And check out the reviews! To quote just one of the more than 25 already posted on Goodreads:
Absolutely fantastic anthology Ladies, as always truly wonderful reads and revisiting some old friends on the way.I truly enjoyed each story, there are lots of amazing twists and turns throughout each story contributed, and the dear Belles as always do not disappoint.
Thank you all this anthology been a complete joy to read. (Gwessie Tee)
UPDATE: The prizes for the blog hop have been awarded, but please read on for flash fiction and historical tidbits. Prizewinners names at the bottom of the post. Comments always welcome.
***
It was going to work!
Maddie Forrest had called in so many favours and promised more, that if she’d been wrong, she’d be ruined in all the ways a disgraced former lady’s maid could be.
“The ladies will want somewhere they can sit down and warm their hands around a proper cup of tea,” she’d told her brother Will. It was the first Frost Fair in a generation, and Maddie was sure they’d all come.
Will had scoffed. “Them proper ladies won’t even come down ’ere. Think they want to rub shoulders with the likes of us? Leave it to me, Maddie. This is our chance to make some real money.”
Maddie refused to listen. Will’s ideas about getting his hands on some cash were shady at best and mostly downright criminal. If she’s was going to get herself and little Nan out of London before Will found himself imprisoned or worse, she needed money, and the Frost Fair was her chance. Maddie knew what ladies liked. She’d been a favourite until she fell for the false promises of a black-hearted gentleman.
That, she thought, as she smiled a welcome at yet another group of fashionably dressed ladies as they entered her booth, was her biggest remaining risk, now that the Duchess of Haverford had made all her dreams come true by bringing some huge ton event onto the ice. She was counting on no one knowing her from her former life and spreading around the gossip that the hostess of this discreet and convenient booth was a fallen woman, dismissed without reference when found to be with child.
The chance was low. No one looked at servants. As she served tea and plates of tiny tarts and cakes, the ladies in their fine gowns and warm coats huddled around the braziers that she had begged from a friend in the Night Watch and ignored her, except to speak orders to the air with every confidence that their desires would be met.
A gentleman entered, escorting two ladies. Maddie took their cloaks and showed them to a table. The tent had come from the pawn shop, and she shuddered to think of the payment the pawnbroker would have demanded had she not made its hire fee in the first day on the ice. Yes, and enough to pay for the tables and chairs, too.
“I’ll think of something a fine woman like you can do for me,” he’d told her, his leer leaving no doubt about his meaning.
She didn’t need to worry about the pawnbroker now. She already had his fee wrapped in a package and hidden under her bed. And she’d arranged for her landlady to give it to the man the day after Maddie and Nan got on the stage and left town.
“What is your pleasure?” she asked the ladies who had just taken their seats. She rattled of the types of tea she had available; the foods that local bakers were supplying for her to sell on their behalf, with a small commission sticking to her pocket with every sale.
She was also being paid for supplying the booth two doors up, where the Ladies Society was giving pamphlets about the plight of those returned, and the families of the dead and injured. Yes, and the fortune teller’s booth, and the book tent. She was even making a few extra coins selling tea out the back of the tent made from the great folks’ leavings, with each steep fetching a progressively lower price. Even the chestnut seller could afford to bring her own mug to Maddie’s friend who was serving out the back, for a weak brew that cost her a farthing.
Maddie’s grin at her own success won an answering smile from the gent. He was a handsome fellow for an old man. “Can you also take tea – strong, black and sweet – to my two men outside the tent? They’re the ones in the red coats and large hats.” He handed over a half crown, and for that she would have served half a regiment. Maddie offered him change and her heart sang when he refused.
She poured the ordered tea into mugs for the lesser folk, and carried them outside. Her eyes widened. The men were barbarians of some kind, in red coats like banyans, almost knee length and richly embroidered, and bushy hats made out of sheep’s wool.
“Your master asked me to bring you this,” she told them. They thanked her like civilised beings, but her heart still thumped in her chest as she retreated inside, stopping in the entrance to allow a veiled lady to go first.
Before she could show the lady to a table, the gentleman with the barbarian servants stood and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the lady said. His Grace? The gentleman was a duke? He must be the Duke of Winshire, then. Maddie should have realised. The papers had been full of him for nearly a year, ever since he arrived back in England with an army of barbarians, including his own foreign born children. And there were some of the barbarians right outside her tent!
She crossed to the table to ask for the lady’s order, hoping she would lift the veil. Surely she knew that voice? She was to be disappointed. But as she turned away to make the ordered Oolong, the Duke of Winshire leaned forward and used a finger to lift the veil aside. “How is it?” he asked.
Maddie had a bare moment to catch sight of the lady’s face. The Duchess of Haverford herself sat in Maddie’s tent with the Duke of Winshire, one side her face a massive bruise discernible even through powder intended to conceal.
There must be a story there. Perhaps Maddie could tell the Teatime Tattler, which had a booth several Frost Fair streets over? But no. She’d done all sorts of things to win the funds she needed to give her and Nan a fresh start, but she’d never hurt another person. Whatever the duchess was up to meeting her husband’s greatest enemy, it was nothing to do with Maddie or the Teatime Tattler.
Besides, she owed the Duchess of Haverford for the success of her booth, and for the idea that had just entered her head. She’d taken home one of the pamphlets from the Ladies Society last night, and read it, too. All about the plight of those hurt by the wars over in France, where that fiend Napoleon was trying to scoop up all the countries over there before coming for England. Injured soldiers had a hard time, and so did their families. But widows and orphans were even worse off.
Maddie could be a widow. Why not? Start again where nobody knew her. Perhaps get work in a shop, or even – if the Frost Fair lasted long enough and the crowds remained as large – rent a shop: one that dressed ladies. Who better? Maddie almost sang as she tidied up tables and served more customers.
The Duke of Winshire came to talk to her after the veiled lady left. “I think you recognised the lady who joined me at my table,” he said.
“Discreet and comfortable, it says on the sign, Your Grace,” she told him. “I saw nothing and I know nothing. You can count on me, Sir.”
He examined her face, and must have been satisfied, for he smiled again. “Be sure that you speak of this to no one,” he advised, and she nodded.
He pressed something into her hand then turned away and unhurriedly joined his companions, who were waiting by the door.
Maddie watched him go before looking down. She knew it was a coin by the shape and size of it, but a spade guinea! She could get 27 shilling for that, easy. Why, even as a maid, she’d not made that much in a month! She hadn’t had any idea that keeping secrets could be so lucrative!
For the rest of the day, Maddie hummed as she worked. If just a few more people came to the tea booth seeking a place to hide their secrets, she and Nan would be in clover.
Tea was not the only beverage on sale. No doubt coffee and hot chocolate had their place, too, and all kinds of hot and cold alcoholic beverages. What would you want to drink and eat if you were attending a frost fair. Comment on this post, each of the other four, and the page on the Belles’ website to go into the draw for the main prize in the blog hop, a $50 US Amazon card.
All comments on this post will go in a draw for an e-copy of one the four earlier Bluestocking Belles’ collections, plus a copy of my Paradise Regained, the prequel to The Children of the Mountain King.
Next up: Anna’s Hot Roast Chestnuts!
I don’t have any evidence that the 1814 Frost Fair included a tent where ladies of refinement could escape from the crush of the common people to purchase a good cup of tea, but why not? The ice offered entertainment for all classes and of all kinds, and not everyone enjoys mulled wine and copious quantities of ale.
My tea lady’s experience with the ton was not uncommon. A maid seduced or raped by a so-called gentleman was assumed to be of loose morals and carried all the consequences, while the gentleman was forgiven, because everyone knew that the lower classes were asking for it, and men couldn’t be blamed for taking what was offered.
The secret meeting touches on the matters in my series, Children of the Mountain King, but the main action here and in the rest of the blog hop is Fire & Frost. Don’t miss our five tales of love in a time of ice.
In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples venture onto the ice in pursuit of love to warm their hearts.
Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.
In their 2020 collection, join the Bluestocking Belles and their heroes and heroines as The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans pursues justice, charity, and soul-searing romance.
Celebrate Valentine’s Day 2020 with five interconnected Regency romances.
Melting Matilda by Jude Knight – Fire smolders under the frost between them.
My One True Love by Rue Allyn – She vanished into the fog. Will he find his one true love or remain lost, cold and alone forever?
Lord Ethan’s Courage by Caroline Warfield – War may freeze a man’s heart; it takes a woman to melt it.
A Second Chance at Love by Sherry Ewing – Can the bittersweet frost of lost love be rekindled into a burning flame?
The Umbrella Chronicles: Chester and Artemis’s Story by Amy Quinton – Beastly duke seeks confident woman who doesn’t faint at the sight of his scars. Prefers not to leave the house to find her.
Congratulations to Cheri, winner of the overall prize for the blog hop, and to Kimberly, who has won two ebooks: her choice of one of the Bluestocking Belles’ earlier collections (Holly and Hopeful Hearts, Never Too Late, Follow Your Star Home, or Valentines From Bath), plus a copy of my Paradise Regained.
Starting tomorrow, the Bluestocking Belles are taking you on a tour of the 1814 Frost Faire. Start on this blog for a piece of short fiction, prizes, and more. Then follow the links to each of the booths in turn.
Or go to the Bluestocking Belles’ website for blog hop central, or to the blog Facebook page for more about the fair and links.
Hot mulled wine and a book on the wooden table. Fireplace with warm fire on the background.
In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples find a love to warm their hearts. Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.
Our view of Georgian life is often coloured by fictional accounts of high society, where ladies spent vast amounts on bonnets and gentlemen gambled away entire estates on an evening’s card game. Which is a fair reflection of a small part of society, come to that. But one in ten families lived below the ‘breadline’, and at times as many as two in five. Many people were precariously balanced on a knife edge where illness, accidents or old age could tumble them into starvation.
The Poor Law was meant to make sure such unfortunates had the help they needed. Wealthy households paid a levy to the parish, and local overseers apportioned financial hand-outs, clothing and fuel, and bread to those who could prove they belonged to the parish and therefore had a right to its support.
Where the parish authorities were genuinely charitable, poor relief might tide a family through a bad patch so they could get back on their feet. But the idea that poverty was a character fault is not a 21st Century invention. Strident voices wanted the poor to suffer for their charity handout.
IN 1722, the first legislation passed allowing parishes to provide poor relief in specially built workhouses. By the end of the century, more than 100,000 people lived under their stringent and often dire regime.
The sexes were segregated, and the able-bodied set to work, with strict rules and routines. Some workhouses were pleasant enough. Others were no better than prisons, and many of the poor preferred to starve rather than be put in the workhouse.
They were overcrowded, and the people in them often overworked and underfed. Epidemics tore through them, and the deathrate for people of every age, and particularly for newborns, was brutal. Nearly 2,400 children were received into London workhouses in 1750. Fewer than 170 of those children were still alive in 1755.
The parish levy wasn’t the only funding for the poor, though. Many landowners (and particularly their wives) kept to the age-old tradition of providing food and other items to those who lived on or near their estates, and some continued this one-on-one help in town. They also joined groups to provide help for those who needed it.
Private charities collected money for initiatives such as the Foundling Hospital in London, which cared for children whose mothers could not support them, the Marine Society, which trained poor boys for a life at sea, the Magdalen Hospital for Penitent Prostitues, various hospitals to provide free medical care, and educational initiatives. I particularly like the name of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Poor, Infirm, Aged Widows and Single Women of Good Character Who Have Seen Better Days. The days of 140 character tweets were well in the future.
To raise money, these charitable groups used the time-honoured idea of offering tickets to an entertainment: balls, musical concerts, art exhibitions. Some charged a weekly subscription to support their work. Some solicited donations through pamphlets and direct approaches to possible donors. (Some people have suggested balls were a Victorian contrivance, but British newspapers contain advertisements for charity balls and assemblies, or reports on them, going back to the middle of the previous century.)
Groups would also get together to raise money for a friend in need; perhaps someone who had been injured or widowed. In the British Newspapers Online archive, I found a number of advertisements for events ‘for the benefit of Mr. Xxx’, which is, of course, where we get our term Benefit, to mean a charity event.
While men ran many of the great philanthropic institutions, charity was “the proper public expression of a gentlewoman’s religious energy”. [Vickery, 254] Many women joined benevolent societies (where members agreed to provide support for any of their number who fell on hard times) and a huge number of women founded or joined charitable groups that supported what they themselves would have called ‘good works’.
Porter, Roy: English Society in the 18th Century. Penguin, 1982
Uglow, Jenny: In These Times, Faber & Faber 2014
Vickers, Amanda: The Gentleman’s Daughter, Yale, 1998
White, Matthew: Poverty in Britain. https://www.bl.uk/georgian-britain/articles/poverty-in-georgian-britain
Fire & Frost is coming out Tuesday of next week, and since the five tales of find love in the depths of winter revolve around a charity event, I thought it was a good time to look at Georgian charities.
In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples venture onto the ice in pursuit of love to warm their hearts.
Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.
In their 2020 collection, join the Bluestocking Belles and their heroes and heroines as The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans pursues justice, charity, and soul-searing romance.
Celebrate Valentine’s Day 2020 with five interconnected Regency romances.
Melting Matilda by Jude Knight – Fire smolders under the frost between them.My One True Love by Rue Allyn – She vanished into the fog. Will he find his one true love or remain lost, cold and alone forever?
Lord Ethan’s Courage by Caroline Warfield – War may freeze a man’s heart; it takes a woman to melt it.
A Second Chance at Love by Sherry Ewing – Can the bittersweet frost of lost love be rekindled into a burning flame?
The Umbrella Chronicles: Chester and Artemis’s Story by Amy Quinton – Beastly duke seeks confident woman who doesn’t faint at the sight of his scars. Prefers not to leave the house to find her.
(This post was originally written when we were promoting Holly and Hopeful Hearts, a collection about an earlier Charity event organised by the Duchess of Haverford and the ladies of London Society. It was published by the wonderful Madame Gilflurt on her Madame Gilflurt’s Guide to Life.)
Another delightful story in the Chronicles of Aunt Harriett’s Umbrella of Destiny.
She felt his gaze everywhere and suddenly felt the earnestness behind his words. “Unbelievable,” she agreed and touched her hand to his cheek.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then, “I cannot believe I almost gave it all up—”
“The chance to argue with me?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “And to make up.”
“To shun society with me?”
“And to parade before them and show them how little we care.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Well, then there’s nothing for it, get on with it then.”
He pulled back as much as the length of her arms would allow. “It?”
She leaned in, and stood on her tip toes, closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Kiss me, my beast. Here, now.”
He didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapped around her, and he swooped in and kissed her. Finally.
Our heroine, who doesn’t take nonsense from anyone.
Lord Henry’s careful voice reached out. “Do I have one pound for this lovely basket of delights?”
Basil Driscoll, a man of dubious reputation, raised his hand, and Artie glanced to Theo, who looked alarmed. Whispers floated over the air, and Artie did her best to ignore them. Everything would work out in the end, she was sure. It was not like she was expected to be alone with the man. And she certainly wasn’t afraid.
Lord Henry nodded and looked out. “How about two pounds? Do I hear two?”
A tall, thin man stepped forward, hand raised. “Two pounds.”
Lord Henry asked, “And you are?”
The man bowed, his ears turning red. “Mr. Dorian Simmons, secretary to the Duke of Eastly; I’m bidding on his behalf.”
A collective gasp echoed around the room, and the harsh word, Beastly, could be heard on faint whispers beneath the din.
Artie darted a glance to Theo, who’d turned beet red and wore a look of utter embarrassment. “Your brother?” Artie mouthed.
Theo winced. “Sorry,” she mouthed back.
Artie turned away and crossed her arms. She’d never met the elusive duke, despite her friendship with Theo, but her friend was forever singing his praises. Reclusive beast or not, Theo’s brother or not, how dare the man think he could bid on her basket and not even bother to make an appearance. What? Was she expected to eat her own basket by herself? Would the secretary take off with it, take it to the elusive Duke, and leave her here alone?
Not if she had anything to say about it, even if she ended up having to fight off the advances of that fiend Driscoll as a result.
Lord Henry spoke up. “Do I hear three?”
Artie stood, ignoring Theo, who whispered sharply, “Artie. What are you doing?” and said, “Lord Henry, I’m afraid I cannot accept the last bid.”
Lord Henry smiled. “Come, dear. Surely you do not believe the rumors…”
Artie shook her head. “That is not my point. I will not accept a bid from a man who could not even bother to make an appearance or offer in person.”
She genuinely couldn’t abide the type of man who never lifted a finger but to order others around, particularly the servants or any that sort of man felt were beneath them. She imagined Eastly as a man pale from lack of sun and weak from dearth of exercise. Though that image didn’t fit the painting Theo had drawn in Artie’s mind. In Theo’s eyes, her brother was a veritable saint, the very image of perfection in manners, in mind, in form. Apart from the scars, of course. And strong. The outdoorsy, sporting type.
But perhaps, Theo didn’t see her brother as he truly was, rather maybe, she saw him through eyes filled with love.
Driscoll snickered.
Theo dropped her head into her hand.
Lord Henry glanced warily at Driscoll and said, “But Miss Synclaire, it’s for a good cause—”
Artie could feel the eyes of everyone in the room darting back and forth between her, Lord Henry, and Mr. Simmons. Her cheeks heated, and she lifted her chin. “Nevertheless—”
Driscoll shouted, “Three pounds!”
Everyone gasped.
Mr. Simmons pulled at his cravat and quickly rejoined with “F-four pounds.”
Lord Henry glanced to Artie, who crossed her arms and turned to the secretary. He may have pulled at his cravat, but she read determination in his eyes. He would not fail his employer. Well, then.
Artie turned back to Lord Henry. “All right. If Mr. Simmons wins the basket, I shall dine and dance with Mr. Simmons. Not His Grace. Clearly.” The din of voices grew louder at that pronouncement.
And our hero, the Beast.
He hadn’t intended to reveal himself. Nor to offer such an outrageous sum.
But he’d found her, in a word, magnificent.
Her eyes glimmered with intelligence and audaciousness; her posture suggested confidence and courage. Fire, wit, mettle, beauty…everything he’d ever dreamt of in a woman. He’d spoken before he’d even completed those thoughts. Who could blame him? He was only truly surprised there hadn’t been an all-out war for the opportunity to procure her basket.
She could have packed boiled turnips (he’d rather drink from the Thames), and he’d have still bid the same.
As Eastly entered the luncheon tent and approached her table, he spared a quick glance toward his sister, who had the good grace to offer him a sheepish smile. He’d deal with her later.
Then he caught sight of Aunt Harriett, who winked and raised her cup to him. He’d deal with her, too.
He focused on Miss Synclaire.
He was already consumed with the daring woman before him.
And she returned his gaze with such intensity, he momentarily forgot all about his scarring, not to mention the whispers of beast dripping from everyone’s lips. A first.
He’d been captivated the moment she stood and dared to risk the wrath of a Duke, particularly one with a reputation that was the stuff of children’s nightmares.
“Miss Synclaire.” He executed a flawless bow.
“Duke.” She dipped her head as she followed his movements with her eyes. Eyes that didn’t hold a trace of fear, merely interest.
The effect on his body was most inconvenient. Eastly pulled out his chair, and out of habit, checked its structural integrity. At six foot five, he was not a small man, and the delicate furniture so fashionable today was ill-suited to his size. The specimen groaning beneath his grip was no exception and was an example of one of many reasons why he preferred the comfort of his own home.
But there was nothing for it; he couldn’t very well stand. So, he hooked Harriett’s Umbrella on the back of the chair and sat. With extreme caution.
Miss Synclaire leaned to her left and watched. Slowly, she straightened. “Five pounds says it doesn’t last the hour.”
Next up, the lovely tale of Constance and her Digby. You might remember Constance. She was a secondary character in one of Sherry’s earlier stories. Lovely to see her get her happy ending at last.
Viscount Digby Osgood returns to London after a two-year absence, planning to avoid the woman he courted and then left. Surely she has moved on with her life; even married by now. A bit of encouragement from a friend, however, pushes him to seek the lady out. Can she ever forgiven him and give them a second chance at love?
Lady Constance Whittles has only cared for one man in her life. Even after he broke her heart, it remains fixed on him. Another man tries to replace him, but she soon learns she can never feel for him a shadow of what she still feels for Digby. One brief encounter with Digby confirms it; she is more than willing to forgive him. Can they truly take up where they left off?
Charity projects and a Frost Fair on the Thames bring them together, but another stands in their way. Will he tear them apart?
And an excerpt:
Digby opened his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a carriage. His vision was blurred. Where had his spectacles been placed? He fumbled around for them on the bedside table and slowly put them on. Once he could see clearly again, he took in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar room, but one thing was very familiar to him. Constance slept on the loveseat, a surprise to him. He watched as her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. She was stunning, even in sleep, and all he wanted to do was take her in his arms.
“Constance,” he whispered softly. His throat was raw, his voice raspy at best.
His lady’s eyes fluttered open, and her gaze fell on him. A smile turned up her mouth softening her features, and she threw the blanket off to rush to his side.
“At long last,” she cooed. “Your fever has broken.”
“Fever? What fever?” Digby looked down at his naked chest. In his gentlemanly modesty, he pulled the covers up to his chin, so as not to frighten the woman before him. “Uh… forgive my indecency.”
“You have been ill, my darling. I insisted you be brought to my aunt’s since it was closer than your own townhouse. Your parents have been sick with worry and have been here to check on you several times.” Constance motioned to a maid sitting near the door and began giving her instructions. “Janet, please see that a message is relayed to Lord Osgood’s parents informing them he is now on the mend.”
Digby ran his hand through his hair and winced, noticing the knot on his head. “And why is my head so sore?”
“You had an altercation with Lieutenant Abernathy after my fall through the ice. He is responsible for you hitting your head when you, too, fell. The doctor believed you would not have a concussion as your head injury was not that severe. We have been assured the sleeping you have done was due to a nasty bout of the flu. We took every precaution, however, in the event your illness was more severe.”
“You did?”
“But of course,” she said busying herself by fixing him a cup of tea. “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.”
He took the cup and sipped, peering at her over the rim. Looking about the room, he was again surprised to notice they were alone. “You… took care of me yourself?” he asked, afraid of what the young woman may have gone through while tending him.
She blushed, most becomingly he thought. “I did what I could, when my aunt allowed it, Digby, although my aunt protested that others could see to tending you and my reputation was at stake. I told her I did not care a fig for my reputation. My main concern was you were properly nursed by someone who loved you.”
The lovely Constance:
Her breathing elevated just seeing Digby again, and she moved behind the desk to try to calm her thoughts. Still… she could not prevent herself from taking in the sight of him. His black hair curling at the edges was slightly damp where his hat had not covered his head from the falling snow. A slight cleft in his chin had always fascinated her whenever they had been together in the past. His face reminded her of the sculptures she had seen in her aunt’s garden; classical and timeless. But it was his vivid blue eyes that were her undoing. He gazed upon her as though asking if he was assuming too much by being here. The silly man.
“Too long indeed. There are not many who would brave such inclement weather to venture outside,” she finally answered hoping her assessment of him did not appear rude. “What brings you into the bookshop today? We have a new mystery if that is what you are looking for.”
“Not today,” he said while continuing to stare at her.
“Then if you have not come for a book, you must wish for some tea after being out in the cold,” she declared as she raised her arm toward the tearoom. “Feel free to pick any table.”
“I am not here for tea, either, my lady.”
Her breath leapt into her throat. Could he possibly mean…? “Then whatever brings you here today, my lord.”
“You.”
And Digby, home again.
Richard motioned for a passing servant to refill their glasses. “What are you doing here, Digby?” he asked, before taking another sip of his brandy.
“I offered my services to the duchess in whatever capacity she may need. This event will benefit so many, and the monies raised are for a worthy cause,” he answered.”
“And…” Richard drawled. He hid a smirk, leaving Digby in no doubt his friend knew exactly why he was here.
“And I also accompanied Lady Constance Whittles and her aunt to attend the committee meeting.”
Richard laughed. “About time you made up with the lady. Saw her a couple times after you left town. She looked completely crestfallen.”
“It certainly was not my intention to hurt her feelings,” he said. He took another sip of the drink and felt the liquor burn down his throat. The distant murmur of feminine laughter echoed through the hallway and Digby attempted to hide a smile, knowing Constance was most likely enjoying herself. “Perhaps one of the woman here might be of interest to you?” Digby hinted, taking another sip of his drink. “The de Courtenay sisters arrived. Lady Constance was having a pleasant conversation with Miss Miranda before their meeting started. From what I overheard, she is still available.”
I love all five Fire & Frost stories, but this is my favourite.
When a lovely—but foolish— young woman marches into an insalubrious alley full of homeless former soldiers, Ethan Alcott feels something he thought dead stir to life: his sense of honor and will to live. Her innocent efforts to ease the suffering of men might have touched his heart if she hadn’t put herself in danger to do it. Someone needs to take her in hand.
Lady Flora Landrum chafes under her brother’s restrictions, but she’s willing to compromise if they can join forces to join in the Duchess of Haverford’s charity efforts. When she discovers that the mysterious one-armed ruffian she encountered in a back alley is Lord Ethan Alcott, son of the Marquess of Welbrook, her astonishment gives way to determination to make the man see reason.
Courage takes many forms. As Ethan comes to admire Flora’s, perhaps he can recover his own.
And here’s an excerpt:
Flo heaved a sigh of exasperation and closed the distance between them, grabbing his shoulders, and meeting his lips with her impatient ones. After a heartbeat he returned the kiss with an achingly tender one, using his damaged arm to pull her close while he feathered his graceful fingers across her cheek.
“Much better,” she sighed against his neck, “But know this. I can wait out my mourning and your illness, but do not ask me to be patient.” She spat each of the last words out one by one. “I am not a patient woman when I know what I want, Ethan Alcott, and I want you.”
He kissed her again, this time deeply, passionately, possessively. When she moaned and pulled him closer, he pulled back, tipping his forehead onto hers. “Your brother believes you deserve a Season. I agree. If you still want this in a year…”
“God save me from men and their honor,” she muttered into his cravat. “I’m not promising an entire year. My time of mourning ends September third. I expect to see you at Chadbourn Park that very day.” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a shake.
“I will court you properly,” he swore.
She rolled her eyes. “If you insist, you may make it a courtship, but Ethan, don’t be too proper.” Then she kissed him again, and he forgot to reply.
Meet Flo:
“War is an ugly thing. It demands inhuman amounts of courage, and can be soul destroying.”
“You mean they may have turned coward? They bring shame home with them?” Flo asked, trying to think it through.
“Sometimes, yes. But war can strip off the veneer of civilization. Men are driven to savagery of which they didn’t know themselves capable.”
“But not all of them surely, and the war is necessary, is it not?” Flo asked. “The Corsican is a beast, and if they don’t defend us what will happen?”
“Necessary, perhaps, but the longer it goes on the more it eats at them. They see and do things they can’t talk about at home—both on the battlefield and off.”
Flo mulled that thought over for a while. Her companion’s sympathetic voice interrupted her reverie. “We’re not meant to know, and they’re not to be condemned by those of us who weren’t there.”
“No, I suspect not. Who knows what we would do in that situation? The women of Spain have suffered greatly,” Flo murmured. The papers spoke of hunger and disruption, but she could guess what undefended women on their own might face.
Lady Georgiana nodded gravely. “We can only care for them, while they heal.”
“Shame would be a terrible burden, would it not?” Flo remarked, not requiring an answer. The image of Ethan Alcott’s deeply sorrowful eyes came to her.
What had those eyes witnessed? Things he dreads his family knowing, I’ll wager.
Another thought came to her. Her sister never spoke to Flo about her marriage. Flo assumed it to be fear; now she wondered if it was shame, an even more debilitating emotion. Shame festers when hidden, she thought, and it brought Ethan Alcott to mind again.
How will we help him heal? she wondered. It didn’t occur to her to question the determination that she and Will between them would try to do just that.
And Ethan:
The cold had stiffened Ethan’s bones and numbed his injured stump until he thought he likely could not rise even if he wanted to—even if he had somewhere to go. He knew he should move lest the cold take his worthless life, but the ice around his heart seemed to have frozen all motivation as well.
Odd, he thought idly, that the cold of Mayfair could kill a man as thoroughly as the icy streets of the east end. His father’s garden smelled better, however, even with the flowers dead and the hedges withered and brown. His feet had found the garden with no conscious decision on his part after an hour or more of aimless wandering in the dark streets of London on the coldest night in Ethan’s memory. Now he hunkered between the cold stone of the garden shed and the unforgiving wall, unable to move.
The early morning sun rose weak and grey, but enough to pierce the fog and illuminate the place as if through a veil, and memory seized him. From his haven between the two walls he could see the edge of a stone bench, one he and Edmund used as a pirate ship or galloping steed as the mood seized them in boyhood. One of the balconies two stories up would open to his brother’s room, the other to what once was his. Memory left him with a hollow longing.
He had left Chadbourn’s rooms in a panic, thinking to get as far away from the overbearing Landrums as possible. They pushed him, brother and sister, to open his soul to his family, something he could never do. It would hurt them too badly. Yet, here he was. Perhaps the warmth and obvious affection of the Landrum family made him sentimental. Perhaps he’d allowed Lady Flora’s earnest plea—and her gentle gaze—to penetrate the protective shell he inhabited.
He tossed about for somewhere to go—anywhere but here—but found none. He knew he ought to return to the Albany, but he found it harder and harder to think clearly. Before he could make the effort to rise, the back door of the elegant townhouse flew open and a flash of blue pushed past two men and down the steps.
His heart stuttered at the sight of Lady Flora Landrum turning her head from side to side, searching the garden until she jarred her coiffure loose and one chestnut lock tumbled over her ear. A spark of warmth curled itself around his heart. The foolish chit. She’ll catch her death without a cloak.
The second story in the Bluestocking Belles collection, Fire & Frost, is Rue Allyn’s charming My One True Love.
Major Arthur Trevor PenRhyddyrch, Earl of Trehallow, returned to Wales from war and found his best friend gone. No one would speak her name let alone tell him where she might be. Then he found her in the frosty London fog of January 1814 only to lose her in the next moment.
When Miss Mary Percival Cummins saw Trevor in the fog, she ran. She knew he would hate her once he heard what others said, and the memory of their friendship was too dear for her to survive knowing he despised her.
But fate and the Duchess of Haverford had different plans. Her Grace knew, if they did not, that these two friends deserved the happiness of finding their one true love.
An excerpt
Trevor blinked. Percy had used his given name. Without any hesitation or prompting. Nor was she subdued and reluctant as she had been when the evening started. What had changed? He doubted anything in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had inspired his love to drop her unnecessary shame. He did agree, however, that Kean’s performance was inspiring. Perhaps she was simply transported out of the personal darkness that suppressed her naturally buoyant and intrepid spirit.
Regardless of the cause, he was pleased and happy to see again the inner fire that had always shown bright and strong in his best friend. Pray heaven they encounter no one rude enough to cause his love to sink back into unwarranted guilt. He helped her rise and escorted her from the box. Jessica had been correct. It seemed the entire audience had come for refreshments and to discuss the performance thus far. Everywhere he turned he heard Kean, Kean, Kean as well as stellar, immortal, truly gifted, and many other accolades. No one spoke Percy’s name. No one noticed her enough to turn aside and give the cut direct.
Her Grace had been right to insist that Percy attend tonight’s performance.
Meet the heroine.
She did not want him knowing where she lived. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her fingers clenched in her lap.. She dared not look at him. One glance at the concern in his deep brown eyes, might have her betraying all good sense and throwing herself into his arms to weep out her troubles. He would feel honor bound to solve all her problems. She could not allow that.
“For the coachman,” he continued.
“Haverford House,” she blurted. She did not have to go inside, and if Trevor insisted on seeing her as far as the foyer, she would let him. The footmen were all familiar with her comings and goings. No one would question her if she left through the kitchen the minute Trevor left through the front door.
But Robert Burns had been right in his poetic address To a Mouse,. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.” Her plans went awry the moment she crossed the threshold. There, in the midst of the foyer, stood Jessica and the duchess herself.
“Trehallow, my lad,” the duchess said. Jessica followed, crossing to where Trevor and Percy stood just inside the now closed front door. “What a pleasant surprise, and you’ve brought our Miss Cummins back home with you. We had begun to worry about you, dear.” The duchess—who did not prevaricate–lied through her teeth. “Go on up and change. We shall wait dinner until you come down.”
Jess took Percy by the arm and compelled her to walk to the stairs. There she spoke a few quiet words to a nearby footman. Percy was being whisked away up the stairs before she could blink. What was Her Grace thinking?
“You will join us for dinner, Trehallow. I insist,” Her Grace decreed.
And her determined hero.
He and Percy walked in silence nearly half the length of the promenade, the only sounds coming from the crunch of straw on the frozen ground beneath their feet and the low murmur of the other couple’s voices.
He wanted to ask her what happened. Why she had become this silent almost shy person, when that was so alien to the lively, curious, intrepid Percy he remembered. But he could not find the words.
“How have you been, Percy?” was all he could manage.
“Well enough with the duchess’s patronage.”
Was she completely dependent on the duchess? That would not sit well with the Percy he had known. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ passings. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”
She shrugged. “I prefer not to speak of it.”
So she would not talk about her family. “How did you come to know the Duchess of Haverford?”
“Jessica and I were at school together. She insisted I come to her and the Duchess after… after my father died. Mother was too ill to travel, so I came by myself. Her Grace has been all that is kind and helpful. Mother remained at Cummins house under the care of my cousin Donald. I hoped she was well cared for, since I could not be there to see to her comfort myself.”
Which implied that, without the Haverford’s help, Percy might not have been able to provide for her mother at all.
“I am very sorry I was not there to help, Percy. But surely your cousin gave you and your mother a home?”
Percy looked at him, her expression hard, her lips pressed together. “As I said earlier, it is not a time I care to discuss.”
Eleanor was alone. Aldridge had left for Haverford Castle that morning. Matilda had already visited and was now busy about the house. Eleanor had instructed her dresser to allow no one else into her private rooms. She didn’t want to give the servants anything more to talk about, and she certainly didn’t want to worry her wards with her current appearance.
It was boring to be confined, though. With one eye swollen nearly shut by a large purple bruise and her head aching from the blow she took to the back of the head, she couldn’t read or attend to her correspondence. She tidied the embroidery box that she seldom used, but that task took only a few minutes. She went over in her mind the list of tasks to be done before the charity auction and ball in less that a week’s time, and had to concede that her deputies, particularly Matilda, Cecilia, and Georgie, had it well in hand. What excellent young women they were!
When His Grace attacked Matilda yesterday! Eleanor shuddered at the memory. Thank goodness for young Charles. Would they make a go of it? Clara, the boy’s mother, seemed to think so, and Eleanor couldn’t doubt that Matilda had a tendre for Charles. But he had hurt her badly a year ago, and she didn’t trust him.
Eleanor shut her eyes and leaned back against her cushions, but her bruises ached too much to let her sleep. Her dresser had advocated taking some of the laudunum the doctor had left. Eleanor was not a fan. Perhaps a half dose?
A soft noise from the doorway. Her dresser coming to check on her well being, though she’d sent the woman downstairs to the servants hall not ten minutes ago. She was hemmed about by people who fussed over her, and on days like today she found it hard to be grateful. Without opening her eyes, she said, “I am well, Matthewes. Go and have a nuncheon. I will not need you for at least an hour.”
“She has gone, Your Grace,” said a voice that had become familiar again in the last year. Her one working eye flew open and she sat up so quickly that her head spun and she was forced to rest it back on the cushions while it settled.
“James!” What was the Duke of Winshire doing in her private rooms? In fact, what was he doing in Haverford House?
He crossed the room and crouched before her, peering at her eye, his lips compressed and his nostrils flaring.
“It looks worse than it is,” Eleanor insisted. “James, what are you doing here?”
“I had to see for myself.” James took one of her hands and lifted it to his lips. “Eleanor, I know I should not be here, but no one saw me. I came in through Aldridge’s wing. He gave me keys when he saw me last night.”
Eleanor couldn’t make sense of that. “Aldridge visited you? Why?”
“He told me what happened. He wanted you well protected while he was away, and for that protection to be invisible.” The man’s beloved lips quirked in a slight smile. “No one will see my men, Eleanor, and if they do — who would imagine that the Winshire retainers were protecting the Haverford duchess and her wards?”
Eleanor’s head! If only it did not pound so much, this might make sense. “Protected? From what?”
James shrugged. “I am not sure he knows himself. I suspect he is a little overwrought, Eleanor, and who can blame him? But I am glad to do you this service. If his instincts prove to be true, then we will make sure no harm comes to you. If not?” He shrugged. “My men will enjoy the novelty of another house to protect. But let us no concern ourselves with that. What can I do to make you more comfortable? Something to drink? Something to read? Another pillow?”
Eleanor decided to leave the mystery of her son’s actions and enjoy the moment. “Sit and talk to me, James. Tell me about your new granddaughter. And Sophia. Is Sophia well? How is young Sutton? I like your son a great deal, James.”
“I am coming to like yours, my dear,” James answered, settling himself on the floor at her feet, her hand still captured in his.
They had an hour till the dresser returned. All of a sudden, the head did not hurt nearly as much.
***
Her Grace is injured in Melting Matilda. Buy Fire & Frost before release date on 4 February to find out how and why.
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