes across Elizabeth, he’s disheveled from his ride, but nowhere does Jane Austen write the words “He emerged dripping wet, droplets glistening off his thick dark hair…” (and trust me, I looked.)

However, the idea of Darcy being wet (aka, being put in a position of vulnerability) in this scene obviously struck a chord, so much so that the most inspired moment in Lost In Austen is a parody of it, of sorts.

I too, have fallen prey to the lure of character and physique-revealing water — one of my novels The Summer of You takes place in England’s Lake District — and plenty happens in, around, and because of water.

So what do you think?  What’s your favorite wet-scene?  And how is it improved by water?

The story of how Frankenstein came to be is one of those that illustrate the romance of a creative community. I love to think about the artistic dialogue exchanged between people like Chopin and Liszt or Hemmingway and Dos Passos.

One of my biggest inspirations is hanging out with other writers. I love the creative surge that comes from sharing ideas and discussing stories and characters. Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen often enough!

However, inspiration doesn’t just come from discussions with other writers, it also comes from interactions with anyone who has an opinion on art.

In that vein, The Ballroom Blog is a bit of nonstop inspiration. I’m surrounded by fabulous authors and fabulous ballroom regulars, writers and readers alike, who fill Lady B’s with fabulous energy. (Lady B’s is clearly full of fabulousness!) So today’s post is a thank you to all of you who help refill the creative glass every day!

And just for fun, I’ll leave you all with a clip of the beginning of Gothic. After all, we don’t really need any excuse for a movie with Julian Sands.

Among the (many) challenges of writing historicals, is the lack of photographs. What did people really look like? Our best sources are portraits and, let’s face it, they can look strange and unattractive to modern eyes.

The painter’s art can also come into a story, evoking emotions or providing a plot point: a miniature of an absent loved one or a portrait of a parent, perhaps. Remember when Elizabeth visits Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice?

Darcy’s portrait is a definite “moment,” a turning point in her view of him.

Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her–and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.

I’ve been thinking about another book. Not, mind you, the book I’m actually writing. Heaven forbid! I’m chasing plot bunnies for a book to be named (and hopefully written) later. I have this idea about a man falling in love with the portrait of an unknown lady and I’ve been looking for inspiration. Here are some of the candidates I’ve found.

Fragonard

Boucher

Reynolds

Romney – this is the famous portrait of Emma Hart who became notorious as Nelson’s lover Lady Hamilton

Which lady do you like? Can you imagine one of them inspiring a grand passion?

Greetings from the Caribbean!

I’m here in the sand and sun in the spanking new Republic of Haiti. I’ve got a glass of rum in my hand and my hat off and the tropical breeze is ruffling the page I write this letter on. I’m trying to get a little sun in my hair as I write, but Penny keeps pushing the hat back on me, the dear girl. But she’s stealing so many surreptitious glances at Captain Frye that her efforts at saving my complexion are kind of half-hearted. (For the record: she’d be sunburned by now if our positions were reversed.)

We’re docked for the sennight at Môle Saint-Nicolas, known in the eighteenth century as the Gibraltar of the Antilles. It’s a really impressive spot: a port on a strait between Cuba and Haiti through which ships must pass in order to sail to Central America. The peninsula is marvelously fortified, and right beyond it is a huge crescent bay in which you could hide an entire fleet (if you had a fleet to hide, which of course Britain did in this era, including the HMS Victory, former command of the hero of the first book in my new Prince Catchers series, I Married the Duke, Luc Westfall, whom you lovelies helped create!)

Dramatically beautiful Môle Saint-Nicolas, Haiti.

Later in the 19^th century, some years after Lady B’s time [it's hard to imagine, I know!], Haiti was a globally strategic location for another reason. Every place else in the Caribbean except Haiti and the Dominican Republic were European colonies. Now, once everybody started using steamships [fools, all of them! didn't they know how wonderful tall ships were?!], vessels passing from North America to trade in Central America needed coal stations for refueling. So the U.S. started looking for spots to do that everywhere on the route, and they chose Môle Saint-Nicolas. The U.S. tried to pressure Haiti into leasing it to them, going so far as to send the great African-American abolitionist Frederick Douglas to negotiate terms.

Frederick Douglas, escapee from slavery and subsequent famous American abolitionist

The Haitians were amenable; they were savvy businessmen like everybody else on the high seas back then. But just to be sure, the U.S. demanded that Haiti promise not to lease any other part of their island to any other country.

Well, the Haitians didn’t like that. Not one little bit. Some years back, the slaves of the French colony Saint-Domingue had risen up in arms, and in the only successful slave revolt in history those revolutionaries created a nation. So, you see, the descendents of those folks weren’t too keen on letting another nation dictate what they could or couldn’t do with even a square foot of their land. It violated their sovereign rights.

So the U.S. sent over a handful of big old warships to sit in the harbor and put a bit of pressure on the Haitians to agree to their terms.

But the Haitian ambassador in Washington had been carefully analyzing the situation. He sent the Foreign Minister on the island a secret message telling him not to worry about the warships, that the Americans were bluffing. The Foreign Minister turned down the U.S. offer, and the warships turned around and disappeared. It came to be known famously as the only time in history that one man’s signature had defeated an entire navy.

Surf’s up!

The U.S. was still desperate for a coal stopover on the way to Central America, though. So it invaded Cuba instead, snatched up Guantanamo Bay, and secured it with a perpetual lease. We’ve had it ever since.

And there you have it, a little inspiring history about my first stop on my journey around the world!

Oh, if you’re wondering how I know this nifty history, I have beside me on my beach blanket two great reads. Paul Clammer is an English adventure-travel guide writer and his brand new Bradt Travel Guide: Haiti is the first travel guide written about this nation in twenty-five years. The other book [commence bragging] is my own handsome and brilliant husband’s Haiti: The Aftershocks of History, which just so happens to have been on the top of the New York Times Book Review’s recommended paperbacks list last Sunday.

Inspired by Haitian history (tho, it’s true, the priest part was all my idea)

Years ago my dh wrote another book on Haiti, specifically about the Revolution, which of course was especially inspiring to me. Who knows, maybe this great nation will find its way into my Prince Catchers series. We shall see!

Okay, wait just a second. Penny is now at the water’s edge lifting her petticoats to dip her feet into the waves. And I think I just spied Captain Frye ogling her ankles.

This is getting interesting . . .

See you all on my next stop. Happy sailing, lovelies!

What little known tidbit of history do you especially love to tell?