Last week, I was told by a bookseller that my favorite author had died. OK, this is where I get to reveal my closely guarded secret -- that I love the romance novels of Mary Balogh, the Welsh-Canadian author of dozens of Regency era books. A dear friend introduced me to Balogh years ago, and I just eat up the lives and romances of the Bedwyn family, the strong, spinster teachers at Miss Martin's school, the survivors of the Napoleonic Wars, and other fictional inhabitants of England in the 18-teens. Yes, it describes a world that seems like a million years ago. Yes, it is pure diversion. Yes, I am every single intelligent female character who after a life of challenge and hardship finds love and security with an impossibly handsome and respectful man. I. Love. These. Books. Several times over the years, I have sent my copies to a rummage sale, only to begin to collect them again, and here I am now, still without my own roof but with about eight of her books and counting.
This morning, before writing this, I did some internet searching, and while it is clear that a few women with this unusual name have passed away, there is no indication that the author has, and I hope that's true. Kind of an April Fools' joke in reverse. I know one thing; before the weekend is out, I am going to write her some fan mail and make sure she knows how valued she is. I've tried other romance authors, and get about ten pages before throwing them aside. They just do not measure up.
As things come in threes, I suspect there will be another April Fools' Day "event" before the day is out. But as getting around on foot will be nearly impossible today, I think I'll stay inside, make a cup of tea, and finish (for I'm sure at least the third time) Slightly Scandalous. I need it.
