The Plot Twist I Didn’t See Coming

I thought this April would be about my upcoming book, The Queen of Bushy House. It turned out to be about loss.

Before everything changed, I had been thinking about beginnings – specifically, how The Queen of Bushy House first came to be.

I first learned of Dorothea Jordan and Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen at a Bushy House open day. The story was intriguing: a relationship between a famous actress and a future king that ended badly, and the young princess who stepped into Dorothea’s place just a few years later. But I didn’t see it as a book idea. I was more interested in the twentieth century and knew little about the Georgians, so I hadn’t really considered writing their story.

A few months later, my mom came to visit. We walked through Bushy Park on a wintry day, passing the house where Dorothea and Adelaide had once lived. I told her about them – two women who had never met, yet were bound together through one man, William, Duke of Clarence. She listened as we tromped through muddy paths, past the bare skeletons of gnarled oaks and silvery birch, doing our best to avoid the herds of deer.

As we neared the gate out of the park, she said, “Why don’t you write about them?”

Why don’t I, indeed? If memory serves, I had been whinging about what to write next – and about the manuscript my publisher had rejected.

When we got home, we looked Dorothea up and found a biography, Mrs Jordan’s Profession by Claire Tomalin.

“I know her books,” my mom said. “She wrote an excellent biography of Dickens. Very readable.”

I ordered a copy. I read it and was entranced by Dorothea – and by the many ways she has been written about and interpreted throughout history. Even now, I suspect she would be judged harshly, despite her many accomplishments.

There is much less written about Adelaide. She is a more shadowy figure in the rear-view mirror. Hers is a story shaped by heartbreak and the pressure to produce an heir. She was universally liked – I don’t think I came across a single ill word written about her.

They are two very different women.

Yet their story feels strikingly modern.

Dorothea juggled the demands of her profession and her household, reinventing herself after a very public, high-profile break-up, always aware of how quickly popularity can turn.

Adelaide, meanwhile, carried the heavy expectations of her family on her young shoulders and stepped into a deeply complicated situation when she agreed to marry the Duke of Clarence. He was adamant she would treat his children as her own – but, just three years older than his eldest son, she could not possibly have understood what that role would demand of her.

Messy families are certainly not a modern invention.

At the heart of The Queen of Bushy House is motherhood, in all its forms. It feels fitting that this book began with my mother posing a simple question: “Why don’t you write about them?”

My mom was an early reader of the manuscript, my biggest cheerleader, and an endless source of encouragement when I chose to self-publish. It felt like an obvious choice to dedicate the book to her.

When I wrote the dedication a couple of months ago, I did not realise that she would never hold the book in her hands. After nearly a year of battling cancer, she died in early April.

After weeks of grief and practicalities, I now return to Dorothea and Adelaide’s story. My mom is on my shoulder, urging me on.

The next steps are coming soon. I only wish she were here to see them – but I think she’d be proud of what’s to come.

I’ll be sharing the cover in the next few weeks. If you’d like to follow along, you can subscribe on Substack for updates.

Birthing a Book Baby

It always starts with the fun part. No, not that … this isn’t that sort of blog.

The fun begins with research: searching for possibility, for the kernel of an engaging tale. It means throwing myself into a new story and falling in love with beguiling characters. And then comes the writing. The fragile opening words, then sentences. Paragraphs become scenes. Scenes grow into chapters.  Like rolling a snowball, it gathers shape and mass.

Once the manuscript is complete, I read it through and ask myself an important question:  is she the one? Perhaps I pass her to a reader or two. Do I love her enough to devote many hours for editing, trimming, developing and sharpening?

Yes.  She is a keeper.

And so, I persist with it shaping and forming. Growing.

I bring an editor on board. Gather feedback. Back to the keyboard I go – trimming, adding, re-arranging. Cut. Cut. Cut.

Now she is truly beautiful:   a fully formed, polished work – dare I say – of art.

I send her out on submission to literary agents – tailored queries and opening chapters dispatched to a carefully curated list of would-be shepherds. Fifty per cent return bearing courteous rejections. The others simply vanish, lost at sea.

Undeterred, I submit her to a few competitions. To my absolute joy, she gets shortlisted for the Historical Novel Society First Chapters Competition in 2024. Surely this will help her catch an agent’s eye.

Inexplicably, I repeat that unpleasant submission cycle THREE times. (With further manuscript revisions between rounds.)

YEARS pass. It is, frankly, absolute insanity.

Eventually, I pick her up – perhaps for one last time – and read. Do I still love her? Does she deserve her place in the world? Shall I shepherd her myself?

The answer is yes, gentle readers. 

I will be self-publishing The Queen of Bushy House in the autumn.  This story is set in my local area, Teddington, and draws upon the true story of two remarkable women:  Dorothea Jordan and Queen Adelaide. They never met in life but are inextricably intertwined. This is a tale of love, loss, betrayal and longing for acceptance – with themes of motherhood and female friendship woven throughout.

In the meantime, I thought it would be rather nice to revive this blog. And I am making the move to Substack. Shall I start introducing my cast characters?  Maybe a sneak peek at the opening chapter? Perhaps a few posts about the self-publishing process? What would you like to hear about?

Please do subscribe to my substack to get regular updates delivered directly to your inbox.

On Patriot and Protest

I have long been a fan of Alexei Navalny.  I love his wit and sharp, wonderfully Russian sense of humour. I admire his dedication and determination.  And, let’s face it, he’s easy on the eye.

                  I have followed his career from a distance, reading social media posts and watching his YouTube investigations. He is magnetic.  He draws people in and inspires them into action. And this makes him a very dangerous individual.

          I write about him in the present tense, even though he is several months dead. Having just finished reading his memoir, Patriot, he seems very much alive. At least to me.

           I remember back in 2011, when he led a march in Moscow against the corruption in elections. He was just beginning to raise his profile. I called my friend in Moscow to see what she thought about the action but she did not share my enthusiasm. As I recall she dismissed him off hand. “He’ll be a crook too. They’re all the same. Better the devil you know.” I could imagine the shrug on the other side of the line. And in time, when he was convicted for fraud and embezzlement and who knows what else, she took that as evidence of her position.

            At first, I was hesitant to read Patriot. I already knew him well – what else could this book possibly offer me? I was wrong.  Patriot is superb. It’s at time capsule that takes the reader back to his early childhood growing up in closed military towns and spending his summers on a farm with his grandmother in Zalissia, Ukraine. It follows a young man coming of age just when his country crumbles apart. I was struck by how quickly I had forgotten that his movement against corruption had significant momentum – not just in Moscow and St. Petersburg – but across Russia.  It seems an incredibly long time ago.

            He had always imagined writing a memoir in his old age, but then it became clear that he was not in a position to put things off for the future. He started writing while he was in Germany convalescing from Novichok poisoning. Much of the book is written contemporaneously. It’s harrowing stuff. And yet impossibly funny. It is all very Navalny.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I participated in the March for Clean Water protest in London. Water.  What could be more basic? The legacy of Thatcher’s privatisation of the water companies has led to chronic lack of investment in our water utilities. Our Victorian infrastructure is failing.  To put it bluntly, we – and helpless wildlife – are swimming in poo.

Around the time of the march, I was midway through Patriot, so Navalny was ever-present in my thoughts. It may sound corny, but I felt he was with us as we marched along the Thames, across Westminster bridge and on to Parliament Square. Double decker sightseeing busses drove alongside, filled with tourists snapping pictures of us.

This is what democracy looks like.

I had no fear of arrest or being barred from exercising my right to protest. We would not suffer retribution next week. The tax authorities would not suddenly be interested in our affairs. How many of the tourists on those busses would say the same? How exotic was our display?

A few short days later, democracy has never seemed bleaker. The next four years make my stomach tumble with queasy dread. I vacillate between complete certainty that we are all doomed to persuading myself that it’ll be fine. I fear for the planet.

Democracy is messy.  And ugly. The temptation to cover my eyes and ears and ignore it all has never been greater. I have no idea what the future has in-store but one thing is certain – I’ll have to tap into that little bit of Navalny within.