Set in 1896, it follows Violet Hamilton and she finds endlessly inventive new ways to rebuff suitors, all while trying to solve the mystery of her missing mother.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Hannah Dolby’s No Life for a Lady, which is out May 9th.
It’s remarkable how men react when women break the rules… but the people of Hastings are about to discover, women can be remarkable too…
1896. At 28, Violet’s father is beginning to fear she will never marry. But every suitor he puts forward, she finds an increasingly creative way of rebuffing.
Because Violet is a woman who knows her own mind – and her mind is on her mother, who went missing 10 years earlier, vanishing from Hastings Pier without a trace.
Looking for the missing is not a suitable pastime for a lady. But when Violet hires a seaside detective to help, she sets off an unexpected chain of events that will throw her life into chaos.
Can Violet solve the mystery of Lily Hamilton’s vanishing? Or will trying cost her more than she can afford to lose?
I could not blame Mr Knight for admiring my mother’s looks or keeping her photograph, over and above the fact he might need it for his investigation. She was beautiful, with her Titian hair and a smile warm enough to melt snowmen in winter; everyone had wanted bits of her. The postmen fumbled with their letters and the Vicar called at our house far too often. If she dropped a glove in the street, men were reluctant to give it back.
When she disappeared, I had been eighteen and due to have my debut. My mother had even talked about going to London. ‘She can’t stay here, unless you want her to marry a sailor or a dockyard navvy!’ she had cried. My father had acquiesced, as he had always done to keep the peace. But shortly before she vanished I had already decided I did not want to marry, and in her absence it became pointless.
It was unfortunate then that my father wanted me to marry, as his primary execution of parental duty. It had taken all my ingenuity in my early twenties to avoid it. The respectable ladies of St Leonards might point their cold little noses seaward, but for a while at least it appeared my mother’s disappearance gave me a certain racy appeal to gentlemen. I could not think of any other reason why so many tried to take liberties. Did they think my mother’s disappearance might lead me to abandon my morals? I did not know, but the fact that I was a little brown wren to her peacock did not seem to matter.
The first time was when I was nineteen and Ernest Webb, son of the manager of St Leonards Bank, whom I had passed only rarely in the street and never formally met, brought my father a gold watch and asked for permission to court me. My father graciously agreed, informing Mr Webb of all my best qualities (as well as a few I didn’t have). Our courtship came to an abrupt halt on our first outing, when Mr Webb attempted to kiss me under a weeping willow in Alexandra Park in full view of our chaperone, an elderly lady from our church. I had pushed him into the boating lake, and my chaperone had taken to her bed in shock, refusing ever to accompany me again.
Thankfully, in recent years, my appeal to the local male population had declined. I hoped it was because of my advanced age and because I had built a reputation as someone who was not marriageable. It was annoying therefore to return from a walk that afternoon to discover my father was not late but early home, and with a gentleman. I entered the parlour to face them both, squarely.
‘Ah, Violet,’ my father said. He was in genial mode, a personality he adopted whenever we had guests, dropping it abruptly as soon as they had left. ‘You look fresh and lively. Let me introduce you to Jeremy Parchment, who runs the shopping emporium in Bexhill. We have been talking business, and it seems I can assist him with his bank accounts.’
‘Delighted to meet you,’ Mr Parchment said. He emphasised the last word, as if he would not have been glad to meet anyone else. He took my hand, shook it limply, then dropped it. I sat down on a chair and waited for the rigmarole to commence.
Mr Parchment was perfectly acceptable, as gentlemen went. He was not too old or too young, in his mid-thirties perhaps, and he was smiling. His chin took a gentle slope towards his neck, but this should not be a consideration when a man’s interior qualities were what was most important.
The conversation was as hopeful as one could expect between two people who had nothing in common.
‘I sell a lot of ladies’ things,’ he said, bobbing his head generously towards me as if giving me a gift. ‘We have counters full of the best fabrics from London, as well as parasols, purses, other gewgaws and giff-gaffs, all the things that young ladies like. Have you been? You must come and visit. We have all sorts of trinkets. Perfume, and suchlike.’
‘That sounds delightful,’ I said. My father was smiling expansively, but underneath I could sense the strength of his will, as strong as a wave in a gale-force wind, urging me to behave, to be pleasant. He did not need to. These days, I did not push men into bodies of water.
‘We are much larger and more popular than Butler’s Emporium,’ Mr Parchment said. ‘People sometimes travel all the way from Brighton. We have a new selection of millinery just in, dainty little bonnets and straw hats with flower sprigs.’
‘Incredible,’ I said.
‘We also sell necessary items,’ he said, giving me a half wink and a smile, and abruptly ruining any credit he had gained. I stared back at him, blankly. I did not know what he meant. Underthings? Items that women needed at certain times of the month? Embroidery scissors? Bloomer elastic? The term obviously had some salacious meaning that other women might understand.
My father was, as always, oblivious when suitors overstepped.
