Author: judeknight

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Tea with Rand

Rand Wheatly paused his pacing to study the young woman behind the desk. She looked exactly as he remembered, but she couldn’t be. She had the same composed manner, grey frock, and simple hairstyle.  Her visage hinted at a connection with the Grenford family. This woman, however, was much too young to be the same companion he remembered from fifteen years before. He had been a boy, and this one didn’t appear to be much older than he had been then. No, it was not the same woman. The Duchess of Haverford—not Haverford—Winshire now, he reminded himself—had a penchant for employing needy relatives.

She also had an uncanny ability to interfere in a man’s life at inconvenient times. Rand met the duchess soon after his sister married the Earl of Chadbourn. Even then the duchess knew everyone in the haut ton, every foible, every conflict, every devastating crisis, every damned failure. Like his. Like now.

Her summons had arrived within an hour of the awkward meeting in his brother-in-law’s drawing room in which the earl, the Duke of Sudbury and their cronies blackmailed him into cooperating with the one man he hated most in this world. To rescue his Meggy he would do what they wanted, even accept the company of His Grace the Duke of Murnane, his traitorous cousin Charles. For Meggy he would swallow even that humiliation, but he would not let the bastard coerce him into doing the government’s bidding.

“Mr. Wheatly?” The woman’s voice had an emphatic tone, as if repeating her words to an obstinate child. Or distracted man.

“I beg your pardon, Miss, ah…”

“The duchess will receive you now,” the woman said, opening the door with admirable efficiency. Rand noticed she caught the eye of the regal looking lady seated in a brocade chair. Some silent message passed between them, and the younger woman dipped a curtsey and departed.

“Your Grace.” His tone sounded curt to his own ears when he bowed over her hand. I‘ve lived alone too many years, he thought. On the edge of the frontier in Upper Canada he had little call to practice refined manners, as his sister had reminded him the past few days.

“Randy, how good to see you! Or perhaps I’m meant to call her Rand now.” The silver haired woman beamed at him. In her seventies Eleanor Winshire radiated the same timeless beauty and controlled power she had as a young woman.

“Rand, please, Your Grace,” he murmured taking the seat she indicated.

“When did I see you last?” He had no answer. “I believe it was at Charles’s wedding, was it not?” she asked with deceptive sweetness.

My cousin’s wedding to the woman I loved —or thought I did, fool that I was. She knows full well it was the worst time of my life. He clenched is teeth. “Perhaps. I don’t recall,” he said.

She watched him under her lashes while she poured tea with practiced grace, his laconic reply bringing an amused twinkle to her eyes.  Rand knew better than to let down his defenses. Amusement or not she wanted something, and he doubted it would be to his advantage.

The weather received short attention, his nieces and nephews a bit more. The duchess certainly knew them better than Rand, who had returned to London after an absence of six years, did.

“Have you met Jonny?” she asked.

Jonny. His cousin’s son.  The bride’s obvious pregnancy at the wedding had been the last straw. She had been Charles’s lover even as she still let Rand believe she loved him. She had led him by the nose the entire time.  He left or Canada within days and had not come back. None of that was the boy’s fault. Rand forced the muscles in his face to relax.

“I met him yesterday. One gathers he spends much time in my sister’s nursery with the other children. He and my nephew Toby are great friends. Drew’s as well.”

“Drew? You sister’s mysterious guest, I gather.”

“Drew’s mother is my, ah, friend.” Rand looked over at the empty hearth. He had begun to sweat and wondered at the heat.

“You are to be commended for your fierce protection of the boy and his mother. There is a sister as well, I’ve heard. The abuse of a domestic tyrant is a terrible thing, and you are quite right to intervene. A husband, even a poor excuse for one, complicates things, does it not?”

He expected something very different. Compassion can burden a man as well as condemnation, however, and this lovely woman threatened to weigh him down with it.

“The children’s safety matters, Your Grace,” he said, passion lending fierceness. “And Meggy’s as well. Once I’ve secured that I will go back to Canada. My business requires my attention.”

Her skeptical glance disappeared quickly as she lay down her teacup. “Yes, one gathers you are making the earl even wealthier. Timber, I hear.”

There was little point in confirming what she obviously knew. There has to be more. What does she want?

“In your goal to protect this woman you are lucky to have the assistance of your cousin Charles.” Rand went rigid and fought the urge to leap from his seat. She continued. “He isn’t the shy young man you left. His professional and political rise has been stellar and life—well, life hasn’t been kind to Charles. He has the fortitude, the skills, and the power to protect your Meggy.”

The thought of Charles with Meggy made bile rise in his throat, but she didn’t mean anything inappropriate. At least he hoped not.

The duchess leaned forward into his silence and patted his arm. “You would be wise to accept his help, Rand,” she told him. “Truly. You can trust him.”

Rand didn’t believe it, but he would accept the snake’s help if it meant Meggy’s safety. “I believe he has his own goals,” he said, trying to turn the conversation.

“Yes, someone is corrupting the coinage in our port cities. Sudbury fears some in the military may be involved as well.”

“That isn’t my problem. My cousin and my uncle may jump to Sudbury’s tune, but I don’t. I want Meggy safe; that is all.”

Her eyes bore into him. “You will do your duty, Rand. I know you will; its how you’re made. Perhaps you will get what your heart desires at the same time.”

“Perhaps.” Bloody, damned unlikely.

She leaned forward again; this time authority took the place of compassion. “Follow your heart Randolph Wheatly. Your instincts are right. And trust Charles. He won’t fail you.”  She fell back on small talk after that, and in short order Rand found himself skillfully dismissed.

“Charles? Bloody damned unlikely,” he repeated out loud when he reached the street.

About The Renegade Wife

Reclusive businessman Rand Wheatly finds his solitude disrupted by a desperate woman running with her children from an ugly past. But even his remote cabin in Upper Canada isn’t safe enough. Meggy Blair may have lied to him, but she breached the walls of his betrayed heart. Now she’s on the run again and time is running out for all of them. He will have to return to London and face his demons if he wants to save them.

A Night Owl and The Romance Reviews Top Pick, In D’Tale Crowned Heart of Excellence, and Reader’s Favorite Five Star book.

♥♥♥FREE♥♥♥ with Kindle unlimited or buy it at https://www.amazon.com/Renegade-Wife-Children-Empire-Book-ebook/dp/B01LY7IRT6/

Excerpt From The Renegade Wife

“I met Jonny,” Rand said, accepting a third glass of port.

“I expected you would. He spends much of his time at Chadbourn House.”

“He is a bright boy. You must be proud of him.” Rand gripped his glass. Should I mention his illness? He had no idea how comfortable Charles might be with the subject.

“I am. He endures his illness with courage and grace.”

Rand relaxed somewhat. “I wasn’t sure—that is, Catherine told me. I’m so sorry, Charles. It must be devastating for you, and for Julia.” He meant every word and was distressed to see Charles stiffen.

“I manage. I have no idea about Julia,” Charles said through tight lips.

Rand raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen Julia in two years. She hasn’t seen Jonny in longer. I have no idea how she ‘manages.’” He leaned toward Rand. “Don’t look at me like that, Randolph Wheatly. We separated less than a year after we married. It happens. If you had stayed, you might have delighted in my misfortune.”

Charles glared at Rand, who could think of nothing to say. When the silence became painful, Charles sank back in his chair. “Don’t worry. Though it seems unlikely Jonny will ever be duke, know that he is loved. I love him as if he were my own.”

As to Charles, the Duke of Murnane, watch for his story in May 2018

 

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Human beings need intimacy

I was talking to a friend about the stories I write, and what they have in common. When I said they all explore the shape and boundaries of intimacy, I found I’d taken us down a cul-de-sac of different interpretations, which was interesting.

To my friend, intimacy meant physical intimacy. To me, physical intimacy is an essential, but the least important part, of a romance. As I’ve posted before (in All you need is love and The Jude Knight Manifesto), I’m far more interested in creating connections between my characters that are emotional, intellectual, familial, and spiritual.

So what is the enduring appeal of stories about entitled alpha-jerks who accidentally discover true love with the woman they intended merely as a convenient shag-buddy?  You know the ones I mean. The hero is a duke or a billionaire or a football star, and the heroine is unwillingly intrigued, but ultimately gives up her own dreams to make his come true. Such tales usually come with explicit descriptions of the sexual act that focus on the woman’s pleasure, which often seems to be directly associated with her helplessness.

The Guardian had an interesting article on why many leading writers are abandoning such story lines. Do you read them? Do you write them? Can you explain this phenomenon to me?

 

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Tea with Rick

Lieutenant Rick Redepenning shifted to ease the ache in his leg. The butler had invited him to take a seat, but that would mean the whole rigmarole of rising again when the duchess arrived. He’d stand and avoid at least one embarrassing and painful display.

Not that Her Grace would offer anything but sympathy, but Rick was up to his eye-teeth in sympathy. His sister and her friends had been smothering him with it since this cursed injury beached him ashore, cast up without a ship and with other officers jumping ahead of him in preferment.

“Rick, my dear.” The duchess glided through the doorway, both hands out to greet him. “I am so pleased to see you up on your feet.” Without a glance at the walking stick he propped against the sofa behind him, she grasped his hands and stretched up to kiss the cheek he bent towards her.

“Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”

“Not ‘Your Grace’,” the duchess scolded. “Not from my godson, who has called me Aunt Eleanor since he was in skirts. Sit down, dear boy, and tell me what you have been doing since we last met. Let me see. You were still a midshipman, and came with your Admiral and his daughter to one of my balls.” She settled herself on the sofa at right angles to his own, and her eyes did not leave his as he made his awkward descent, finally propping the deuced leg before him like the burden it was.

“Mary Pritchard,” he agreed, the picture of the admiral’s daughter suddenly leaping into his mind. She wouldn’t be grumbling about an injury that would, in time, heal. Not Mary. No, she’d be off after every adventure London could offer, heedless of pain, danger, or propriety.

“Miss Pritchard is in London,” Aunt Eleanor informed him, “living with an aunt, a Lady Bosville. Word is that she will marry her cousin, Viscount Bosville.”

Mary? Marry? Sweet, dauntless little Mary? But she must be in her twenties, now, no longer the little girl with whom he had roamed ports in far flung parts of the Empire. He hoped the viscount was worthy of her. Perhaps he had better make a call on her and see. After all, when he was a midshipman with her father’s fleet, rescuing Miss Mary from had been almost one of his duties!

Rick is turned away from the Bosville residence, but when he flees to the country to escape the smothering of his sister and her friends, who does he find but Mary, running from the unwanted suitor being pressed on her by her aunt. The resulting story is my novella Gingerbread Bride which is the first story in The Golden Redepennings.

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The Orc ate my homework

The Gates of Rivendell

My apologies to you all for my neglect. I’ve been swanning around New Zealand having a marvelous time and ignoring the blog. We spent several days with PRH’s brother and his wife, then picked Caroline Warfield and her beloved up from the airport and showed them a few highlights of this island of our much cherished country.

Carol and Lizzi in the New Zealand bush

Our bush, our history, our thermal wonderlands, our mountains and lakes, and (at a number of different sites) our Lord of the Rings filming sites, including Hobbiton, Mordor, Rivendell, and Weta Workshop (who were responsible for the props and the special effects.

We also met up with Lizzi Tremayne, who drove through to Rotorua to join us at Rotorua’s buried village, site of my story Forged in Fire.

Carol and Beloved have left for the South Island, and I’m getting myself back into routine. The blog will be back to normal tomorrow.

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Tea with Aventis, daughter of Chronos

Her Grace shifts a rose a fraction of an inch in the display on the side table, and steps back to see the effect. The sound of door opening has her turn, to see Barlow, the butler, in the doorway.

“The Lady Aventis,” he announces, and checks the piece of paper in his hand before continuing, “daughter of Cronus, Father of Time.” He steps aside to allow today’s guest into the room.

She is a beautiful young woman in a flowing red and white dress. In one hand, she holds a trident, with the symbol of a red rose. Her beautiful cocoa skin sparkles, and her blue eyes gleams brightly.

Barlow’s usual unruffled air is slightly disturbed by the trident.

Aventis nods slightly, and moves forward. She hands the trident to Barlow, who takes it, looking at it with wonder and curiosity.

The duchess hopes her own discomfort is well hidden, though etiquette bothers her more than the trident. What sort of beverage does one offer to a daughter of the gods? “Would you care for tea?” she asked, “Or can I send for something else?”

“Tea is fine – Earl Grey would do,” says Aventis.” I am happy to make your acquaintance, Duchess. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. Milk? Sugar?

“Some milk, no sugar” Aventis replies, settling herself on the sofa that Her Grace indicates. “Are you acquainted with my father, Chronos?”

“I am not. I think, perhaps, we come from different parts of what my biographer calls the fiction-o-sphere.” She hands Aventis a cup, and begins to prepare one for herself. “Your father is Cronus, Father of Time, the invitation said, and it was addressed to the Realm of Wyrniverdon. Can you tell me more?”

Aventis nods. “Yes. The Realm Wyrniverdon is a collective — a Magical Force — that guards over the universe — a universe –— that has within her many different worlds. Angels, faeries are part of it, but also star goddesses, and so on. We all work in conjunction to defeat the darkness.”

“Defeating the darkness. That sounds important, essential, even.”

Aventis leans forward, her eyes intent. “But there is an impending evil, of a force so threatening that we have to galvanize our forces — including human beings — to defeat them.”

Her Grace’s hands still. For a moment, her eyes look at some inward thought, and they are bleak when she replies. “I have known evil. I work against it when I can.”

Aventis takes a sip before she continues. “There is one, Racine, who will be instrumental in this fight. She is not only human, but also has mystical origins. Soon, she’ll know part of that story – herstory – and more. There is not much time, but my Sisters are working on that front. Books, those papyrical friends, will help us. They are the Spark. They will also be the key. It will all manifest, and all my Sisters are working on this score.”

Her Grace ponders this, and asks, “Tell me what humans can do to support a fight that is waged by gods and angels?”

Aventis has a small smile as she replies. “We have to come together, and show kindness. We have to show empathy, and compassion. We have to uphold the values of community, the collective. We also have to lift up, and hold dear places of community, the public sphere, such as libraries.”

“In my time, and in my universe, libraries are not public spaces, but it is an interesting idea. I must give that further thought.” Her Grace, a well known supporter of education for the masses, looks into her tea as if the answers float on the surface.

“They will also be key in helping to defeat the darkness,” Aventis assures her. “Technology will be an enemy, and humanity will have to decide – is convenience more important, or holding on to what it means to be human? These decisions will have to be made – if not, further disasters will be looming.”

The duchess shivers, as if she can feel the disasters drawing nearer, and Aventis assures her, “Racine will learn about all these things. She will be up to the task. She doesn’t think she will be, but she will. My Sisters will see to that.”

Her Grace seizes on the new subject. “Tell me more about your sisters, Aventis.”

Aventis is only too happy to oblige. “Angelaes created the community, The Collective. She is also a Guardian Angel, watching over those who are in despair. She created the Realm Wyrniverdon, for those who feel like outsiders, who feel like they don’t belong. She is on a mission to make the world a more welcoming place. She has keen insight, understanding, and intuition, all aspects of being an angel.”

“So the Sisters are angels?”

Aventis shakes her head. “Some are. Some are faeries –  others are selkies. Some are both human and mystical – which is the line that Racine is descended from. Many are part of the Realm Wyrniverdon, and whoever asks for assistance, whoever asks for aid, whoever has a heart that is breaking, the Sisters from the Realm Wyrniverdon are there to help. They are all strong – in one way or another. The Word for them is powerful, and is also the Key to answering the mysteries, the questions of the Universe.”

“Then you are prepared for the fight to come,” Her Grace says.

“I am gravely concerned about what is coming,” Aventis tells her, “But, if we all prepare, there is nothing we can’t handle. I am happy that you will join us in this fight. It gives me hope, in this dark hour.

Racine: The Sisterhood Stories

In a world divided by fear, hate, and prejudice, Racine embarks on a journey to discover who she really is. After a life time of alienation and rejection because of the colour of her skin and her Black heritage, she discovers the ultimate truth of good is wrapped up in the magic of the Story. Stories have the power to change the world, but first, the stories need unlocking.

https://www.amazon.com/Racine-Sisterhood-Stories-Alison-Clarke-ebook/dp/B0719TWJZ9/

Meet AC Clarke

www.twitter.com/mythologist200

https://instagram.com/monetlover200

https://www.facebook.com/Alison-Clarke-749948061789271/

 

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Clothing on WIP Wednesday

Today, I’m looking for excerpts that include a description of clothing. I’m not a great one for writing these, but sometimes they really matter to my characters. I recently included in a blog post the clothes that Aldridge wore to Becky; his waistcoat was a subtle jab at Hugh. Often, a person’s clothes (observed by the protagonist) tell our hero or heroine — and the reader — something about that person. Sometimes, the protagonist’s reaction tells us something about them. In House of Thorns, I have Bear making assumptions about Rosa based on her clothes.

Which left him here, with an unknown female under his roof and not another human being within a fifteen minute walk, if Pelman was to be believed.

He peered more closely at the female in question. Could she be Pelman’s sister, come to secure her position? On the whole, he thought not. She looked nothing like the rather fleshy steward, whose receding hair was a dirty blonde rather than this tiny lady’s rich chestnut. Besides, would Pelman dress his sister in near rags, neatly mended and clean, but much washed and threadbare? And the boots displayed by his careless disposition of her skirts were likewise clean and polished, and worn to the point that the woman had tucked cardboard inside the sole.

Poor thing.

And I’ve just written a description of Rosa’s gown for her wedding.

Once Sukie had been despatched with the dressmaker’s maid to fetch Rosa a cup of tea, Rosa asked the dressmaker for directions to a place she could send her letter. Delighted that it was no more than a couple of streets away, she then put the letter out of her mind to focus on the gown.

It was the most beautiful gown Rosa had ever seen; not the light-weight shimmering silk that Bear had initially picked, suitable only for evening, but a figured silk in a slightly heavier weave, made up as a day gown, with a modest scooped bodice and long sleeves. The dusky pink ground bore a repeated motif of stripes and flowers, and the effect had been enhanced by embroidery on the cuffs and hem, using the same shapes and slightly darker colours.

The dressmaker and her seamstresses fussed over the exact fit of the bodice, and the length of the cuffs. There was a pellise, too, short waisted and in a darker rose.

She enjoyed the fitting much more than she had expected, which made the hour fly past. “We have little to do, ma’am,” the dressmaker said, at last. “An hour, no more. You are welcome to wait, or if you have errands…?”

An hour. With the rest of the hen money in her reticule, and a wedding present for Bear to purchase, it would be barely enough.

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Tea with the Duke of Winshire

After a particularly vigorous practice bout with his son Andrew, the Duke of Winshire was mopping the sweat from his torso. He had held his own, Persian art of the samsir against the French sword play that Andrew and his older brother James, Lord Sutton, had been learning here in London.

The three of them were arguing the finer points of the match when the butler entered, his usually bland face unusually anxious, a calling card held high on a silver tray.

“You have a visitor, Your Grace. Two visitors, I should say.”

Winshire lifted one brow. “Am I at home to callers? It is but eleven of the clock.”

Bartlett’s frown deepened. “If you would look at the card, sir.”

Winshire picked it up, and the second brow flew up to join the first. “Her Grace of Haverford? Here?”

“Escorted by the Marquis of Aldridge, Your Grace. Should I tell them you are not receiving?”

“Are you not receiving, Your Grace?” The voice from the doorway had him spinning around and reaching for his shirt, all in one movement.  Eleanor Haverford’s hazel eyes twinkled, not in the least abashed at his lack of attire. “Are we to go away and try again by appointment?” she asked.

Winshire barely spared a look at the tall fair man at her shoulder, though he noted that the slight amused curve of Aldridge’s lips belied the watchful caution of the hazel eyes inherited from his mother.

On either side of him, his sons were also on full alert. The feud between the Haverfords and Winshires  had so far confined itself to insults and legal wrangles between the heads of each house. Winshire would prefer to keep it that way.

And whatever Eleanor wanted, it would not be war between them. She had welcomed his heir into one of her houses (albiet in the absence of her husband). Yes, and supported Sutton’s courtship of her goddaughter, Sophia.

He bowed, conscious that her gaze was not unapproving, and resisting the urge to preen. “If you will forgive my state of undress, Your Grace, and give me a moment to amend it, I will be at your service. Bartlett, show Her Grace and his lordship to the Red Parlour. Order tea and refreshments, please.”

“If I might strain the bounds of my welcome still further, perhaps Lord Sutton and Lord Andrew would be willing to show Lord Aldridge their weapons. I am sure he will find that far more interesting than the conversation of two old friends.”

Aldridge’s startled look lasted a fraction of a second, replaced by the bland expression the English aristocracy practice from the cradle.

Winshire bowed again, and Eleanor followed the butler from the room, leaving the three younger men to cluster around the swords, and Winshire went off to wash and change, wondering what had brought her to him.

He’d been back in England a year, the second son returned to inherit all after the death of the first. He’d spent the previous thirty-four years in exile for daring to love, and be loved, by the lady the Duke of Haverford had chosen for his bride.

Haverford still held a grudge. He had claimed that Winshire’s marriage was invalid, and his sons illegitimate. He had lost the case, and now refused to occupy the same room or even street as Winshire. Haverford’s wife and son clearly had a different view.

And, equally clearly, Eleanor wanted to speak with him alone.

Time to go and find out why.

In Part 3 of A Baron for Becky, Eleanor and Aldridge go to the Duke of Winshire to seek his support to have Hugh Overton’s peerage descend to his daughter. The scene above shows what happened when they arrived. The courtship between James, Lord Sutton, and Sophia Belvoir, mentioned above, is described in The Bluestocking and the Barbarian.

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Sunday spotlight on Vicky Adin and her historical fiction

The exciting aspect of writing historical fiction inspired by immigrants is that they all came from somewhere else. I get to learn about and write about all these different places, and since we travel a lot, I can also visit many of these places as well.

Daniel, the protagonist in the time-slip novel, ‘The Disenchanted Soldier’, I tracked down in Derbyshire, even though he was born in Liverpool. The delight in finding family headstones, family houses, and streets named after family members will stay with me always. Follow the researcher as she uncovers the family secrets.

Megan, of ‘The Cornish Knot’, is a modern Kiwi woman through and through. It’s not until she is sent the journal her great-grandmother wrote a century earlier does she learn about her family connections in Cornwall. The journal takes her on a journey from Cornwall to Paris, Florence and Venice as she unravels the secrets Isabel took to her grave. I grew up in Cornwall, so it was even more of a delight to revisit my old haunts and remember my childhood while I was developing a totally different story-line.

Charlotte is English. Preferring her roses to people, Charlotte doesn’t make life easy for her counter-protagonist, Emma. She never quite admits where she was born to the journalist as she delves into the story behind the famous author in ‘The Art of Secrets’.

Lace-making is the skill Brigid uses to find a new life for herself away from the poverty and starvation of her native Ireland. She tries first in Australia, but has better success in New Zealand in ‘The Girl from County Clare’.

If you have a sweet tooth, then Gwenna’s story is for you. The young confectioner is determined to bring her Pa’s dreams to life despite her step-brother Elias, despite Black Jack Jones, and despite being young and female in Victorian New Zealand. She is so determined to succeed she is blind to the obvious and risks losing that which matters to her the most.

My current WIP doesn’t stray beyond the streets of Auckland during the Edwardian era, as the children in ‘The Girl from County Clare’ and ‘Gwenna’ grow up and forge a new life.

Meet Vicky Adin

Multi-award-winning historical fiction author, Vicky Adin is a genealogist in love with history and words.

After decades of research Vicky has combined her skills to weave together the intriguing secrets she uncovered with historical events in a way that brings the past to life.

Fascinated by the 19th Century pioneers who undertook hazardous journeys to find a better life, especially the women, Vicky draws her characters from real life stories: characters such as Brigid, the Irish lacemaker in ‘The Girl from County Clare and Gwenna, the Welsh confectioner, or Megan who discovers much about herself when she traces her family tree in ‘The Cornish Knot’.

Vicky Adin holds a MA(Hons) in English and Education. She is an avid reader of historical novels, family sagas and contemporary women’s stories and enjoys travelling.

For more information, visit her website http://www.vickyadin.co.nz

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Ferry cross the Mersey

Looking to Liverpool from the Seacombe foreshore, in around 1816. The small boat on the right is a ferry.

My current work-in-progress is set in a village on the Wirral Peninsula, across the River Mersey from Liverpool. Which means I’ve been researching the Mersey ferry. Or, I should say, ferries.

It turns out that people have been running a ferry service across the Mersey for well over a thousand years. Historians agree that such a service, by row or sail boat, predates the Benedictine Priory at Birkenhead, but once the monks were established, they did their best to monopolise the trade. Annoying for the other locals, but useful for historians, since we have the records of the court cases they took to try to stop other providers.

The monks charged for the service, which helped to pay for the hospitality they offered travellers at the abbey. Some of the unauthorised providers were less scrupulous, overloading their boats and charging much higher fees.

After the dissolution of the monasteries, the right to offer a ferry service changed hands a number of times, and at tunes several formal services were offered, as well as the age old recourse of the traveller: a request to any inhabitant with a boat: ‘I’ll give you a bob if you row me over the river’. Travellers were advised to set the price before they got into the boat, and not to pay till they got out.

At the time I’m writing about, there were at least five routes operating: Liverpool to Woodside (the original route that the monks established), Liverpool to Seacombe, Liverpool to Eastham, Liverpool to Tranmere, and Liverpool to Rock Ferry.

The first steamship operated between Liverpool and Runcorn in 1815. The Elizabeth was a wooden paddle steamer, measuring 58 feet and 9 inches in length, and with a cabin that could take around a hundred passengers. The cousins behind the service were two teenagers, one a naval officer and the other a member of the local militia. It cannot have had the reception they hoped for, because the ship was sold in 1816 and the company dissolved.

In 1816, the steam packet Greenock replaced the Elizabeth. The Greenock was 85.3 feet in length. She remained less than a month on the Runcorn run, before being transferred to the Liverpool to Ellesmere Port route, taking travellers to and from the Chester canal.

Other steamers also criss-crossed the River Mersey in 1816, and soon more followed. The ferries were no longer dependent on the wind, and could run to timetable, which made the service much more reliable.

And the crossing was quick. The time recorded for the Aetna, which began a service from Liverpool to Tranmere in 1817 and continued for fifteen years, is five minutes.

The steamer service is a plot point in my story, which is set in 1816. My hero has purchased a half ruined manor house, and is restoring it to sell to a Liverpool business man, since steamers mean a regular and reliable service now connected this peaceful countryside to the city.

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Penitence on WIP Wednesday

I had two choices today, since Wednesday this week is both St Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent. I’ve gone with penitence, saying sorry, or failing to do so when it was called for.

Do you have that in one of your stories? Share an excerpt. Doesn’t have to be a main character, either, although mine is. In both of my current works-in-progress, my main characters put their foot in things. Here’s my hero Bear realising that he has messed up. Don’t worry, Bear. You’ll do worse before the story is over.

As Bear drove away from the cottage later that day, he was berating himself for being every kind of idiot.

Today, he had failed Rosa not once, but several times. First, he should have realised she had nothing fit to wear to church. He’d see the much-mended and faded gowns she wore every day, and knew she’d had little to no income for years. He’d had not time to repair the matter, since it wasn’t until she paled and stiffened at the church gate that he’d even thought about what she was wearing.

What courage she had. Head up, back straight, she’d marched into church beside him as proud as a duchess in silken splendour, and if her hand trembled on his arm not a soul but him would ever know.

Second, he had not thought about the reaction of the villagers when they heard the banns. Not until the rector started speaking and the whole church went silent. Then came the buzz of whispers, and Lady Hesquith standing. They brushed through it, thanks to the squire’s intervention and the rector’s support, but Bear could have bypassed the risk by simply not taking her to Matins today.

She’d impressed him again after the service, accepting good wishes with a smile and word of thanks, and ignoring those who glowered from the distance.

Third, he’d mentioned her relationship with the squire’s family, and followed up by telling her the full story. Of course she went straight to her father when they arrived at Rose Cottage, and demanded to know whether it was true.

At first, he had been bewildered by the question, then he took one of his erratic dives into the past, and began berating Rosa, calling her Belle.

“All you thought of was yourself, Belle. You knew better than to sneak off with a gentleman, and no true gentleman would have asked it of you. Especially since Pelman was all but betrothed to your cousin. And look where your selfishness led. You disgraced and abandoned. Your uncle sick from the horror of it all, and your cousin so bitter against you that she has had Rosie thrown out of her home. The best thing you can do for any of us is go back to London and leave us alone.”

And after that, he would only say, “Go away,” until Rosa gave up.

His outbreak seemed to confirm the rector’s story, but raised more questions. How did Pelman get into the story? Not the current Pelman, clearly, since he would have been a small child or not even born at the time of the scandal. And which sister gave birth to the baby?

“Ancient history,” Rosa said, her eyes damp but her lips smiling.

Not ancient as long as it had power to affect Rosa. Bear was two weeks away from vowing to love and cherish her all his life, and he was doing a poor job of it so far.

He could fix the wardrobe; had already invited her to take a day trip to Liverpool with him on the first fine day, so they could buy what she needed without the villagers commenting. He couldn’t help but wonder about Lord Hurley’s will. Did the old man truly make no provision for his librarian and the librarian’s daughter? By all accounts, Mr Neatham had been given a pension when he retired, and Rosa had been Lord Hurley’s pet, whatever the propriety of the relationship. It needed further investigation.

As for Rosa and her cousins, he had no idea how to fix it. Rosa’s naive belief that families did feud across generations brought a grim smile. She’d never met his mother.