Two reviews on Amazon (both five-star), two ratings on Goodreads (one five star and one four), and nearly 1,600 copies downloaded.
And Mari Christie, who–as Mariane Gabrielle–wrote the excellent Royal Regard, features Candle’s Christmas Chair in her New Title Tuesday blog post.
I’ve joined a Facebook event called A Story for Christmas, and I thought you might enjoy the story I’m telling there. It is set at the other end of the 19th Century, and on the other side of the world to my novella and current WIPs. Here’s the first excerpt.
“I’ll be home for Christmas.” That’s what Rick had said, three months ago when he’d left their farm up in the high country. Since then, all Molly had had of him had been his letters. He wrote faithfully every day, and she wrote back, adding to each letter until they ran to pages and pages, and saving them until her monthly trips down into town, when she could collect his fat package and send her own.
Then she would drive the 15 miles home, and–between guiding the tired horse and refereeing the tired squabbling children in the cart behind her–sneak peeks at his precious words.
Sarah, Michael, and Charlotte missed their Papa, but not as much as she did.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” he finished the entry for each day, as if it was a mantra that, repeated often enough, would come true.
Molly couldn’t understand the goings on in far off Auckland, where lawyers squabbled over which of the competing heirs owned the estate left by Rick’s distant cousin.
“It would be a good thing for us,” Rick insisted. “We could afford servants to help you with the work. We could even move into Christchurch, where you could be near your family.”
She had shaken her head at that. She loved their land. She loved the high still bowl of plains, ringed by mountains with their caps of snow even now as summer crept over the land. Here, sitting on their front verandah on the morning before Christmas, she could look out over the nearby fields where the grain ripened. She couldn’t see the braided river that snaked through the valley, but she could hear it. In Spring, when the snow melted, it roared, but today it used its summer voice, chuckling over the stones.
Their grain. Their hens in the yard, their cows in the small field behind the house with the patient horses, and their sheep dotting the mountainsides all the way up to the snowline.
She couldn’t imagine exchanging the peace of their own farm for the leafy suburbs of Christchurch and the pleasures of colonial society. And she knew Rick loved this farm even more than she.
Inside the house, she could hear the children talking from their bed. She tucked the doll’s dress she was making back into her sewing basket. Time to serve breakfast. As she stood, she looked once more down the valley to where the road came over the pass. And stopped. There, just cresting the hill, was a far off figure.
Molly had laid the table after milking the cow, so there was little to do but ladle out bowls of porridge for the children. She set the rack of sliced bread onto the hot plate to grill. In between spooning mouthfuls of porridge into Charlotte, and batting Michael’s hands away from his bowl when he tried to use them instead of his spoon, she ran three times to the front door to see the traveller, who was closer each time.
Whoever it was–and she’d quickly realised it wasn’t Rick–he was walking. She didn’t think it was one of the Johnson men, either. The figure was not as thick-set, as the neighbours Rick had commissioned to help her with the heavy work and to check on her and the children every few days. And the Johnsons rode across the hill that separated their valley from hers and Rick’s. They didn’t walk.
On her third trip, she watched the traveller disappear below the grain, out of her sight. He would be on her doorstep within ten minutes. She buttered toast for the children, and spread it with jam, listening for the knock on the door.
When it came, it was soft, almost deferential. Even so, a dozen frightening scenarios flitted through her mind as she went to the door. Usually, she was too practical and too busy to worry about being here alone. But she couldn’t remember last time a stranger had come to her door. She opened it wide enough to see the stranger, but kept her hand in place to slam the door if she needed to.
He was thin to the point of gauntness, and his clothes were patched, faded, and frayed at the edges. A swagman. One of the army of unemployed who walked the roads looking for work, though he was older than most who pursued that life.
“Merry Christmas to the house, Mistress,” he said, with an elegant bow that would not have been out of place at the Mayor’s mansion in far off Christchurch. His voice, too, surprised. Quiet and husky, with a refined accent directly from Mayfair.
Lofty, the drifter, ate with intense concentration, as if he hadn’t seen breakfast in half a lifetime. Then he chopped wood with the same focus, quickly filling the wood stand near the kitchen lean-to. By the time Molly came to find him for lunch, he had chopped sufficient wood for another month of cooking.
He shook off Molly’s thanks, but she was grateful, anyway. For days, she’d been chopping just enough for each day, waiting for one of the Johnson men to turn up and replenish the wood pile as they’d been promising every time they rode over.
Perhaps he would consider mending the fence that she’d patched? If Daisy the house cow was not such a calm beast, she’d have been out of the field and up into the hills long since. And Daisy’s growing calf was a far less tractable animal. The Johnsons had promised to fix the fence and neuter the bull calf, but always on their next visit, never the current one.
Before long, Lofty was whittling the end of a new fence paling to form a peg that would fit into the post. The two older children were sitting on the rung he’d already finished, listening awestruck to the story he was telling about Christmases he remembered from far away England.
Molly sat within earshot on the verandah. There, she could keep an eye on the children and Charlotte, who was asleep on a blanket at her feet, continue her sewing, and watch the road over the hill for Rick. Surely he would come today?
She was as fascinated as her children by Lofty’s stories. The childhood he remembered was one of privilege and plenty. What path brought him penniless to her door at the other end of his life on the far side of the world?
The Johnson men came thundering down from the hilltop, leaping the fence into the home paddock and out again perilously close to the children.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs Berringshaw,” shouted Mike Johnson, the oldest, his voice startling Charlotte awake. “We just came to see if your husband was home yet.”
“Not yet,” Molly told them. “I expect him today.” Then, to Charlotte, who was inclined to be fretful when woken, “Hush, baby. It is only some horses.”
The three brothers swung down from their horses, Jake and Zeke going to talk to Lofty while Mike came up onto the verandah.
“Mama says you’d better come over for Christmas tomorrow. Looks like your man isn’t going to make it,” Mike said.
“Thank your Mama for me,” Molly told him, firmly. “But the children and I will be having Christmas here. And Rick will be home. He promised.”
I’ll post the next excerpt once I’ve written it.
I asked those beta-reading my novel to come back with feedback by the end of December, but I’m already beginning to get some responses. What amazing people those beta readers are. I’m getting lots of affirmation, but also some really useful advice. Thank you so much, you wonderful people.
If I’m to have Farewell to Kindness up by 1 March for pre-orders, I have a great deal to do in January and February–and I just worked out yesterday that Encouraging Prudence will need to go to beta readers in mid-May to give the same kind of timeline. So the pressure is on, and the excellent feedback from the beta readers is going to be really useful in helping me focus my attention in the final edit.
Because I work in a writing business where everything must be peer reviewed before it goes to clients, and because my commercial writing is for people who ‘own’ the content, I’m used to accepting reviews. But serving the criticisms with a healthy dollop of praise certainly helps!
I absolutely love that each reader so far has become engaged enough with the characters to discuss their motivations. And every single one has commented on the death of one of my hero’s buddies in the final showdown.
K.M. Weillard has written a useful post for beta readers and authors. My beta readers so far have not needed any of her tips, bless them, but I’ll certainly follow her pointers for authors.
And, in honour of today’s Gospel reading, here’s another photo of my Jesse tree, with the angel of the annunciation to the left between the ten commandments and David’s heart of love for God.
The Christmas Season
(whatever your belief or religion)
is the time for merry-making and parties…
So come and join some wonderful authors
(and their characters)
for an Online Virtual Party!
Browse through a variety of Blogs
(hopping forward to the next one on the list)
for a veritable feast of entertainment!
(And as with any good party, you’ll find a few giveaway prizes along the way!)
Today, I’m officially launching my Christmas novella, Candle’s Christmas Chair. It’s available as a free download from Smashwords. They’ve been distributing to other ebookstores, and I’ll add links as the ebook hits the shelves of Barnes & Noble, Apple, and the rest. (Please note: Amazon insist on a charge of at least 99c, but you can download a mobi file for free from the Smashwords bookstore.) Merry Christmas. I hope you enjoy my novella.
Now join me in Avery Hall on Twelfth Night, 5th January 1805, and let’s play a few party games
Mary, Lady Avery looked around the large ballroom with great satisfaction. Everyone was enjoying themselves.
At the head table, the Bean King, her son Randall’s guest Lieutenant Beckett, was conducting a game of snapdragon. Randall was currently trying to snatch raisins and almonds with his teeth, ducking his hand in and out of the shallow bowl of burning brandy. Beckett had ordered the candles and lamps doused, and the flickering flames of the snapdragon bowl lit Randall from below, making him look strangely sinister, particularly costumed as he was.
All of the party wore costume of one kind or another, in the character that they’d drawn earlier in the day.
The chant of the other players came to an end, and they cheered Randall’s haul, calling out the silly nickname he’d worn since he was a tall skinny redhead just entering Eton.
“Candle, Candle, Candle!”
Randall gave his place to Miss Petherick, daughter of the local squire, and the chant started again as she darted her hand at the bowl, shying away before the flames could nip her fingers.
This had, perhaps, been the best Christmas ever. In the six weeks since Stir-up Sunday on the 25th of November, when the whole household had gathered in the kitchen to take turns in stirring the Christmas pudding, she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into every Christmas tradition she knew, and embellished them as far as she could.
She and Myron had only had the last three Christmases together in their lifetime. Myron had gone to India before she left the nursery, and in any case, Christmas was never celebrated in her father’s house. It was, in his view, a work day like any other. Partying was frivolity, and decorating was pagan.
The snapdragon game was drawing to a close, and several of Randall’s guardsmen colleagues were pouring wassail for the young ladies. She would have to watch their consumption. She had, herself, enjoyed a warming bowl from the wassailers when they came carolling up to the Hall earlier in the evening. Theirs was based on cider, but Mary was fairly certain that the guardsmen had added brandy to the wine, apples, and spices in the Hall’s wassail bowl.
Beckett was ordering that the lamps be relit. Some of the guardsmen did his bidding. After the wassailers and the mummers finished their entertainment, accepted their figgy cake pudding reward, and went on their way, the houseparty had split, with the gentry to the ballroom and the servants to the servants hall. They were enjoying their own Twelfth Night party, around a wassail bowl that was the counterpart to the one in the ballroom.
The young people were organising a game of Blind Man’s Buff. She moved closer to her brother Myron, out of the way of the players. Myron smiled as she came as close as she could without scorching herself. He sat almost on top of the fireplace where the remains of the giant yule log burnt. He said his years in India made him feel the cold, but she feared he was wasting away from the illness that he had not yet admitted to her.
Randall had led the team that brought the yule log in on Christmas Eve. It was Viscount Avery’s job, as head of the household, but her husband had not spent Christmas at Avery Hall for many years. Though this year he had joined them on St Nicholas Day, the 6th of December, and surprised her with a gift of bulbs for her garden. Myron had given her a length of Indian silk, and Randall, still on duty in London, had sent a ring cut in the shape of a rose, and a bottle of rose-scented perfume.
In many houses, the greenery and other decorations went up on Christmas Eve, too. Mary couldn’t wait. As soon as the first O Antiphon was sung, heralding the Christmas Octave, she and the servants dressed the house with evergreen branches, holly, rosemary, ivy, and mistletoe.
Yes, and ribbons and paper flowers, and cut-outs of dolls, and apples and oranges, and candles.
Every available surface was garlanded or framed, and every room had its own kissing bough, most now sadly denuded of mistletoe berries, one taken in payment for each kiss. The males in the household, of high and of low estate, had certainly done their duty this season!
Yes, it had been a wonderful Christmas; the best since Myron returned home three years before. Since Randall and his friends arrived on leave from London, the young men and women of the neighbourhood had flocked to the house every evening, and most afternoons. They had filled this Christmas season with laughter, music, games and dancing.
They had moved onto a game of Courtiers now, with the Bean King and the Pea Queen making ridiculous gestures, while the rest of the party copied them and tried to keep their faces serious. To laugh was to be disqualified.
Mary helped herself to a Twelfth Night pie. The food had been wonderful this year. Cook and her team had outdone themselves, filling the tables at every meal with festive dishes, such as goose, Christmas pudding, gingerbread, butter shortbread, trifle, and a whole host of vegetable, meat, and fruit dishes.
All too soon it would be over. Already, some of the parents were making moves towards leaving. And tomorrow, on the Feast of the Epiphany, the greenery would come down, the decorations would be put away, and the last of the yule log would be doused (and carefully saved to rekindle next year’s log). After church tomorrow, and an exchange of Epiphany gifts, Randall and his friends would head back to London and the new year.
Mary wondered what 1805 held for them; for the brave young men and the pretty girls; especially for her dear son.
(To find out what happens to Randall in 1805, please download Candle’s Christmas Chair.)
Thank you for joining my party
now follow on to the next enjoyable entertainment…
Thank you for joining us and:
And here it is, the last chapter of Candle’s Christmas Chair. Tomorrow, at the Christmas Party Blog Hop, I’m giving the novella its official launch. Please join me for a Christmas at Avery Hall in 1804, and then tour time and space with my 24 author colleagues.
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 13
The chair was done. It was, perhaps, the best Min had ever made. It was wrapped in protective blankets and secured to the top of the carriage that would take her and Mama to Avery Hall the following day.
As she sat with Cara in the tea rooms at the Roman Baths, waiting for Lady Cresthover to return from the retiring room, Min was thinking about the answer she would give Ran. She had done a great deal of thinking in the last two weeks.
She was no longer afraid of going into Society. Oh, the high sticklers and the bullies might never accept her. But enough of her old schoolmates had become friends that she need not fear isolation. She would never be a darling of the ton, but neither did she wish to be.
And she had learned that she could ignore any nasty remarks made to her. They no longer had the power to crush her, even without Ran’s support. If he stood at her side, she could face anything.
Ran at her side. That was the biggest lesson of all. Whether he meant what he said about her chairs or not, she was going to accept Ran. If she had to make a choice between her work or her love, she chose love. With him, she felt complete. His absence felt like a gaping hole in her personal universe. She could, if she must, do something other than build chairs. She could not contemplate facing the rest of her life without Ran.
“You are thinking about Lord Avery again, are you not?” Cara said.
“Is it so obvious?”
“You are just like Henrietta Millworthy. She loved the man she married, too. And before the wedding she used to drift off into nowhere, just like you.” Cara reached across the table and grasped Min’s hands. “Marry him, Min. Do not let cats like my cousin stop you.”
Min laughed a little. “I plan to, Cara.”
“And you will still be my friend, will you not?” Cara looked a little lost. “I will miss you when you move away from Bath.”
“I will write, and I will not be far away. I imagine we will be able to visit, you and I.”
“Well, is this not sweet? My cousin and her little shop-girl friend.” Lady Norton, her voice pitched to carry across the room, sneered down at them.
“I suppose you think you are so smart, Mini Bradshaw, trapping a peer. But you will never fit in. Do you hear me? Never.”
“Lady Norton, this is a private conversation,” Min said.
“He will not be faithful to you, you know. His father was notorious for his affairs. Ask her mother.” Lady Norton pointed a gloved finger at Cara. “Everyone knows her mother was one of his amours, when she was just plain Sally Hemple. He had a taste for a bit of the common, just like his son.”
Min met Lady Cresthover’s shocked eyes over Lady Norton’s shoulder and attempted to stem the flow. “Lady Norton, that is quite enough.”
Lady Norton took no notice. “Sally Hemple. My mother told me that she trapped my uncle. Just like you are trapping poor Lord Avery, Miss Bradshaw.” She gave her cousin a poke with one finger. “You should try it, Carrie darling. Before you crumble to dust on the shelf, you poor old thing.” She swayed a little. “Ooops.” She caught herself by grabbing the back of a chair, and laughed her tinkling laugh.
Lady Cresthover was whispering to a footman, who nodded and hurried away.
“He is not very good in bed, Miss Bradshaw. You should not hope for much. Perhaps you could get my Auntie to give him a few pointers?”
The footman was back, with a colleague. Lady Norton yelped as they took an elbow each.
“How dare you! Unhand me. Do you know who I am?”
She was continuing to protest as they half carried her out of the room. “A very sad case,” Lady Cresthover said in a carrying voice. “A sad unsteadiness in her mother’s family, you know.” She dropped into a piercing whisper that could be heard in every corner of the room. “It is said that her grandfather thought he was an elephant.”
“Come, Cara, Miss Bradshaw.” Ignoring the embarrassed titters, she sailed out of the room, Min and Cara in her wake, and Polly the maid scurrying behind.
In the foyer, Lady Cresthover ordered Lady Norton into a sedan chair. “It will keep her out of the public eye,” she said, her voice back at its normal volume. “Miss Bradshaw, do not be concerned about my niece. She will retiring to a quiet place in the country.” She turned away to follow her daughter and the chair, then turned back again. “And I can assure you that young Lord Avery is nothing like his father.”
~*~
The men worked all night by lantern light to finish Candle’s surprise. He was tempted to wait until she had given him her answer and then show her. He would love her to choose him without his gift. But no. He wouldn’t play games, and wouldn’t take the risk she’d turn him down and then refuse to change her mind.
He would show her first, and then propose to her again.
He checked the surprise for the third time that morning, ran inside again to see if a message had arrived from the gate yet, stopped to ask his mother how she was, and went back out to the steps to see if he could see their carriage.
The weather was cold, with gusty showers that hinted at sleet in their future. He hoped Bradshaw’s carriage was warm. What was he thinking! The man was the king of carriages. He would send his womenfolk in the best he had.
Returning inside, Candle looked around the entry hall. Yes. It looked splendid. Mother loved Christmas, and took no notice of the tradition that decorations must wait until Christmas Eve. As soon as the Christmas Octave started on the 17th of December, she mobilised the entire household to transform the house into a Christmas paradise. The servants had outdone themselves this year. Every surface sported ivy, holly, and greenery. More greenery was tied to the stair balustrade with bright ribbons, and ribbons festooned the kissing balls of holly, ivy, rosemary, and mistletoe. Mother had made enough kissing boughs to put one in every room, upstairs and down.
“My Lord, she be here! Her carriage be coming down the hill.”
Candle waited impatiently at the bottom of the steps, and was at the carriage door as soon as it rolled to a stop. The door swung open before he could grasp the handle, and Min tumbled out into his arms.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Ran, yes. I will marry you.”
Later, after he had kissed her, been kissed on the cheek by Mrs Bradshaw, and escorted them inside to his mother for congratulations and more kisses, he managed to detach Min from the admiring group around the new chair.
“I have something for you, beloved. A surprise present for Christmas. Mother, Mrs Bradshaw, I am taking Min to show her her present.”
The mothers waved them away.
~*~
Ran refused to tell her what the surprise was, but he took her outside, and to a building behind the stable. “Stop.” he commanded. He rushed ahead and opened the door, then returned and covered her eyes with his hands. “I’ll guide you. Take three paces forward. Now turn slightly and take one more pace. Now feel forward with your foot for the step. There are three steps. One; two; three. Two more paces. Stop.”
He removed his hands.
Min stared. Then turned her head. Then turned in a complete circle.
“Ran? Ran, it’s my workshop.” She ran forward and brushed her hand over the draughting table, picked up and put down the pens and pencils waiting for her, straightened the blotter. Next, the workbench, where racks waited for her tools, still back in Bath in the racks he’d duplicated. The shelves of supplies were mostly empty, too, but she could imagine them filled.
“Ran.” She smiled at him and his dear features wavered as her eyes swam with tears.
He looked concerned. “Min? Is it alright?”
“It is the most wonderful thing anyone has every done for me. My workshop.”
“How else are you going to keep inventing your wonderful chairs, my love?”
“Ran.” That seemed to be the only word she could say, but she invested it with a wealth of meaning. Then she melted into his arms, and neither of them spoke for some time.
~*~
Candle Avery was climbing the hill track in the rain. He was cold, wet, and thoroughly happy.
He and his companions had refused a lift on the cart taking the freshly cut yule log back to Avery Hall. The hill track was the quicker way. And at the Hall Min waited for him. Min Avery. His wife of three days.
He’d be hard put to pick the happiest moment of his life. When she tumbled out of the coach and accepted his proposal? When she agreed to using the special licence he’d obtained, and to marrying him as soon as her family could come from Bath? When he’d turned from his place before the altar and seen her walking towards him in a cloud of lace, or a few minutes later when she’d given him her hand and her trust with her vows? When she welcomed him into her embrace and her body later that night? When he woke up the next morning to her shy suggestion that they should make love again?
Each day, he fell in love a little more.
They crested the top and Daniel said something Candle didn’t catch. Michaels gave Candle a friendly punch on the arm. “No point in talking to him,” he told Daniel. “The man walks around in a daze.”
“To be fair, we are intruding on his honeymoon,” Daniel noted.
To be fair, they were mostly being careful not to intrude. But it was Christmas Eve, and it was his job as master of the house to collect the yule log. “My wife and I want you to enjoy your Christmas in our home,” he said. As well as Min’s family, Michaels and Miss Cresthover had come for the wedding, and were staying for Christmas.
“Preferably without disturbing you and your wife. Yes, we understand,” said the irrepressible Daniel.
Michaels gestured ahead. “Who, if I do not mistake, is coming to meet us.”
Below, two women waited in the shelter of the summerhouse.
Sure enough, as the men drew level with the structure, Miss Cresthover and the new Lady Avery dashed down the steps under their umbrellas.
“So do we have a good yule log,” Min asked.
“An excellent one,” Daniel said, “but I’m sorry to say we failed in one mission.” He let his eyes, lips and shoulders droop.
“What was that?” Cara could be depended on to ask the questions that set Daniel up for whatever punchline he intended to deliver.
Candle held Min back, letting the others go on ahead, but they could still hear Daniel’s reply as the three in the lead turned the corner of the path.
“We couldn’t find any mistletoe to replace all the berries Min and Candle have used, so nobody else in the Hall can be kissed, Miss Cresthover.”
“But Mr Whitlow, you kissed me this morning!” replied Cara.
“I kissed you this morning,” Candle told Min.
“Really? I am not sure that I remember. Perhaps if you do it again?”
After several minutes, he drew his head back. “Min, the yule log won’t be here for another hour. Shall we go up to bed?”
“Up the stairs in front of our friends and family? Ran, I could not.”
He thought for a moment of suggesting the back stairs, but through the kitchen full of servants wouldn’t appeal to her, either.
“However,” said Min, “your study has a sofa and a warm fire, and I unlatched the window before I came out.”
“Ah, Min,” Candle told her, “how lucky I am to have a clever wife.”
THE END
Thank you for reading my novella. For a copy of your own, please choose one of the retailers linked from my Candle’s Christmas Chair page.
The plan was that the maid-of-all-work who cooked and cleaned for my Farewell to Kindness heroine and her sisters would be a magnificent baker, and win prizes every year at the village fair. I envisaged lovely light cakes and bread to die for. And jam. Wild strawberry jam, made from berries collected by the hero and heroine together.
But as soon as I began to research early 19th Century recipes, I hit a problem. Anne and her sisters lived in a workers’ cottage, on of a row of cottages built for his tenants by a former Earl of Chirbury some 200 years earlier. Yes, they had the largest dwelling in the row. Formerly two cottages, it had been knocked into one for a foreman perhaps, or some other slightly more prosperous tenant. But it was still fundamentally a 17th Century cottage, and the kitchen was very much a 17th Century kitchen.
What that meant was no oven. Not even a bread oven built into the brick of the chimney, which more modern and more substantial houses would have had at that time. Many of the villagers would have taken anything they wanted to bake to the cook shop, where it would be put into a large brick oven heated with firewood. The baker would burn exactly the right amount of wood to ash, then rake aside the ash and set the pots and pans in among them to cook in the heat radiated by the bricks.
Great houses, such as my Longford Court, would have their own brick ovens for bread built into a wall, and some might also have one of the brick stoves invented in the 18th century. Open at the front, they had a fire inside and an iron plate on top for the pots to sit on. The Rumford Stove, invented in 1795, was a huge improvement, since the heat could be regulated to give different pots heat at different times. It was not widely available just over a decade later and was, in any case too big for all but the biggest kitchen.
The efficient cast iron ovens that revolutionised cooking in the Victorian era were still at least 30 years away.
So in Anne’s little cottage – two rooms downstairs, and three up – cooking would have been done in an open fireplace.
Fireplaces were large, and set up a step from the floor. In an inn or great house, the fireplace might be so large that the cook would walk right inside, and move around the various fires that kept what was cooking at different temperatures. This was risky, especially in a long skirt, so many people would only employ male cooks for such establishments.
In Anne’s cottage, Hannah (the maid) would still have several fires, though they would be smaller and tended from the front. She would also have iron kettles and pots, spits to hold roast meat at the correct distance from the flame, and hooks that could be raised or lowered to regulate heat and swung away from the fire.
Food might also be cooked in a pot or kettle that sat on a trivet next to the fire, toasted on a fork, or baked on a skillet or griddle – a flat plate of iron that had been preheated either over the flame or by having embers piled on it.
Several times in the novel, Hannah serves drop scones that had been baked on a griddle.
But Hannah’s favourite tool was the dutch oven. An Englishman conducted a little bit of industrial espionage early in the 18th century, and brought the innovative Dutch process for making these cooking vessels back from the Netherlands. A kitchen such as Hannah’s would have had several, and would have used them all.
First, she would take embers from the fire, and sit the cast iron dutch oven directly on the embers. Then she would put into the oven whatever she wanted to cook – a stew, a cake in a tin, a loaf of bread shaped into the dumpy circle we still call a cottage loaf. After putting the lid on the oven, she would shovel more embers on top.
If she was making a complex dinner, she might stack one oven on top of another, with different dishes in each oven.
As to that strawberry jam, into a kettle with that, and over the fire, with a careful scoop of sugar – not too much. The price was coming down in the early 19th century, but it was still a great luxury for a household living on the edge of poverty. Once the jam had boiled to setting stage, she would have carefully ladled it into earthenware pots, and sealed the tops with melted wax and waxed brown paper.
And here is what happened when Anne, her sisters, and her daughters went berry picking, and met the Earl, his sister, and his nieces:
The group sorted themselves into teams: Anna and Daisy, chattering away as they picked strawberries, feeding half to the baskets and half into their mouths; Amy, standoffish at first, thawing out as she talked books with Miss Kitty; Susan and Miss Haverstock bonding over a discussion of art and music.
That left Reede to work with Mrs Forsythe and Meg. Meg ate as most of the strawberries she picked. Reede began passing her some of his, and Mrs Forsythe scolded him, half laughing.
“But they taste so good!” To prove it, he popped one in her mouth, his fingers lingering for a moment on her lips, brushing past her cheek. Their eyes caught, his suddenly hot; hers with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Apprehension, perhaps. Some yearning, though that might have been a figment of his own desire.
Meg broke the moment, pressing a strawberry into Reede’s own mouth. “Taste so good!”
He savoured the sweet taste and the rich smell. “Yes, Miss Meg. It tastes very good.” But his eyes drifted back to Mrs Forsythe’s lips. She, he was convinced, would taste even sweeter.
The last half of chapter 7 of Candle’s Christmas Chair leaves us with just one post to go. I’ll upload the final excerpt on Friday my time, and launch the full ebook on Saturday evening my time. Look for the post, and for the links to resellers on the book page. I had great fun writing the dialogue in the last part of this excerpt. I hope you enjoy it.
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 12
The flowers continued to arrive, and so did presents of produce from Avery Hall. Min didn’t need the constant reminders. Ran was a phantom presence wherever she went. Everything she saw or heard, she wanted to share with him. Ran would like this. Ran would find that funny. Ran would be interested.
The nights were worse. Ran had woken something in her. She didn’t know how to ease whatever he had aroused, but she knew who could ease it.
And all the time, Ran’s view of her chair making, and her father’s opinion of that view, warred in her head.
One morning, the note with the day’s present went beyond the usual compliments, adding:
“I beg Mrs Bradshaw and Miss Bradshaw to do me the honour of accepting my escort to the Lower Assembly Rooms this evening.”
Min had been planning to go—the next step in her experiment in social climbing. But going with Ran would be wonderful. Mama sent a note back with the Avery servant, inviting Ran to dinner, and Min hurried to the workshop to make an early start on the day’s work.
Ran was in Bath! Min half expected to see him on her walk to work. She almost stayed in her walking dress, in case he came to her workshop, but common sense prevailed and she donned her overalls.
She would see him tonight. Tonight, she could tell him all the things she had been saving up to say, and she could hear about his week at Avery Hall, and about Lady Avery, and the planned gardens, and the performance of the chair, and the progress of the renovations…
Min caught herself. When had her life begun to revolve around this man and his concerns?
Suddenly, he was there. “Min.”
She dropped her tools and walked into his open arms for a kiss that satisfied and, at the same time, left her longing for more. All too soon, he put her gently from him.
“Min, I won’t stay. But I couldn’t wait to see you. Have you been well? You look well.”
“Yes. And you?”
“I’m well now,” Ran said, and the warmth in his eyes said much more. “I must go. I have appointments today… I will see you tonight, Min.”
One more kiss, and he was gone. So much for keeping her head until she had made her decision.
After daydreaming for an hour, Min packed up and went home. She was accomplishing nothing today.
~*~
Candle was humming to himself as he walked into the White Hart after seeing the Bradshaw ladies home. The evening had been wonderful. The dancing, the conversation, the food, everything had conspired to provide a perfect evening. And, at the centre of it all, his Minerva.
She was his, he was almost sure of it. He hadn’t asked her again, but tonight she’d had her armour down. She’d been happy to be with him; she’d let her hand linger on his in the dance, and she’d leant into him when he’d offered his arm to go in to supper. Two dances had not been nearly enough; Candle would have taken every dance, given a choice.
But he’d played at being civilised, even danced with other females, although there was only one in the room worth thinking about.
Surely she was planning to say yes? Her father thought so, but her mother warned him not to be too certain. And in the light of what her cousin had let slip, Candle was more and more sure that it might take his secret plan to convince his Min she could trust her future to him.
Candle stopped at the desk to see if there had been any messages, and waited while the clerk checked.
“Candle, old man.”
“Michaels; good to see you.”
His friend grinned. “I saw you at the assembly, but you didn’t have eyes for anyone but that black-haired beauty you were escorting. Gorgeous female. Lovely…” He cupped both hands in front of his chest and jiggled them up and down.
“The future Lady Avery,” Candle warned. The clerk was shaking his head. No messages.
Michaels said a cheerful, “Sorry,” but was not at all abashed. “When’s the happy day?”
“She hasn’t accepted me yet. But she will.” If he said it often enough, perhaps it would be true.
“I imagine she will,” his friend agreed. “Candle Avery, the man who never gives up. Look, Candle, I thought you might have those militia training plans you promised me.”
“They’re up in my room; come on up and I’ll give them to you.”
They were discussing the most recent news from the Fleet as Candle opened the door to his room and led the way in.
“Will you have a drink?” Candle asked, crossing to the decanter on the sideboard.
“Uh, Candle.” Michaels was stock still in the middle of the room, his face suddenly neutral. He was staring at the bed.
“Candle, darling, come back to bed.” Lady Norton, her hair hanging down across her shoulders, sat up in his bed. A sheet preserved some shreds of decency, but she was clearly naked. Very naked.
Candle was suddenly coldly furious. “You mistake, madam. I would sooner bed a snake.”
“But Candle! After the afternoon we had?”
The door opened again, and Kitteridge burst in. “What are you doing with my sister, you villain?” he declaimed, then frowned at Michaels. “He isn’t meant to be here.”
Lady Norton struck her forehead with the back of one hand. “Guy! Candle, we are discovered! My brother knows all!”
Candle suppressed a laugh. High melodrama indeed! Though it would be quite unfunny if he had come up to bed on his own, or if he didn’t have witnesses to how he’d spent his afternoon and evening.
“Michaels, shut the door, will you? We’ll keep this to ourselves if we can.”
“You have compromised my sister! I demand satisfaction.” Clearly Kitteridge intended to follow the script despite the unexpected addition to the cast.
“Very well,” Candle said. “Michaels, will you stand my second?”
“Not a duel. Marriage. You’re meant to marry her,” Kitteridge explained.
“No,” Candle said.
“But she’s in your bed. You have to marry her.” Kitteridge was pleading now.
“Kitteridge, I have been in company every minute of the day since I arrived in Bath. I have witnesses who will swear to that. The only one to suffer if you and Lady Norton insist on making a scandal is Lady Norton.”
He turned, then, and locked eyes with Lady Norton, but continued to address Kitteridge. “I don’t know whether your sister is after my money or if she is with child again, but I will not be her dupe.”
Lady Norton shrieked at the suggestion she might be pregnant. “Guy! He has insulted me! Call him out!”
“But Vivi, he has been a soldier. He’s probably a good shot.”
“Regimental champion three years running,” Michaels offered. He was bouncing forward on his feet, like a boy on outskirts of a fistfight: close enough to see the blood but preserved from any pain and having a wonderful time. “And he’s none too bad with a sword.”
Kitteridge nodded vigorously, and said, “He’s good with his fists, too. You should have seen him at school. He’d go into this sort of calm rage, and nothing would stop him.”
“I’ve seen it,” Michaels agreed. “A sort of cold, logical beserker. Very scary. I wouldn’t duel with him if I were you.”
Candle was keeping an eye on Lady Norton. She was assessing every object within reach. He recognised the signs. He’d had a mistress who threw things when she was upset. Yes. There went the jug, water and all. He’d been ready to duck, but obviously she was angrier with her brother.
The jug struck a glancing blow, and what water hadn’t already soaked the bed and sprayed across the floor finished up on Kitteridge’s jacket.
“Vivi!” he complained, “I hope that doesn’t stain.”
“Mr Michaels and I are going downstairs,” Candle told them. “We will return in 30 minutes, bringing the manager with us. I suggest the two of you leave before that time. And Lady Norton, Michaels and I will keep this to ourselves. But only if you do not try anything like it again.”
They didn’t speak as they descended the stairs. Candle ordered a brandy each, and they took it to a corner of the public room. “Well,” Michaels said. “You do know how to make an evening entertaining, old chap.”
Candle’s Christmas Chair is almost ready to be uploaded. I’ve written the front and back matter, finished the formatting, proofed to the halfway point (which took just over an hour – so I’ll finish that after work tonight), received my ISBN numbers, read everything Smashwords provides about publishing on their platform, and created an author profile on Amazon.
If I upload today or tomorrow, it’ll be ready for the launch on Saturday (Sunday my time).
By the way, Amazon won’t let me offer Candle for free on their Kindle Direct Publishing platform, so I’m putting it up at their cheapest rate, which is 99c. However, I’m told that they will price match, so do me a favour would you? Once it is available on iTunes and Barnes and Noble for free, ask Amazon to price match?
By the end of the week, I need to have written my blog post for the Blog Hop. I’m planning a short story set at Christmas in Avery Hall in 1804.
And by Sunday, I need to send some brief details about me and my novella to Mari Christie, who has offered to feature it on her blog on 23 December. Thanks, Mari.
I’ve also volunteered to be a team leader for the 10 Minute Novelists 365K Club, a year long challenge to write an average of 1,000 words a day. We kick off with a chat a bit later this morning.
I have several tight deadlines at work, with around 50 hours of work to do before the office closes next Tuesday.
On Friday night, I’m bringing three grandchildren home with me for another craft day (same script as last weekend, different cast).
And I’ve promised to help prepare the church overheads for the Christmas masses.
No need to panic. I can do this. Breathe. Just breathe.
Continuing with Candle’s Christmas Chair. I have one more chapter to read into the recorder, then I’ll do the paper proofread while listening to the playback. I hope that’ll help me pick up all the proofing errors. I plan to put it up to the distributor on Wednesday, so it is ready for you to download by the middle of the weekend, wherever in the world you happen to be.
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1
Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 11
Whatever Mother said to Min, she was quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the walk home. Both mothers went for a rest as soon as they’d eaten a nuncheon.
“Would you like to see the succession houses?” Candle asked Min.
He took her the long way around, through the gardens she’d not yet had a chance to see because of the rain. As he’d hoped, they were deserted. All the gardeners were with their families enjoying a Sunday rest.
Avery Hall had three succession houses, One was given over to grape vines that snaked along the walls and looped overhead, and strawberries in pots. One was growing late autumn and early spring vegetables. And in the last one, they saw the first person they’d seen since they left the house. Mugridge, the head gardener, was checking the fire that was used to keep the succession house warm.
He nodded to Candle, and smiled warmly at Min, giving her a somewhat deeper bow. The servants, who adored Mother, had taken Min to their hearts—at first for what her chairs meant to Mother, but then because she was sweet, unassuming, and genuinely interested in them.
“I be just checking this fire, my Lord, Miss. Won’t be long.”
Candle showed Min along the lines of seedlings—trees, shrubs, and flowers being propogated to fill the garden in spring. True to his word, Mugridge very soon said, “I be off now, then. No-one be coming this way till night time, now, my Lord. Close up when tha leaves, will ‘ee?”
Candle promised, and turned back to Min. She looked both apprehensive and amused, with amusement winning.
“He thinks we want to be alone,” Candle explained.
“I gathered that,” she replied.
“Come. Take the chair near the stove.”
It was somewhat battered, but sturdy. She sat in it and he settled himself at her feet.
It was an odd setting for a proposal, but safe. Any place he could be sure of being alone with Min in the house was a place he’d already imagined making love to her in. He wasn’t confident that he could control himself if she accepted his proposal. Or even that he would get to the proposal before…
He had to stop that train of thought. The succession house was becoming less safe by the minute. He was already thinking of the logistics of lovemaking here in the dirt among the seedlings. His coat spread to protect her dress… No. Not here. Quite apart from the respect he owed to an innocent and his future viscountess, he had no intention of consumating his desire in front of a hundred glass panes.
“Min, you know what I want to ask you.”
“I think I do.”
“Will you, Min? Will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”
“Ran, I am not from your world.”
“I know you are too good for me,” he joked, “but I’m hoping you’re prepared to make the sacrifice.”
“Ran, I am serious. I am the daughter of a carriage maker. You are a peer. Society…”
“Min, I love you. If you love me, then Society can go hang itself.”
“I want to continue making chairs.”
“I hope you will.”
“Really? You would not mind?”
“Min, you have a gift. I want you to use it. Say you will marry me, and I’ll have the bans read. We can be wed before Christmas.”
She withdrew. She didn’t move a muscle, but he felt her pulling into herself, away from him.
“Don’t, Randall.”
His full name. That couldn’t be good. But he wasn’t Lord Avery again, which was a hopeful sign.
“Is that a no, Min?”
She shook her head.
“Is it a yes?”
Another head shake.
“Min?” He came up onto his knees in a single motion, and captured her face between both of his hands, looking into her grey eyes.
She collected herself then, his brave little goddess. “When I come back with the chair, I will give you your answer.”
And then she pressed her sweet lips to his and he was lost. With a groan he enfolded her in his arms, slid his hands up behind her head, and deepened the kiss.
It could have been a minute; it could have been months. Time ceased to exist as he explored her mouth and she followed his lead. Her tentative movements, bold and shy at the same time, intoxicated him and he was conscious of nothing but the burning need to sink into her softness. Until a piece of gravel on the path turned as he shifted his knee, and dug into his skin.
He drew away from her with a groan.
Had he done that? Her lips were swollen and red, a sleeve was pulled down baring her shoulder, and one glorious breast was nearly tipped out of her dress. Another nudge, and he’d see…
He blinked, and shook the idea out of his head. “Min, my own dearest love.” He had to be calm. She looked as dazed as he felt. Probably more so, given her innocence. If his world was shaken, hers must be reeling.
“I would help you put yourself to rights, beloved. But I don’t dare touch you.”
She straightened her dress, repinned the lace cap she wore in her hair, rewrapped her shawl around her, all the while sneaking peeks at him and colouring each time their eyes met.
Before they left the succession house, he put a finger on her now clothed arm.
“Min, will you accept my apology, beloved? I meant no disrespect, I promise you. I should never have kissed you. I know how powerfully I react when we touch.”
To his surprise, she suddenly grinned at him. “Ah but Ran, you forget. I kissed you first.”
~*~
Daniel must have left Bath before dawn. He was at the door by mid-morning, and wouldn’t accept Ran’s invitation to stop for lunch. Rain was coming, he said, and he wanted to be safely back in Bath before the deluge.
Min, her valise packed with all the notes and drawings she needed to finish the chair, kissed Lady Avery on the cheek, and gave Ran her hand. He lifted it and deliberately placed a kiss in the palm.
“Bring it back to me, Min,” he said.
She almost told him, then and there, that she would marry him, but—no. She had to get back to Bath. She would make her decision without his disturbing presence tugging her to fall into his arms.
Neither Daniel nor Mama commented on the kiss. Mama asked after Papa, and then she and Daniel discussed the dispatches about the Navy’s victory. They were calling it the Battle of Trafalgar, and nearly 450 British sailors had died. Almost ten times as many died on the other side.
Min didn’t contribute. Mostly, she didn’t listen. She sat and thought about chair design, and what she needed to do to finish Candle’s chair for his mother in time for Christmas.
And all the while her thoughts kept going back to Candle’s kiss, and to the answer she would need to give him.
~*~
Min strode across the yard, her pattens sending sprays of water flying from puddles she ignored in her indignation. Daniel was in the outer office. She didn’t trust herself to speak in front of the clerk; she jerked her head towards the inner office, and went through to wait for him.
He was quick to join her, his face wary. “Now, Minnie, what has got your back up?”
“Did you tell…” She caught herself. Took a deep breath. Best to check the facts first.
“Richards has ignored the instructions I left, redrawn my designs, and reworked the chairs for the Barfoot sale. He claims he had your authorisation.”
Her cousin’s eyes gave him away, sliding evasively to one side. “Now, Minnie. Richards is a good foreman.”
“You gave him authorisation to change my work,” she said flatly.
“He’s highly experienced, Minnie. He said a few changes would save materials and increase our profit.”
“A few changes that mean we do not meet the client’s specifications and will not make the sale.”
“You are exaggerating. He showed me his drawings. Sound carriage design.”
“Unsound chair design,” she snapped back.
Papa entered the room, saw the two of them, and closed the door behind him.
“What’s going on?”
“I want Richards out of my workshop,” Min told Papa, not taking her eyes off Daniel.
“She is upset about a few economies that I approved.” Daniel put on his ‘I am reasonable and you are a female’ voice. “Look, Minnie, you have to let go and let us take over. After all, you will leave all this behind you when you marry your Viscount.”
“Point one,” Min thought she did well to keep her voice calm and level, “I have not accepted Lord Avery’s proposal. Point two, if I do accept, he has promised that I can continue making chairs. Point three, the chair workshop is mine, and you had no right to allow Richards to disobey a direct instruction.”
“Well, Minerva. Strictly speaking he is general manager of the whole works,” Papa said. The traitor.
She looked at the two of them in silence for a moment. First things first. She needed to deal with the chair disaster.
“Let me explain the problem, gentlemen. Richards has scaled down standard carriage parts.” Blank looks. “Scaled them precisely. Without any consideration of the structural integrity of the new thicknesses.”
The two men exchanged glances again. Consternation had replaced smug commiseration. Just so, she thought with a grim satisfaction.
“All three chairs will need to be remade if we are not to forego 90 guineas and the chance of future orders. And I am fully committed on Lady Avery’s chair.” Fortunately, Richards had left that chair alone. She had made every inch of it herself, investing hours. She didn’t just want efficient engineering; she wanted a superb piece of furniture. Carved, turned, and polished woodwork for the handle; upholstery in the finest leather with a buttoned back and seat, sewn detail, and cording on the edges.
“I’ll see to it, Minnie.” Daniel sounded humble, but she couldn’t expect that to last. She was so used to his persistent belief in his male superiority that she noticed it only because of the contrast with Ran’s respect.
“Very well then. And Richards goes.”
“I’ll reassign him.”
“Thank you.” She could be gracious in victory.
She left her menfolk in the office they shared. She wanted to cut the leather for the arms and leave it to relax, and add another coat of polish to the handle. It could be drying while she went out to tea with Cara and her friends. She was cautiously venturing into Society, and finding it less threatening than she expected.
Bother. She had forgotten to tell her father that she wouldn’t be walking home with him.
Turning back through the outer office, she started to push the inner door open, and paused.
“Do you think Lord Avery means to let Minnie make her chairs?” That was Daniel.
“Don’t be daft. Whoever heard of a viscountess doing that sort of stuff? No he’s just saying it. Or he means it now, but will come to his senses soon enough.” That was Papa.
“Yes. You should have put a stop to it long ago, Uncle.”
“It made her happy. And she’s done some good work, you can’t deny it.”
“It isn’t right, though. A woman shouldn’t be doing carriage work, Uncle. I’m sorry to hear that Lord Avery is encouraging her.”
“You know what they say, lad: ‘When a man grows hard between the thighs, he grows soft between the ears.’ He’s soft on my girl, right enough.”
Min had heard enough. Her ears burning, she retreated to her workshop.
Were they right? Ran had sounded so convincing when he spoke of his hope that she would continue her work. But she had always known that marriage would make her dependent on the goodwill of a husband, and she had seen that the face a man showed before marriage was not always the one his wife saw after.
Could Ran be trusted?