Linda Bennett pennell

Ihave been in love with the past for as long as I can remember. Anything with a history, whether shabby or majestic, recent or ancient, instantly draws me in. I suppose it comes from being part of a large extended family that spanned several generations. Long summer afternoons on my grandmother’s porch or winter evenings gathered around her fireplace were filled with stories both entertaining and poignant. Of course, being set in the American South, those stories were also peopled by some very interesting characters, some of whom have found their way into my work.

As for my venture in writing, it has allowed me to reinvent myself. We humans are truly multifaceted creatures, but we tend to sort and categorize each other into neat, easily understood packages that rarely reveal the whole person. Perhaps you, too, want to step out of the box in which you find yourself. I encourage you to look at the possibilities and imagine. Be filled with childlike wonder in your mental wanderings. Envision what might be, not simply what is. Let us never forget, all good fiction begins when someone says to herself or himself, “Let’s pretend.”

I reside in the Houston area with one sweet husband and one adorable, sweet Labradoodle who is quite certain she’s a little girl.

“History is filled with the sound of silken slippers going downstairs and wooden shoes coming up.” Voltaire

Uncaged welcomes Linda Bennett Pennell

Welcome to Uncaged! Can you tell us more about your book, All That Glitters?

Thank you so much for featuring me! All That Glitters is a work of women’s historical suspense with romantic elements. If you like your fiction flavored with suspense and spiced with a touch of romance, you have come to the right place!

What is the most difficult scene for you to write? What is the easiest?

I am fortunate in that I generally do not find scenes or topics difficult. Some may take more thought, planning, and revising, but that is just part of the job. On the other hand, writing certain types of scenes can elicit strong emotion. While writing All That Glitters, there were a few scenes where I cried as I wrote them. When Adelia, the little girl, asks why her parents do not love her like they do her older brothers, the tears ran. When she tries so hard to please people who will never give her the care and love every child deserves, my heart broke for her. She is a fictional character, but her plight is based on the situations in which some very real former students found themselves. I have heard authors say that their characters feel like real people for them and I must say I fall into that camp.

Where do you get your ideas for new plots and characters?

The part of me that remains perhaps childlike is my love of imagining what might be. Writing fiction for me is simply the adult version of playing “let’s pretend.” If one is so inclined, one can find stories everywhere and among any group of people. Observe, listen, explore, be curious, pay attention, read historical sources, especially the footnotes – these are the secrets to finding plot and character ideas.

What are you working on now that you can tell us about?

My work-in-progress, The American Countess, is a sequel to The Last Dollar Princess which released June 2022. It continues the story of India, an American heiress coming of age in the last gasp of the Gilded Age and George V’s coronation year England. If you are a Downton Abbey fan, India is the girl for you!

Do you base any of your characters on real-life people?

The advantage of beginning a career in fiction later in life is that one has encountered humanity in so many of its varied and sundry forms. The vast majority of my characters are based in some way on people I have actually known or have read about. For example, the villain in All That Glitters has some characteristics of a serial killer who once brought grief and tragedy to my hometown. Sarah Anne, the main character, has the traits of many teachers with whom I have worked, including myself. The child, Adelia, and her parents incorporate characteristics of family dynamics I observed over the course of a career in public education.

What behind-the-scenes tidbit in your life would probably surprise your readers the most?

I always love this question! Based on my appearance and professional life, many people are caught off-guard by my answer. The thing that surprises them is my saying that at one time I had close personal relationships with bona fide gangsters. This usually raises some eyebrows. There was a serious rivalry between the Latin Kings and Crips in the secondary schools where I worked. As a teacher and later as an administrator, I was called upon to deal with their behaviors and intervene to keep the peace. Young gang members want some one to care about them just like every other kid. So often, that is the reason they were lured into the gang in the first place.

Which comes first, the plot or the characters in the planning stages?

I generally begin with both. I have the beginning, middle, and end actions, and the main character in mind before I begin writing. The rest gets filled in as the spirit moves. I have often described myself as a “plotter with pantser tendencies.”

What are some things you like to do to relax when you aren’t writing or working?

I enjoy singing with Texas Master Chorale and my church choir, as well as serving on the boards for two arts organizations. We are blessed in our part of the Houston metro area in having a thriving arts community with both the performing and fine arts represented.

Do you prefer ebooks, audiobooks or physical books? Are you reading anything now?

It really doesn’t matter. The format is determined by the situation in which I find myself. Presently, reading for pleasure is sort of on hold. I am under an April 1 deadline with my work-in-progress. YIKES!!

What would you like to say to fans, and where can they follow you?

A huge thank you to fans of my work! Your kind words in reviews and in person make the time, effort, and energy it takes to research and write historical fiction a tremendous joy. I love hearing from you and hope you enjoy my novels as much as I do writing them!

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Enjoy an excerpt from All That Glitters

All That Glitters

Linda Bennett Pennell

Historical Gothic Romance

A gloomy mansion on an isolated island. A position she never wanted. A secret that may prove deadly. Set in the age of robber barons, All That Glitters tells the story of a Sarah Anne Mercer, a young woman who must battle immense evil to protect the people she loves.

Becoming governess to a robber baron’s deeply troubled daughter is not the life Sarah Anne Mercer had envisioned, but she must face this reality with grit and determination for all other doors are closed to her. The atmosphere of Ripon House, her employer’s winter residence on the Georgia coast, is positively funereal and the cultural clashes between her rural southern upbringing and that of her employer’s wealthy northern family send her reeling. Further complicating her position, two young men of the family vie for her attention. She is flattered and attracted to them, but knows such emotions must be quelled if she is to succeed in her position.

Through patience and dedication, Sarah Anne breaks through the emotional wall her student has built, but in the process realizes there may be good reason for the child’s unsettling behavior. Something is not right within Ripon House. As her understanding of the family dynamic deepens, a terrible suspicion forms. It seems Sarah Anne’s employers are hiding a secret – a secret someone may have committed murder to safeguard.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Is she dead? The flesh on her face feels cool to the touch. It would really be too bad if the whore is in fact no longer among the living. Killing is not a taste I have developed thus far. Much more satisfying to think of them permanently marked and remembering. Checking her throat is in order.

Ah, good. My method holds true. A strong pulse thumps beneath her surprisingly alluring flesh. If she were a lady instead of a whore, she might even tempt me into an actual relationship. As is, she will live, but with considerable bruising around her windpipe and an ugly scar near her hairline.

See how the moonlight brightens the blood trickling over her temple toward her ear. Perhaps I should deepen the rouge on her tawdry cheeks by smearing some of it on them. Yes. That’s better. She now looks exactly like what she is – a whore who will remember tonight for a very long time. If she hadn’t resisted, I wouldn’t have hurt her. But then, they always force me to hurt them. All they have to do is submit, but the stupid trollops never catch on until it is too late.

Chapter 2

1890

The sound of buggy wheels crunching over crushed oyster shells would now forever be associated in Sarah Anne Mercer’s mind with loss and unex- pected beginnings. This position was not what she had dreamed of, but there was no going back for all other doors had closed. Nervous hands twisted mesh gloves until the fibers dug into the webbing between her fingers, raising red welts between the strings. Glancing down at the mess, she forced her hands to rest primly in her lap and stretched her neck to relieve the tension building at the base of her skull. Dwelling on what might have been was a useless, unedifying occupation. Acceptance was the only course. Instead of wishing for a different life, she must focus on this time, this future, this place.

The buggy bounced over a rut, sending a tingle up Sarah Anne’s spine. As she grabbed an armrest for support, dampness rose on her forehead and beads of moisture formed on her upper lip. Drawing her gloves from her hands, she attempted to fan herself, but nothing could decrease the discomfort of air so thick it felt liquid against the skin. South Georgia’s heat and humidity had not diminished simply because the calendar declared that autumn had commenced. Heat and nerves were not a good combination. She trained her gaze ahead and fixed it upon a clump of palmettos to avoid embarrassment. Fouling the vehicle’s leather appointments with the contents of her predawn breakfast would be a disastrous introduction.

The road curved around a stand of pines and her destination came into view situated upon a broad expanse of manicured lawn. A small gasp escaped. So, Uncle Zach’s prejudice had not influenced his opinion after all. His description, while uncharitable, was quite accurate. Ripon House, all three glowering stories of it, squatted on Oglethorpe Island like a boil on the backside of a beautiful woman. Rumor among the locals had it that the boil was filled with corruption, but Uncle Zach did not place credence in such speculation. As a man of science, he dealt with facts. Of course he did. He wouldn’t have sent her here if he suspected anything untoward. All would be suitable and she would be a great success. This house was now her destiny for better or worse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, Sarah Anne straightened her posture and plastered on what she hoped was a confident expression.

The driver cleared his throat. “Best not keep Mrs. Bogard waiting, Miss. She gets in a powerful stir when folks wastes her time.”

“Oh. Of course. Thank you. I guess I’m a little awestruck by all of this.” Babbling was a nervous habit Sarah Anne thought she had rid herself of long ago. To staunch the flow of words, she jumped from the buggy before the driver could get around to her side, but when she made to grab her satchel, he stepped forward.

“We cain’t have that, Miss. Wouldn’t be right.”

Heat rose in Sarah Anne’s cheeks. “Thank you . . .” She looked inquiringly at the driver.

“George, Miss.”

“Thank you, George. I hadn’t thought of that.”

A wry smile spread over the driver’s features. “Pardon me saying, but I suspect there’s lots about this place you ain’t thought of just yet. Give it time and you’ll settle in fine. I can see you a young lady with grit.”

Sarah Anne gave her advisor a weak smile. Oh joy. Grit would be required. It wasn’t that she didn’t possess a certain amount of the stuff. Orphaned at age ten and sent to live among people who cast sidelong glances at her dark hair, dark eyes, and prominent cheekbones, she learned early on how to deal with snide comments and left-handed compliments. The only issue presently at hand was how much grit would be needed. Sarah Anne peered up at the house and fought back a sigh.

The driver waited patiently for her to precede him up wide stone steps that led onto a deep veranda. That fixture of Southern architecture looked very odd tacked onto this particular house, as though someone had been determined to sneak in a feature that actually made sense in their subtropical climate. All he had accomplished was to enhance the granite pile’s sinister appearance. A small shiver ran down Sarah Anne’s spine.

As Uncle Zach told it, controversy had swirled from the moment of the house’s conception. The architect, a graduate of Virginia, surely knew better, but he didn’t allow something so pedestrian as training to get in the way of a colossal fee. The builder, a Savannahian by birth and inclination, must have had objections, but according to local gossip, generous compensation had overcome any qualms he may have had. The good people of Mayweather County absolutely had objections, accustomed as they were to unmolested access to the riches of the island’s acres and waters. Uncle Zach had often railed against Mr. Jedediah Littlewood’s iniquitous defilement of the land in having his monstrosity of a house built. The fact that the Yankee industrialist owned the entirety of the barrier island did nothing to lessen his enmity. Of course in the end, Ripon House had gone up stone by craggy gray stone. Nobody was happy except the man who had the thing built.

Sarah Anne shifted from one foot to the other before mahogany double doors, her hand stranded at her side unable to knock. Hesitation in the face of the unknown had never been her nature, but today it froze her into a state of inaction. This was so unlike the woman she thought herself to be. To complete her humiliation, her midsection once again threatened open rebellion. This would never do. Inhaling slowly, she held her breath for several beats then allowed the air to escape in one measured stream while she distracted herself with an inspection of the house’s exterior. Despite the day’s warmth, the windows stood firmly shut and the drapes drawn. If windows were the eyes of a structure, Ripon House chose to be blind to the world around it. An atmosphere of gloom seemed to hang about the place. The house might have been in mourning, but no one had mentioned a death and no black wreath decorated the door. It was as though

Thornfield Hall, that haunted Yorkshire manse of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, had been transported to the Georgia coast. It did not suit. Not in the least. There might not be an insane Bertha Mason guarded by Grace Poole hidden away in the attics, but Sarah Anne couldn’t quite rid herself of a niggling sensation of unease. The place just didn’t feel right.

Sarah Anne bit down on her inner cheek to rein in her rushing thoughts. This was not the time to let her imagination run free. Failing in this position simply was not an option.

With that, she squared her shoulders and yanked the gloves back over her hands until her fingers strained against the mesh. The force of her knock served as a physical reminder of why she stood upon the Ripon House threshold awaiting admittance to its world.

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