Leave a Comment / Books / By Elizabeth Davidson The silver polish gleamed on the cloth, but it wasn’t just cleaning—it was art. I kept thinking about that image while writing The Shop Girl’s Dream, about hands that couldn’t help but create beauty even in the most mundane tasks. What happens when someone with that […]

The smell of phosphorus never leaves you. I learned that while researching the match-making industry, reading testimonies from girls who worked in factories like the one where Tilly Dempsey spends her days. Their fingers were stained black, their jawbones rotted from the poison they breathed, and still they went back each morning because a few

It began with maps. Not the elegant kind with counties and coastlines, but street plans — of cholera outbreaks. Circles drawn around contaminated pumps, black lines through alleyways, whole neighbourhoods marked by illness and death. I’d been reading about London’s last great cholera epidemic in 1866, and I kept wondering what happened to the children

Finding Eliza: writing Threads of Love It began with steam — thick, clinging, and rising from a row of copper tubs in a London washhouse. I kept returning to that image: a young woman standing barefoot on wet stone, sleeves rolled, her hands raw from scrubbing. Not glamorous. Not romantic. Just real. And quietly powerful.

Introducing The Forsaken Factory Girl A story of courage, identity, and quiet rebellion Some characters arrive fully formed — fierce, clever, and unwilling to be ignored. That was Rose Andrews. From the first moment I began writing her, I knew she wouldn’t let me rest until her story was told. Set in London in 1882,

Introducing The Runaway Orphan The next chapter in my writing journey Some stories begin not with a moment of hope, but with hardship — and the quiet resilience it takes to survive it. The Runaway Orphan started with Hannah, a young girl growing up in the shadows of an orphanage and a brutal workhouse. From

💐 Introducing The Baker’s Daughter The book that started it all Some stories stay with you long before they ever meet the page. The Baker’s Daughter was the first piece of fiction I ever wrote — longhand, late at night, unsure if anyone but me would ever read it. It sat quietly for years, waiting,