Meet Vivienne Mourdant from Joanna Davidson Politano’s The Lost Melody

October 11, 2022August 19, 2022 ~ Cindy Thomson ~ Leave a comment

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Welcome to Novel PASTimes, Miss Mourdant. Won’t you tell us a little about your performance background?

Of course. I’ve played classical pianoforte since I could stand, learning from my father. I wouldn’t know what it was like to have a day—an hour, even—without music. I rehearse and perform so much that when I lift my hands from the keys, I still hear music playing. I feel the tremble of a beat, I think in terms of measures and tempos. Of rising and falling melody lines.

So is it true that you hear music when none is playing?

Yes, I suppose I’d claim that. But it’s not so much a recognizable composition out of thin air, but a symphony of everyday sounds. My brain is so accustomed to measuring seconds by beats and making patterns out of notes that it naturally filters everything about me into an orderly rhythm that becomes a sort of song. The world sings, and I hear music.

But I suppose you’re talking about the song. The one I used to hear at night as a child. Quite a lovely piece, with the rhythmic calm of Mozart yet the more robust and textured style of Liszt as well. I’ve heard it off and on throughout the years, and even though no one else admits to it, I’d be willing to wager they’ve heard it too. There’s just something enchantingly spooky about the song. Its minor trills, the other-worldly cadence of it… Call it a dream. Call me crazy. I know I’ve heard it, and it has something to do with that woman.

We’ve heard you spent time at a local asylum, possibly as a patient. Is there truth to this?
Vivienne: Very true, but it wasn’t because of hearing that song. Well, not only that. I entered Hurstwell Pauper Lunatic Asylum voluntarily—as an aid. Between you and I, though, the aid position was merely a ruse. You see, I inherited the guardianship of a mysterious woman who, as it turns out, was a patient at Hurstwell. At least, I think so. No one would give me straight answers about her, so I had to see for myself. And I did find out the truth, and I managed to find a bit of music in that creepy old place.

So being a professionally trained classic musician, why did you take work as an aid in the asylum? What good is your profession there?

More than you could imagine, actually. There’s a natural rhythm at the very core of our created bodies—a steady beat in our chest that starts before we’re even born. And music offers an irresistible invitation to engage with it—despite melancholia tugging one down, madness wrapping itself around your mind or age eating away at your memories. No medicine or treatment can reach the places a familiar song can go, sneaking life back into dying bodies and broken hearts. It’s far more than a spa for the senses, though, believe me. There’s a science to it—the way our bodies, our minds, respond to music, almost against our wills, and imagine what might happen if we allowed ourselves to explore the possibilities. A therapy of music—just imagine.

Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady
Jayne Disappears, A Rumored Fortune, Finding Lady Enderly, The
Love Note, and A Midnight Dance. She loves tales that capture the
colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives and is eager to hear
anyone’s story. She lives with her husband and their children in a
house in the woods near Lake Michigan. You can find her online at
http://www.jdpstories.com.

Meet Ella Blythe of A Midnight Dance by Joanna Davidson Politano

September 9, 2021July 7, 2021 ~ Cindy Thomson ~ Leave a comment

We at the London Illustrated have a rare interview today with the elusive Ella Blythe, rising ballet star of the Craven Street Theater who seems to have appeared from nowhere this season, and with a most astonishing style. Let’s see if we can figure out where on earth this mysterious little sylph came from—and why she keeps her secrets so close to the chest.

LI: Miss Blythe, all of London is curious—won’t you tell us the secret to your most unique, breathtaking style of dance? Who is behind your training?

Ella: The style is my own, discovered when I manage to forget myself and my audience. As for my background, I’ve always danced, always trained and prepared. More than I walked, I’m afraid. There’s something about the pure symmetry and order, the perfect elegance of ballet that resonates with my beauty-loving heart. Officially, I was trained by Monsieur Coulon for two years in France, although he would cringe to see the way I dance now—the man is a staunch classicist. I credit him for very little of the style I now use.

LI: The Coulon, of the Paris Opera House? One might wonder how an unknown young woman of no means managed such an appointment. Might I ask where you trained before that, or perhaps who sponsored you?

Ella: From the time I could walk, I was trained by one of the most magnificent dancers ever to grace a European stage. One couldn’t help but fall in love with ballet simply watching her. Crossing the street, for her, could convey more than the finest speech, and with even more eloquence.

LI: Are we to assume she’s an unknown dancer, then, since you’ve not mentioned her name? Perhaps one injured before her prime?

Ella: No, the very problem is that you surely would know her name, and I mustn’t speak it aloud. Not ever.

LI: You sound as if you’re speaking of Craven’s very own ghost dancer—the one who wears the scarlet shoes. It’s been said you once auditioned with those very same shoes. Perhaps there is some connection there?

Ella: Perhaps this interview should end here. I’m rather tired.

LI: I beg your pardon, Miss Blythe. Please, sit back down, and I shall promise to take a new direction. Very well then—there is one other matter burning in the minds of our readers. Have you an understanding with one of the gentleman in the theater? We’ve heard such romantic tales from every direction this season.

Ella: An understanding—horsefeathers! Jack Dorian has been hanging about merely because of a bet—one he’ll never win. He’s the known charmer of the theater, what with that golden hair and almost divine appearance the other dancers find so hard to resist. Unfortunately, he seems to share their opinion, and I cannot abide an arrogant man.

LI: What of the principal? Philippe Rousseau is your equal in many ways, and people are claiming they see something thick and weighty between you—even off the stage.

Ella: (silence.) Philippe is a dark horse. Carries as much mystery as the unnamed dancer who trained me, and very few manage to get close to him, either. He often escorts me home when it’s late, but there’s much he won’t share, and he walks about with the weight of ten thousand unwritten poems behind his eyes. All I can tell you is he’s the truest gentleman I’ve ever met this side of the theater curtain.

LI: This hedging has me quite intrigued. Perhaps I should speak to some of your fellow dancers for their take on the matter…

Ella: You’re bound to get a fairytale. Well then… If you promise to keep the specifics out of your article, I shall tell you one secret concerning Philippe. He doesn’t remember it, but years ago, when I was quite scrawny and innocent, he happened upon me in a forgotten part of the theater and swept me up in the most unexpected dance. He put these enchanted shoes on my feet and we danced—it was my first pas de deux with a real partner, and I believe I fell in love that night—with ballet, that is. That encounter is what brought me back to Craven, too. You see, he promised me that one day we’d dance together on this very stage—he was that certain I’d make something of myself. I suppose his confidence convinced me too, and it became my driving ambition—to prove him right. To dance opposite him once again at Craven. And one day… to thank him for taking the time to pas de deux with a little nobody.

LI: And has it happened? Have you danced with Philippe Rousseau?

Ella: (pause.) Not yet. But the hope of it still fuels my dance. Come back for another season, and perhaps you shall witness it. You may sit in the audience and appreciate what is occurring, even though no one—not even Philippe himself—realizes the significance. Just one more reason to purchase a box for the season and see for yourself what comes of his vow.

Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears,
A Rumored Fortune, Finding Lady Enderly, and The Love Note. She loves tales that
capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives and is eager to hear anyone’s
story. She lives with her husband and their children in a house in the woods near
Lake Michigan. You can find her at www.jdpstories.com.

Interview with The Love Note’s Willa Duvall by Joanna Davidson Politano

October 20, 2020June 16, 2020 ~ Cindy Thomson ~ Leave a comment

Welcome to Novel PASTimes! We are pleased you stopped by today.

I’m honored to speak with you!

We heard you’ve found a love letter in an old desk—what are you going to do with it?

Reunite two lovers, of course. Anyone who writes that way deserves to be united with the person who inspired such words. This is no ordinary love story, and I intend to see it through—as long as it isn’t too late, that is. I cannot bear for the person who wrote that letter to wonder why he or she never responded. It’s been buried in a crack of my old desk for who knows how long, and it’s still sealed. Someone needs to fix it, and the letter’s in my hands, so it falls to me. The world is sorely lacking in authentic love, and I’ve found it in this letter—such love should never go to waste.

You do, however, seem like a rather unlikely candidate. What interest does a medical professional have with family drama and old, broken romances?

There’s no one more perfect to find that letter than me. As a soon-to-be-doctor, I’m in the business of mending. Nothing moves me more than repairing what’s broken, whether its bodies or love stories. Besides—and don’t print this–I’ve turned down four proposals, so I’ve had a bit of experience in love. I may be a scientist, but I’m deeply fascinated by love stories—as long as they’re not my own.

What started you down the path of medicine?

My father serves as a doctor, and I’ve had the opportunity to learn from him and his progressive thinking on medical care. As I’ve grown, I’ve discovered I have a unique combination to bring to the medical world—the education of a man and the keen perception, the warm heart, of a woman. There’s a huge lack in the medical world, and I can help fill it. People are dying who needn’t perish. Every time I think of the lives written off by an overworked doctor or a contaminated hospital, I can think of doing nothing else with my life.

We’ve heard your next assignment is a long-term one at Crestwicke Manor, serving one Golda Gresham. How does this fit into your goals for the future?

Crestwicke is exactly where I need to be. You see, I signed a contract with my father that if I can successfully complete one nursing assignment, he’ll lay off pushing me into a match. He’ll let me pursue a medical degree, as long as I can find a school to take me on. I have agreed to marry the man of his choosing, should I fail. But I never fail.

Then there is my other goal—the love letter. The desk where I found that letter came from Crestwicke, and the manor house is mentioned in the lines. The person who wrote it has to be there, and I will not leave until I find out who it is, and who he or she wrote the letter for.

Lady Gresham has a reputation for being demanding. How can you be so certain of your success?

I have a habit of taking on the impossible, so her reputation does not deter me. I’m a capable practitioner, and I have no reason to believe I cannot resolve her complaints, whatever they may be.

To be honest, I find the letter more of a challenge. There is not a single person at Crestwicke with even a trace of romantic flavoring to them. Who could have written such a letter? How will I ever find the truth? I’ll have to use my medical skills of observation and digging to the heart of a matter to unearth the truth of what went on in that house. Certainly someone there wrote the letter—and someone else earned the writer’s love. If there’s an ounce of authentic love in that house, I’ll find it and fan it into a flame.

What is your biggest fear as you embark on this project?

The same thing I fear in every patient visit—that I’ll fail. I’m afraid of failing those who depend upon me as a doctor, failing to notice or investigate or understand, fail to keep myself out of an obligatory marriage and lose myself in the process. I have so much riding on this assignment, but I’ve had so many cases—what could possibly go wrong?

Thanks for visiting with us today!

Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears, A Rumored Fortune, and Finding Lady Enderly. When she’s not homeschooling her small children, she spends much of her time spinning tales that capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives. She is always on the hunt for random acts of kindness, people willing to share their deepest secrets with a stranger, and hidden stashes of sweets. She lives with her husband and their two children in a house in the woods near Lake Michigan and shares stories that move her at www.jdpstories.com.

A Chat with Raina from Finding Lady Enderly by Joanna Davidson Politano

August 20, 2019March 5, 2019 ~ Cindy Thomson ~ Leave a comment

Name: Raina Bretton

Parents: Poor working class, and now deceased.

Siblings: None living

Places lived: Spitalfields, London; Rothburne Abbey in Somerset

Jobs: Restorer and seller of rags

Friends: Sullivan McKenna, fiddle-playing Irish transplant who’s the son of the local vicar in Spitalfields.

Enemies: Victor Prendergast, solicitor and lady’s maid, Simone (although I’m not sure why we’re enemies)

Dating, marriage: Secretly in love with childhood best friend Sully, Sullivan McKenna

Children: None yet

What person do you most admire? The little old widow who shares my flat. She has more spunk than ten men.

Overall outlook on life: it’s tough, but I’m tougher. Yet there’s a lot of beauty to be found outside these crowded slums, and plenty to appreciate right here, too, if you’ve an eye for it.

Do you like yourself? I’m a restorer of rags, and I cringe at that part of myself, but I’m also a restorer of castoff people. That alone makes a soul worth keeping on this earth, in my opinion.

What, if anything, would you like to change about your life? Anyone could stand to have a bit more coin in her hand. Yet more than that, I secretly wish to be rid of these terrible rags that are a label and a barrier to people seeing the true me. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’d love to be swathed in vibrant colors and lush fabrics that match my artistic heart.

How are you viewed by others? I’m a thief if I’m hanging about too close, a schemer if I stand too long staring at a gent, and a dirty, common woman to be avoided if I’m anywhere near respectable folk. I’m as much an outcast as the rags I peddle, but one day that’ll all change. Maybe not this side of eternity, but it will.

Physical appearance: People always look twice at my face when I’m not in rags, and that’s the best mirror I have. I’m the rag woman, but a young one with a fresh face. With a good wash and fresh clothing, you’d think me a lady. Spending hours trapped indoors has left me as pale as the rich, and my aristocratic bloodlines have given me high cheekbones, delicate features, and soft, thick hair that begs to be piled high.

Eyes: Blue

Hair: Long, thick waves

Voice: Low and firm, with an edge when it’s needed.

Right- or left-handed? Right

How would you describe yourself? I’m loyal to a fault—count me a friend once, and you’ll find it hard to be rid of my help. I gravitate toward the abandoned, the castoff and the broken, drawn to repair as much as I can. I wear nothing of beauty on the outside, but do all I can to shore it up inside.

Characteristics: Made strong by adversity, plucky and independent, wary of everyone yet childishly eager to trust.

Strongest/weakest character traits: Natural ability to see the good in people—whether or not I actually should.

How much self-control do you have? A great deal—mostly because I set few limits on myself. I obey the rules that make sense and focus on people over laws. I obey my own set of rules quite nicely.

Fears: Becoming as worthless as society at large thinks I am.

Collections, talents: Rags find their way into my hands and no matter their condition, I can make something useful of them. I am the giver of second chances, of renewed life.

What people like best about you: Sully once told me I had the oddest combination of pluck and delicate beauty, and that I always stand out among the rich and the poor. I liked that. Those who have come to know me have experienced firsthand the restoring influence I bring to both rags and people.

Interests and favorites: A lifetime of restoring rags has given me a great variety of opinions on fabrics, embellishments, flounces, and ribbons. I love color and rich fabrics, and a well-done trim.

Food, drink: I’d be in heaven if you gave me a bowl of raisin pudding.

Books: I’ve devoured every written page I’ve ever come across in my life. I’m never above losing myself in a good story, be it ha’penny novels or rich scholarly work.

Best way to spend a weekend: Lying on the roof of my tenement with Sully, staring up at the stars and giving them names. The only words between us are the ones Dickens has penned that we’ll read together.

What would a great gift for you be? A luscious, vividly colorful gown with no trimmings, so I may adorn it with all the embellishments I’ve enjoyed creating on gowns that are not mine.

When are you happy? When I am with Sully—that’s when I most know who I am.

What makes you angry? Total disregard for any human on this earth.

What makes you sad? Knowing that no matter what I accomplish or know or do, I will always be simply, “the rag woman.”

What makes you laugh? The songs Sully creates on his fiddle. With the right words and a silly little grin, he never fails to make me laugh.

Hopes and dreams: A life outside of Spitalfields, where I can see the sky beyond the buildings and walk through the streets with the respect of a normal woman.

What’s the worst thing you have ever done to someone and why? I gave the Vicar a tongue-lashing once—the vicar! Near as bad as saying it to the Almighty himself.

Greatest success: Bringing something cast away back to life—once it was a lovely red gown, another time a widow who’d lost all hope.

Biggest trauma: I’ll never forget the day I received word that my Sully’s ship had been lost. I’d sent my heart out on that boat, and it sank with him. I never had the courage to tell him of my love for him.

What do you care about most in the world? Finding life everywhere—in little hidden pockets throughout the slums, in the rags that are cast aside, in the people whose spark has gone.

Do you have a secret? Everything I am is about to become a secret, if I choose to accept the new life offered to me. No one can know I was ever Raina Bretton the rag woman.

What do you like best about the other main characters in your book? Victor is charming and so different than the rough Spitalfields men I know, even if he scares me a little. Sully—dear Sully—there’s no one more dear to me than my fiddle-playing, star-gazing, best friend who taught me to read.

What do you like least about the other main characters in your book? I don’t feel I know them thoroughly, but neither do they know me. In Spitalfields, everyone sees me as “merely the rag vendor.” In Rothburne, I’m something entirely false.

If you could do one thing and succeed at it, what would it be? Rescue Sully the way he’s rescued me from a lifetime of scrapes. That’s what best friends do.

Most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you: I was arrested once. I never like to talk about it, and I’m ashamed it happened. Everyone assumes, when you’re the rag woman, and no one stops to ask why you carted off with the clothing left on the curb. Even if you had perfectly good intentions, those bobbies will assume and drag your hide off to prison anyway. I never want anyone to know about the night I spent there.

Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears and A Rumored Fortune. She freelances for a small nonfiction publisher but spends much of her time spinning tales that capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives. She is always on the hunt for random acts of kindness, people willing to share their deepest secrets with a stranger, and hidden stashes of sweets. She lives with her husband and their two babies in a house in the woods near Lake Michigan and shares stories that move her at www.jdpstories.com.

Interview with Tressa Harlowe of A Rumored Fortune by Joanna Davidson Politano

March 16, 2018March 10, 2018 ~ Cindy Thomson ~ Leave a comment

Today we have the pleasure of meeting Tressa Harlowe from Joanna Davidson Politano’s A Rumored Fortune.

Supposedly there’s a fortune hidden somewhere on your estate. Is it true?

Of course it is. Just because we haven’t found it yet, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I know my father, and if he claims he has hidden his fortune, then he’s done exactly that. Besides, if there’s no hidden fortune, it means we have nothing.

You say you know your father, but if that’s the case, wouldn’t you know where he’d hide his fortune?

That’s none of your concern. I know the man better than anyone does. Do the women of Her Majesty’s court not know the queen, even from a distance? I know the sort of man my father was, and I know he’d never lie about his great fortune.

How would you describe the man, then?

(After a pause)—He was strong and true and good, the best father a girl could have. I admired him so, and felt a sort of hero worship for him. Such wisdom he had about a great many things. Most of our conversations centered around vines, for his vineyards were the great love of his life. We talked of grapes and branches, but in doing so we talked of deeper things too, without saying the words. He understood vineyards the way physicians understand the human body and accountants understand sums. I never would have cared a whit for vines or grapes except that it was who he was. To love his vineyards was to love him, so these rows of winding branches and vines have become dear to me.

You know, vines are such a mystery. They burst forth with wonderful sweet fruit, but only if the conditions are perfect—pruning, weather, season, protection and drainage. Father was something like that, only the conditions were never right.

There have been a great many visitors to your estate lately. What should happen if one of them were to find the fortune before you?

Let them all search in the nooks and crannies forever, learning the intricacies of Trevelyan. They could spend years looking for the fortune on an estate of this size. In the meantime, I’ll be studying the man who hid the fortune. Understanding my closed-off Father is the key to finding the fortune he hid. I just know the answer is somewhere in his vineyard notebooks, written in some kind of symbolic riddle.

Now that I’ve found someone who speaks Welsh, I’ll be able to translate his notebooks and unlock the pages he poured himself into all these years. I only have to work up the courage to hand the notebooks to that vineyard manager.

The vineyard manager, Donegan Vance. He’s new to the estate, isn’t he? You are brave to trust a newcomer with the secret to your father’s fortune.

I haven’t any choice now, have I? No one else about the place speaks Welsh. Trust is coming slowly where this man is concerned. He may be a bit too forthright and lacking in certain gentlemanly restraint, but his brashness does have one advantage—total honesty. Everything that comes from the man’s mouth is honest to a fault. I don’t have to enjoy the man’s company to believe him trustworthy.

It’s been said you’ve spent a lot of time together, both in the vineyard and out about Welporth. Have you been searching for the treasure together?

He’s become a partner of sorts in the treasure hunt, out of necessity. I will say, though, that from the moment he pounded up the path to Trevelyan on his massive black stallion, he’s been nothing but a rescuer for me. Mother may say what she likes, but the man is a solid rock. He’s bold and opinionated, which truly unsettles me at times, but he’s been a pleasant cool breeze of truth as well. Sometimes I regret partnering with him, but so far he’s proven to be nothing but a help. He seems to have a natural wisdom about vineyards too, and the deeper meaning behind the way the plants work.

He said something to me once about the Scripture passage, “speaking the truth in love.” I think perhaps he can teach me a bit about that, and maybe I can help him with the rest—speaking the truth in love. That’s the way I think of our partnership right now—opposites that work well together. If it weren’t for the secret I see shadowed in his eyes, perhaps I could trust him completely and tell him everything I know, but with the way things are going now, there’s not a single person among my acquaintances I’d trust to that extent.

What of Andrew, your fiancé? One would assume you could trust him.

First of all he’s no longer my fiancé. That courtship died a painful death over a year ago when his parents pressured him to end our association. Yes, he’s come to stay at Trevelyan, but it doesn’t mean anything. Mother convinced him to come help us grieve Father’s passing, and I wish he’d simply take himself home again. I cannot bear to see the face of my deepest rejection every day in my own house. I want to trust him, to seek his help with this fortune hunt, but after all that’s happened between us, I simply cannot trust the man. I suppose the only one a person can trust is God.

Are you a very religious person?

I suppose I am. I’ve attended church since birth and I’ve always felt a peace there. I believe there’s something more to it, though. Don’t think me mad, but sometimes I feel as if God tries to connect directly to me, even outside of a sermon. It happens when I paint. Ever since I was small, I’d sink into this creative outlet and at the same time sink into conversation with God. I let my thoughts flow free and unhindered with each sweep of my brush. Life splashed through my soul as color splashed over white canvas. I always thought it was because I had no one else I connected deeply with, and it was my imaginative, artistic heart’s invention.

Lately it seems He’s been trying to reach me again, though, and it’s always through color, through artwork. From the orangey glow of dawn on morning fog to the sunlight shining through stained glass, color seems to be His specific way of reaching me. It’s as if He’s speaking my language to ensure His words sink directly and deeply into my heart. Perhaps it’s only the wishful thinking of a little girl who has grown up around the hole my earthly father left in my heart. I cannot deny, however, the taste I’ve had of life and the hope I’ve felt.

Thank you for visiting with us today, Tressa. We hope you find your treasure!

Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears. She freelances for a small nonfiction publisher but spends much of her time spinning tales that capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives. She is always on the hunt for random acts of kindness, people willing to share their deepest secrets with a stranger, and hidden stashes of sweets. She lives with her husband and their two babies in a house in the woods near Lake Michigan and shares stories that move her at www.jdpstories.com.