By Anna Belfrage
It is 1718 and Duncan Melville and his time traveller wife, Erin, are concentrating on building a peaceful existence for themselves and their twin daughters. Difficult to do, when they are beleaguered by enemies.
Erin Melville is not about to stand to the side and watch as a child is abused—which is how she makes deadly enemies of Hyland Nelson and his family.
Then there’s that ghost from their past, Armand Joseph Chardon, a person they were certain was dead. Apparently not. Monsieur Chardon wants revenge and his sons are tasked with making Duncan—and his wife—pay.
Things aren’t helped by the arrival of Duncan’s cousin, fleeing her abusive husband. Or the reappearance of Nicholas Farrell in their lives, as much of a warped bully now as he was when he almost beat Duncan to death years ago. Plus, their safety is constantly threatened as Erin is a woman of colour in a time and place where that could mean ostracism, enslavement or even death.
Will Duncan and Erin ever achieve their simple wish – to live and love free from fear of those who wish to destroy them?
One book, I’m telling you. ONE! – of writing series
Whenever I start writing a new book, I aim for a stand-alone. When Duncan Melville—whom I’d left behind as a sad ten-year-old in 1696 began making his presence known again, now as an adult man, I thought “okay, I’ll give him one book. He deserves some closure, poor guy.”
Ha! I should have learned from my previous mistakes. After all, Duncan saw the light of day in the seventh book of my ten-book series The Graham Saga, the unfortunate consequence of rape.
When The Whirlpools of Time started to take shape in my head, it mainly pivoted round Duncan. I had this feeling that something extraordinary was going to happen to this 18th century lawyer, happily returned to the colonies after years studying in Europe. Then Erin Barnes danced into my head, and she was sort of golden all over and had these gorgeous green eyes, and Duncan rose to his feet, gaping at this apparition. Okay, okay, Duncan was just as much of an apparition, as all of this was taking place inside my head. What can I say? My brain is very fertile ground . . .
“Her,” he said, looking at me (and let’s not get into how he can look at me while being INSIDE my head). I looked her over, noting that she was wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. Oh, dear. Erin, it seemed, was from another time.
“Fix it,” Duncan said, thereby echoing his grandfather. Matthew Graham said the same thing when he, somewhat dour 17th century Scottish Presbyterian, caught sight of Alex Lind in a bright red jacket and worn Converse.
“Hmm, “ I said, because this was when I started suspecting that my one book project could potentially become a—wait for it—a NEW series. “No, no, no,” I muttered, banging my head against my desk. You see, I become totally enthralled by the characters in my series. I suddenly develop this huge need to know everything about them, how their children fare once grown up, where they live, where they die, how they survive all those vile enemies I throw their way. The peeps in my series become family. I love them, I cry with them, they take my emotions hostage and, at some point, comes the moment when I have to wave goodbye to them, and it HURTS. Much, much more than I imagine it hurts if you’ve only written one book about them.
But there I was. In one corner, Duncan Melville who was looking at Erin as if she were his very own personal miracle. In the other, Erin, who was somewhat uncomfortable under Duncan’s intent gaze. “What’s with him?” she whispered, sneaking him a quick look. She liked what she saw, how else to explain all the other quick looks in his direction, or how the tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her lips. “He wants to meet you,” I told her. Erin’s brows rose. “Seriously? But he’s like what? Three hundred years older than me?” Give or take. But at the same time, he is only twenty-nine to her twenty-six. Eri n faded away with a mild snort. Duncan looked as if he was about to die. Well, I couldn’t have that, could I?
Which is why I decided that Duncan had inherited more than DNA from his grandmother Alex. He had also inherited her propensity to fall through time. One massive thunderstorm later, and there was Duncan, confused and injured in Erin’s time.
At the time, I was still insisting on a one book story. I was also quite convinced the story would play out in contemporary time, with Duncan being the shell-shocked time traveller. Thing is, I love writing about the past. And then there was that unfortunate artifact that Erin’s father had found, and wham!, Erin and Duncan were now in 1715.
Halfway through writing The Whirlpools of Time I knew there’d be at least one more book. Why? Because I’d realised just what an infected issue it was that Erin was a woman of colour. In The Whirlpools of Time, Erin and Duncan are mostly in Scotland and England, and while there were many preconceived notions about people of colour there—and a lot of gawking, because many had never seen someone as exotically beautiful as Erin—the true pain point would not arise until they were back on American soil.
I hesitated, though. I’d never set out to explore the issues of racial discrimination in Colonial America—it is a sensitive subject. But Erin was indubitably a woman of colour, and in The Whirlpools of Time I had them settling in Pennsylvania, hoping for some much required peace and quiet after what I’d just put them through.
As anyone who reads Times of Turmoil will realise, there is no peace and quiet to be found in Pennsylvania. Especially not for a woman of colour who is married to a white man. Not when the colony is already preparing to implement anti-miscegenation laws, thereby prohibiting any interracial relationships.
Halfway through Times of Turmoil, I capitulated again: Duncan and Erin need at least one more book, because I can’t leave them to sort out their lives without me. Not when the looming legislation effectively robs them of their home. What I hadn’t counted on was that the next book, apparently, will take us to Russia. Yet another instance of exclaiming “no, no, no!” while banging my head on my desk. I know nothing of Russia in the 1720s!
“Pfffff! You’ll manage,” Erin says, looking nice and warm in a heavy fur coat and a huge fur hat. “Look, that must be Kronstadt over there!” “Amazing,” Duncan says, coming to stand beside her. He too is in furs, his exhalations little clouds in the freezing cold. Me, I’m in my PJs, so excuse me if for now I duck the issue of Kronstadt and St Petersburg in the winter of 1720/21. But I know—Erin and Duncan know—that I won’t be able to resist the lure for long.
I am still hoping that one day I will actually write a one-book story. One day. But then I hear Erin laughing at something Duncan is saying, and I can’t help but smile at them, just as I smile at Alex and Matthew, Kit and Adam, Robert and Noor, Jason and Helle. My lovely, imaginary extended family. How much poorer my life would be without them—even if they keep me burning the midnight oil to find out just what happens next!
Thank you for hosting Anna Belfrage with such a fascinating guest post.
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The Coffee Pot Book Club
Thank you for inviting me to visit!
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