The Echoes of Love ‘Legendary’ Blog Tour: The romantic origins of
jasmine
For the love of legends
For me, researching a book is
just as enjoyable as writing it. I set each of my novels in a passionate, romantic country, and so that I can
really transport my readers there, I immerse myself in the setting: its
history, its scenery, its cuisine, its culture. Top of my research list are
local legends – I love colourful, age-old stories; the more fantastical, the
better!
Since I was a young girl, tucked
up in bed and listening avidly to my governess weaving bedtime tales, I have
loved legends. Fairytales too, of course – they sowed the seeds for my romantic
nature – but legends fascinated me most: those that have stood the test of
time, that offer intriguing explanations for the modern world, that are at once
fantastical and yet, somehow, believable.
My novel The Echoes of Love, set in Venice, Tuscany and Sardinia, incorporates
various Italian legends – told by the hero, Paolo, who is a raconteur
extraordinaire, to my heroine, Venetia – and in my research files I collected
many more. What better way to share some of these most romantic, magical and
atmospheric tales but in this Echoes of
Love ‘Legendary’ Blog Tour!
Today, I’m taking you to
beautiful Tuscany, where Paolo has made his home…
The romantic origins of jasmine
In The Echoes of Love
Venetia is persuaded to stay with Paolo in Tuscany to take up a mosaic
restoration commission. Attempting to keep her distance from the enigmatic
stranger who has employed her, she stays in a cottage in his grounds. I
describe its garden as follows:
The cottage garden was a riot of colour, shimmering in the sun. Although
on first sight it had seemed unkempt, Venetia had guessed at its luxuriance the
night before in the dark and she had been right. The enclosure, rimmed by a
stone parapet, was smothered in bougainvillea that fell in purple and yellow
cascades to the cliffs below. The walls of the cottage were framed in jasmine
and brilliant clusters of begonia. Polyanthus and tulips looked like sparkling
gems in the beds scattered on the grass, and the apple tree in front of
Venetia’s window was thick with white and rosy buds. Trickling splashes from
the small brook running through the garden added a sort of tranquillity to the
surroundings. The hovering breath and scent of spring was everywhere.
For me, the inclusion of jasmine
in the description was essential, for associated with the flower are two
wonderfully romantic legends.
The first Paolo relates to
Venetia:
Once upon a time, there was a princess who was in love with the Sun,
but failed to win his heart, so she committed suicide. From her ashes rose the
Jasmine tree – the type that you see here. And because her love had been
unrequited and she could no longer stand the sight of the Sun, she only bloomed
at night and shed all her flowers before the Sun rose. That’s why this special
strain of jasmine is called Night Jasmine.
‘That’s why,’ explains Paolo, ‘I
think the rarest, most vital moments, are those lived at the highest pitch of
being and are of greater worth than a drawn-out fulfillment of another kind.’
The second legend explains the
proliferation of jasmine in Tuscany:
In the seventeenth century the Duke of Tuscany had a garden full of beautiful
jasmine, which he had brought from the East. He was immensely proud of the
flowers, but he guarded them jealously, and he banned anyone from taking a
cutting and so sharing in his prize. But the gardener who tended the jasmine
for the Duke defied him: he was poor and he was in love, and so he gave his
love a jasmine flower as a token of his affection. The girl planted the
cutting, and it flourished in the good Tuscan earth. As poor as her gardener
beau, she took to selling cuttings at the market. Eventually, she and the
gardener had enough money to marry and live happily together, and jasmine had
become an established flower in Tuscany. To this day, in remembrance of the two
sweethearts, many bridal bouquets incorporate jasmine.
So there you have it: next time
you breathe in the sweet scent of jasmine, you can think of the passion of one
unrequited love, and the strength and resilience of another, happy-ever-after
love, all under the hot Tuscan sun.
Follow the tour
If you’d like to read more
Italian legends like this, and keep up with the accompanying Very Venetian
giveaway in which lots of romantic goodies are up for grabs, follow the Echoes of Love ‘Legendary’ Blog Tour
this month:
1 May: Oh My Books!
3 May: Maldivian Book Reviewer
4 May: Krystal Clear Book Reviews
5 May: Romance Junkies
7 May: Book Briefs
8 May: Words I Write Crazy
9 May: Luxury Reading
10 May: The Little Reader Library
11 May: Kristy Centeno
13 May: Love Romance Passion
14 May: MamaKitty Reviews
15 May: Books & Other Spells
16 May: Pages of Comfort
19 May: The Flashlight Reader
20 May: The Window Seat on a Rainy Day
21 May: Simply Ali
22 May: Reviews by Molly
25 May: Reese's Reviews
26 May: Moonlight, Lace, and Mayhem
29 May: Tiffany Talks Books
30 May: Reading Between the Wines
31 May: Rites of Romance
WIN in the Very Venetian giveaway
At least one reader commenting on
this post will WIN in the Very
Venetian giveaway, with prizes totalling more than $600:
·
5 signed hardback copies of The Echoes of Love
·
10 signed paperback copies of The Echoes of Love
·
3 romantic Venetian masks
·
Lots of fabulously colourful Murano glass
goodies: 16 pendants, 2 bracelets, 2 paperweights and a vase
Anyone who comments on a
blog tour stop post will be entered in the giveaway. Simply comment below,
including your email address so that Hannah can contact the winners. Good luck!
Book trailer
Book synopsis
Seduction, passion and the chance for new love.
A terrible truth that will change two lives forever.
Venetia
Aston-Montagu has escaped to Italy’s most captivating city to work in her
godmother’s architectural practice, putting a lost love behind her. For the
past ten years she has built a fortress around her heart, only to find the
walls tumbling down one night of the carnival when she is rescued from masked
assailants by an enigmatic stranger, Paolo Barone.
Drawn to the
powerfully seductive Paolo, despite warnings of his Don Juan reputation and
rumours that he keeps a mistress, Venetia can’t help being caught up in the
smouldering passion that ignites between them.
When she finds
herself assigned to a project at his magnificent home deep in the Tuscan
countryside, Venetia must not only contend with a beautiful young rival, but
also come face to face with the dark shadows of Paolo’s past that threaten to
come between them.
Can Venetia
trust that love will triumph, even over her own demons? Or will Paolo’s
carefully guarded, devastating secret tear them apart forever?
Book excerpt
The clock struck midnight just as Venetia went past
the grand eighteenth-century mirror hanging over the mantelpiece in the hall.
Instinctively she looked into it and her heart skipped a beat. In the firelight
she noticed that he was there again, an almost illusory figure, leaning against
the wall at the far end of the shadowy room, steady eyes intense, watching her
from behind his black mask. An illusory figure indeed, because when Venetia
turned around he was gone.
Venetia shivered. Nanny Horren’s voice resounded
through her head, reminding her of the strange Celtic superstitions that the
Scottish governess used to tell her. One in particular came to mind. ‘Turn
off the light and look into the mirror by firelight at midnight on Shrove
Tuesday,’ the old woman would whisper to the impressionable and imaginative
teenage Venetia, ‘and if you see a face reflected behind your own,
it’ll be the face of the love of your life, the man you will marry someday.’
Was this what had just happened to Venetia? Was
this stranger the love of her life?
Rubbish, she remonstrated,
laughing uneasily into her own eyes, you’re mad! Haven’t you learnt
your lesson? Venetia had indulged in such fantasies several years ago
and had only managed to get hurt. Now, she knew better. Still, she did not move
away. Venetia leant closer to the mirror that reflected her pale, startled face
in the flickering light, as tremors of the warm feelings of yester love
suddenly flooded her being. For a few moments she seemed to lose all sense of
where she was and felt as though she stood inside a globe, watching the wheel
of time turning back ten years.
Gareth Jordan Carter. ‘Judd’. It was a diminutive
of Jordan, chosen by Venetia who hated the name Gareth and didn’t care much for
the name Jordan either. Judd had been her first love, and as far as Venetia was
concerned, her last. She had been young and innocent then; only eighteen.
Today, at twenty-eight, she liked to think she was a woman of the world, who
would not allow herself to be trapped by the treacherous illusions of passion,
however appealing they might seem. She had paid a high price for her naivety
and impetuosity.
Venetia tried to shake herself clear of those
haunting phantasms and her thoughts ambled back to the masked stranger – well,
almost a stranger.
Their brief encounter had occurred the evening of
the first night of Il Carnevale di Venezia, ten days before
Shrove Tuesday …
***
It was nearly seven-thirty and the shops were
beginning to shut down for the night. The wind that had blown all day had
dropped, and a slight haze veiled the trees, as if gauze had been hung in front
of everything that was more than a few feet away. The damp air was soaked with
silence.
Venetia tightened the belt of her coat around her
slim waist and lifted the fur collar snugly about her neck. The sound of her
footsteps echoed off the pavement as she hurried towards the Rialto Bridge from
Piazza San Marco, a solitary figure in an almost deserted street. She was on
her way to catch thevaporetto water bus, which would drop her off
at Palazzo Mendicoli where she had an apartment. A few huddled pedestrians
could be seen on the opposite pavement, and there was not much traffic on the
great inky stretch of water of the Grand Canal.
Suddenly Venetia saw two figures spring out in
front of her from the surrounding darkness. They were enveloped in carnevale cloaks,
with no visible faces, only a spooky blackness where they should have been. A
hand materialised from under the all-encompassing wrap of one of the sinister
creatures and grabbed at her bag. Chilled to the bone, Venetia tried to scream
but the sound froze in her throat. Struggling, she hung onto the leather pouch
which was looped over her shoulder and across her front as she tried to lift
her knee to kick him in the groin, but her aggressors were prepared. An arm was
thrown around her throat from the back and the second figure produced a knife.
Just as he was going to slash at the strap of her
bag, an imposing silhouette emerged from nowhere and with startling speed its
owner swung at Venetia’s attacker with his fist, knocking him off balance. With
a grunt of pain the man fell backwards, tripping over his accomplice who gave a
curse, and they both tumbled to the ground. Then, picking themselves up in a
flash, they took to their heels and fled into the hazy gloom.
‘Va tutto bene, are you alright?’ The
stranger’s light baritone voice broke through Venetia’s disoriented awareness,
and he looked down anxiously into her large amber eyes.
‘Yes, yes, I think so,’ she panted, her hands going
to her throat.
‘Are you hurt at all?’
‘No, no just a little shaken, thank you.’
‘You’re shivering. You’ve had a bad shock and you
need a warm drink. Come. There’s a caffeteria that serves the
best hot chocolate in Venice, just a few steps from here. It’ll do you good.’
Without waiting for a response, he took Venetia’s arm and led the way down the
narrow street.
Venetia’s knees felt like jelly and her teeth were
chattering. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, still trying to catch her breath, her heart
pounding, and let herself be guided by her tall, broad-shouldered rescuer, who
seemed to have taken the situation into his hands.
Thus does Fate cast her thunderbolts into our
lives, letting them fall with a feather-like touch, dulling our senses to the
storm they would cause should we realise their devastating powers.
They sat in silence at a table in a far-off corner
of the crowded caffeteria. There was too much noise to talk and
Venetia was exhausted, so she concentrated on appraising the man sitting
opposite her as she listened to the music playing: Mina’s nostalgic 1960 love
song, ‘Il Cielo in una Stanza’, the unashamedly romantic hit that was so
Italian, and which was therefore still frequently played as a classic all over
the country.
Venetia’s guardian angel looked more like Lucifer
than a celestial being, with his tempestuous blue eyes, curiously bright
against the warm tan of his skin, which slanted a fraction upwards under heavy,
dark brows when he smiled. They were staring intently at her now with an
emotion which puzzled her, and for a few seconds she found herself helplessly
staring back into them. It was like gazing into shimmering water.
Strong, masculine features graced his nut-brown
face beneath a thick crop of raven-black hair, sleek and shining, swept back
from a wide forehead. He wasn’t good-looking in the classical sense, his face
was too craggy for that immediate impact, but he was a striking man who
emanated controlled power, someone used to making decisions who would not be
swayed by any argument or sentiment; a hard man. Still, his steeliness was
tempered by the enigmatic curve that lifted the corners of his generous mouth
into a promise of laughter; this, coupled with the deep cleft in the centre of
his chin, gave him a roguish expression that Venetia found appealing.
The waiter brought over a cup of hot chocolate, a
double espresso and a plate of biscotti which he said were
offered con i complimenti della casa. Her rescuer was obviously a
regular customer.
Venetia took a few sips of the thick, warm brew.
She felt herself revive as it trickled down her throat, becoming a warm glow in
her stomach which reflected on her cheeks.
The stranger smiled at her. ‘Feeling better?’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, you’ve been so very kind.’
His smile broadened. ‘You are welcome, signorina. It
is always a pleasure to come to the rescue of a beautiful lady. My name is
Paolo Barone, at your service.’
Venetia had been working in Italy for over three
years as an architect cum interior designer in her godmother’s architect firm,
and was used to the gallant ways and the charm of Italian men. She found their
smooth repartee refreshing, and sometimes even amusing, but never took them too
seriously. Paolo Barone was different. Maybe it was because she was in shock
and felt vulnerable, but nevertheless her heart warmed to this man, who,
although not that young, was still in his prime – middle to late thirties
perhaps – and she relaxed. Still, even though the circumstances in this case
were unusual, Venetia was not used to accepting invitations from strangers, so
she deliberately made no conversation; and to her surprise neither did he.
As she raised the warm cup to her lips with both
hands, she was aware of him looking at her directly with unabashed interest.
Was he trying to decipher her, she wondered? Relieved that the hot drink’s
effect on her cheeks was hiding the slight confusion she felt beneath, she
sipped a little too quickly and cooled her lip with the tip of her tongue. Then
realising what she had done, she glanced up to see his expression deepen into
something else, which made her instantly lower her eyes.
When she had finished her chocolate, Paolo smiled
at her. ‘Andiamo? Shall we go?’ he asked, cocking his head to one
side and looking at Venetia with curiosity.
Sparkling hazel eyes flecked with gold smiled back
at him through long black lashes that somehow did not belong with her chestnut
hair. ‘Yes. Thank you for the hot chocolate. It is really the best chocolate
I’ve had in Venice.’
He helped her with her coat, lifting her glorious
long locks over the fur collar. At five foot seven inches, Venetia was tall but
as he faced her and began buttoning the garment himself, she noticed again how
he towered over her. His hands were strong and masculine; she had a curious
sensation of warm familiarity, as though he had performed this act with her
several times before. Yet mingled with that feeling came one of embarrassment;
his touch seemed a rather intimate gesture instead of the impersonal
indifference of a stranger, and she drew away with a little nervous laugh.
‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary.’
He held her gaze intently for a moment, as if
surprised at what she had said, and she looked down again, for some reason
unable to meet those midnight-blue eyes and their burning intensity. Then he
smiled and held the door open.
‘By the way, I don’t know your name,’ Paolo said as
they stepped out into the misty night and began walking towards the Grand
Canal.
‘Venetia. Venetia Aston-Montagu.’
He quirked a black eyebrow. ‘A very romantic name,
Venetia, like our beautiful city. But you’re not Italian? You speak Italian
like a native.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you for the compliment. No, I’m
actually English, but I was named by my godmother, who is Venetian. She was my
mother’s best friend and she insisted I learn Italian.’
‘So you’re on holiday here?’
‘No, I live here.’
‘Nearby?’
‘No, in the Dorsoduro district. I need to catch
the vaporetto, as the entrance to the building where I live is
on the Grand Canal.’
‘My launch is moored across the street. Dorsoduro
is on my way. It would be a pleasure for me to drop you off.’
‘No, thank you. You’ve already been very kind.’
‘It’s late and snow has been forecast for tonight.
The vaporetto is bound to be almost empty. I wouldn’t want you
to come to any harm, signorina. I will give you a lift.’ He spoke
quietly with an air of command, his hand coming up to her elbow, but she
avoided it hastily.
It was very tempting to accept, but Venetia would
not let herself. This stranger was a little too attentive, she thought, and
though she had been grateful for his kind invitation to a hot chocolate when
she was in distress, and could still recall the feel of his hands buttoning up
her coat, she was not in the habit of being picked up by men.
‘No really, thank you very much. I’m used to
travelling by vaporetto. It’s quite safe.’
Paolo did not insist, and for the rest of the way
they walked in silence through the narrow, tortuous alleys, Venetia conscious
of his nearness in every fibre of her being.
It was bitterly cold. The wind was whistling and a
bank of threatening cloud hung over Venice like a white cloak. As they arrived
at the waterbus stop, a few snowflakes started to come down. A couple of
gondolas, their great steel blades looming dangerously out of the soft velvety
mist, glided by swiftly over the gently lapping waters.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?
It looks as though there’ll be a blizzard and the vaporetto may
be delayed.’ He looked at her with a polite, but guarded smile and she felt a
momentary pang of regret at her determination to escape him.
Paolo’s pride was spared a new refusal as they
heard the croaky purr of thevaporetto announcing its lazy approach.
‘Here comes my bus,’ Venetia said cheerfully. ‘I’ll
be home in no time.’
The boat appeared and presently drew up at the small
station, bumping the landing stage as it did so.
‘Thanks again for all your help, signore,’
she went on, smiling as she held out her small, perfectly manicured hand to say
goodbye. The young man took it in his own, which was large and warm, and held it
a trifle longer than would be usual. Venetia stood there with waves of heat
passing over her, her senses suddenly heightened at this contact. She abruptly
withdrew her hand.
His blue hawk eyes gazed down at her, intent though
unfathomable, and he paused uncertainly. ‘Will you dine with me tomorrow
night?’ he uttered in a low voice.
It would be exciting to dine with Paolo, she
thought, but you must run from him, urged the echo of an
insistent voice within her; this man has the power to hurt you.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’m afraid
I’m busy.’
‘That’s a pity.’ He sounded as if he meant it, but
did not insist, leaving her feeling curiously disappointed. He held out his
hand again, silently, and she took it, also without a word. There was nothing lax
or vague in his firm grasp. Like many people, Venetia was swift to gauge
character by the quality of a handclasp and had known many apparently vigorous
men whose fingers were like limp fish. Once more, she was aware that Paolo’s
large, sensitive hands held a strength and vitality that stirred her deeply.
She hurried onto the vaporetto, suddenly
eager to flee, but as the waterbus pulled away from the quay, she watched him
go up the stairs and disappear into the snow-white night with a strange sinking
of the heart, wondering if she would ever see him again.
Buy links
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Echoes-Love-Hannah-Fielding-ebook/dp/B00H3S3FFO/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1386249349&sr=8-1
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-echoes-of-love-hannah-fielding/1117405658?ean=9780992671839
Hannah Fielding bio
Hannah Fielding is a novelist, a dreamer, a traveller, a mother, a wife and an incurable romantic. The seeds for her writing career were sown in early childhood, spent in Egypt, when she came to an agreement with her governess Zula: for each fairy story Zula told, Hannah would invent and relate one of her own. Years later – following a degree in French literature, several years of travelling in Europe, falling in love with an Englishman, the arrival of two beautiful children and a career in property development – Hannah decided after so many years of yearning to write that the time was now. Today, she lives the dream: she writes full time, splitting her time between her homes in Kent, England, and the South of France, where she dreams up romances overlooking breathtaking views of the Mediterranean.
Her first novel, Burning Embers, is a vivid, evocative love story set against the backdrop of tempestuous and wild Kenya of the 1970s, reviewed by one newspaper as ‘romance like Hollywood used to make’. Her new novel, The Echoes of Love, is a story of passion, betrayal and intrigue set in the romantic and mysterious city of Venice and the beautiful landscape of Tuscany. It was picked by The Sun newspaper as one of the most romantic books ever written.
Social media links
Website: www.hannahfielding.net
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/fieldinghannah
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Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5333898.Hannah_Fielding
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/fieldinghannah
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Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5333898.Hannah_Fielding
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