Bluestocking Belles

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Different points of view on WIP Wednesday

I tend to write in deep point of view for both hero and heroine, partly because that’s the way I tell the story to myself, living inside each character through each scene and seeing it through their eyes. It has the advantage that I can show the reader misunderstanding from both points of view, and that’s the theme of this week’s work in progress Wednesday. Give me a couple of extracts that contrast what one character thinks is happening with what another thinks. Mine is from The Beast Next Door, my offering for the Belles’ Valentine box set.

How the man Eric had become be content with a country mouse like Charis? She loved him more with each day that passed, each meeting they had, each story he told. The boy had grown into a strong man, and a good one.

In the first moment of awed wonder that he wanted to court her, she had not questioned the bond between them, but as day after day passed with no sign he saw her as more than a friend, her misgivings grew. How could Charis expect to capture and keep the attention of a charming, handsome, experienced man of the world? She was the least pretty of the Fishingham sisters, the odd one, the bluestocking; awkward and anxious in company; impatient with gossip and social lies.

He showed no sign that she bored him, but then his manners were excellent. He showed no sign that she attracted him, either. He never tried even to hold her hand, let alone kiss her. For her part, her whole body hummed with tension when she was near him, reverberating like a tuning fork to its own perfect note.

Surely he must feel something?

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Eric was living a kind of blissful agony. Charis trusted him enough to meet him in private, and he’d honour that trust if it killed him. Some days, tense with need, he felt it might. As soon as the weather cleared enough for travel, he was heading east to the midlands, where her uncle and guardian lived. He’d seek Mr Pethwick’s permission to ask Charis to be his wife, and none of this nonsense about long betrothals, either. The sooner he could have Charis at his side all the time, where she belonged, the better. Even the thought spread a grin across his face. No more lonely nights.

Meanwhile, he shouldn’t be meeting her like this, but he couldn’t bear to have her so close and not spend time with her. He should ride up to Fishingham Hous and introduce himself to her mother and sisters; see her in chaperoned company away from the temptation to kiss her witless and more. Each day it became harder to honour the vows he’d made to himself, to pay his future wife the respect she deserved by keeping his hands off her.

How would Mrs Fishingham react? From what Charis said, anyone with a title or wealth would be acceptable. Charis deserved better than that, and so did he. She wanted him for himself; not for his place in Society or his fortune; not even for the boy he was, though she was the only person alive who knew him well from his childhood. After all their conversations, she wanted the man he had become. He didn’t believe that would change whatever her mother and sisters said, but he saw no need to risk it. Besides, he didn’t want to share his time with her in polite conversation with others.

When the rain stopped it came almost a a relief from the churning of his thoughts and the struggle with his lust. His attention so focused on his errand, he forgot that the clearing weather meant the Fishinghams could resume their assault upon Bath.

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Tea with Caibre MacFearran, a cowboy in a kilt

 

Today, the Duchess of Haverford is having tea with Caibre MacFearann: Hero of A Wish for All Seasons (and by the way he’s a cowboy in a kilt). A Wish for All Seasons is a historical romance novella by Rue Allyn. Eleanor has consented to interview Mr. MacFearann for readers of historical romance everywhere.

I am glad you could join me, Mr. MacFearann! Please tell us about the story your author wrote. Ms. Allyn’s wee story is titled A Wish for All Seasons. I believe you ladies would call the story a historical romance. While adult ladies are Ms. Allyn’s intended audience, any young person, age 13 or above could read the tale without risk of traumatizing their young minds. While I find such doings a tad embarassin’, I know Ms. Allyn would want us to share a thing she calls a blurb with your readers. So here ’tis: The last thing Caibre MacFearann wants is to return to Scotland let alone be forced to stay there. But the chance to rekindle the lost love of his youth is too tempting to resist. However, Aisla MacKai refuses to listen until her clan’s fate and a royal decree force Aisla to give him a chance.

Please tell us about yourself. I am a mon of twenty-eight years. I was born at Castle MacFearann on the northeast coast of Scotland. I’m a ranch owner in Wyoming territory. While I live in and love Wyoming, I’ll fore’re be a Scotsman true.

Will you tell our readers what you look like?  I’m a fair height and lean. I’d guess I weigh about 13 stone. My hair is reddish brown, and I have blue eyes. My face is square. Some say I’ve a determined chin, others have accused me of being made o’ rock.  That picture Ms. Allyn provides is somewhat misleading. It was painted when I was a young mon before I left Scotland. It doesna show anything of what’s happened to me since I left. I dinna wear a kilt verra often now days.

Who is the significant other in your life?  Significant other? ’Tis a bit of an odd term that, but I’m supposin’ you mean Aisla MacKai, the only woman I’ve ever loved.

How do you dress? I wear practical clothes for work and weather—trousers, shirt, chaps, boots, shearling jacket and a Stetson hat. I clean up fairly well. I only wear my tartan and kilt in Scotland and for special occasions.

If we could only hear your voice (but not see you) what characteristic would identify you? Steady.

What is your viewpoint on wealth? Wealth is nae to be sneered at. It is convenient to have. The lack of wealth forced me to leave Scotland and the woman I love. I was too puir a mon to support Aisla when I left. I thought never to return, but fate has seen differently, and I now have the means to keep my love in comfort.

What kinds of things do you always carry (in pockets or purse)? Oiled paper, flint and steel for starting a fire. Kindling is nae always easy to find.

What is your family like? I have one older brother, Eric. He’s laird of clan MacFearann now that our father has been laid to rest. We’re verra close and determined to return honor to the name MacFearann.

How do others perceive you based upon looks, and is this assumption accurate? A great many men think of me as a nancy boy when they first meet me. It’s because I bathe and wear clean clothes every chance I get. Those men discover quickly they are mistaken.

Do you care about what others assume about you? Only two people’s opinion of me matter. My brother Eric’s and my darling Aisla’s. The rest of the world can go hang.

Can you keep a secret? Why or why not? O’ course I can keep a secret. ’Tis only honorable, and I’d nae do anything lacking in honor.

What secrets do you know about people around you that you do NOT share? Well now, if I told you, they’d nae be secrets would they?

What would help you face hardship and meet any challenge? The love of Aisla MacKai and the hope of winning her.

If you could make any one thing happen, what would it be? I’d make Aisla’s life easier. She’s had a rough time of it w’ her brother being declared dead and all. The queen has even threatened to take the MacKai barony back if Aisla doesna marry in six months.

What would you like to tell your writer? I’d tell Ms. Allyn that she should give A Wish for All Seasons more words. Aisla’s story and mine is too important to squeeze into a short novella.

What would you like people who hear your story to know? That happiness will come your way, no matter your difficulties., just Follow Your Star Home.

Is there anything else you’d like us to know? Absolutely. On November 4th of this year, the Bluestocking Belles will hold a party in honor of the release of their boxset, Follow Your Star Home. Everyone is invited. Here is the location where you can get more information. I will attend as escort for both Ms. Allyn and my beloved Aisla. The party will include all the Belles, many guest authors, games and prizes. Attendees are encouraged to come attired in the dress of their favorite time period, since the stories in Follow Your Star Home span more than 1,000 years of history. I hope to see all of you there.

Where to buy Follow Your Star Home the boxset containing A Wish for All Seasons.

The book is available on pre-order until it is released November 4, 2018.

Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/Belles-Christmas-Title-Still-Under-ebook/dp/B07H4ZY517/

Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/894110

Kobo:  https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/belles-christmas-2018-box-set-title-still-under-wraps/

About Ms. Allyn

Rue Allyn is the award-winning author of heart melting historical and contemporary romances. A USN veteran with a Ph.D. in medieval literature, Rue has retired south of the US border where she enjoys sunny days and heated inspiration. She continues to enjoy professional relationships in the Romance Writers of America, The Maumee Valley Romance Authors Inc. and the (in)famous Bluestocking Belles. She can be reached at any of the following locations.

*This interview format adapted with permission from that used on Romance Lives Forever.

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The real world on WIP Wednesday

Our stories happen in a context, whenever and wherever they are set. And we build our context from our real life experiences. This week, I’m looking for extracts that contain the facts we use as settings for our tales. Please pop them into the comments and let us all enjoy them.

I write historicals, so I do a lot of research, around 10% of which makes its way onto the page. The following excerpt is from Paradise Regained, which is now on preorder in the Belle’s holiday box set, for release on 4 November. My story is set in the mountains north of Iran, in an entirely fictional hidden kingdom, at a time of great turmoil when one Iranian dynasty was giving way to another in bloody confusion. (No, I didn’t swear.) My fictional Mahzad’s grandfather is a relative of the historical old dynasty and has stolen the seal of a fictional saint, but such relics were and are treasured in real life.

Quickly, Mahzad and Gurban told him all that happened, breaking off frequently as yet another group of people came running to check that the arrivals were, indeed, their people and their kagan.

“So,” James said, once he had the gist of it, “the Khan has a secret, which he will tell only to me. Very well. Let us give him the opportunity.”

They did not have to look for the man. As they entered the palace, Garshasp Khan was waiting, wearing a huge smile.

“My son Jakob, you are come home. Welcome. Welcome. Peace be upon you.”

Mahzad crushed her irritation at her father’s arrogance, acting as if this were his own house and not hers and James’s. James took the greeting with equanimity, returning the formal greeting. “Peace be upon you, Excellency. We are blessed that you have chosen to grace our house.”

“You will say so.” Garshasp chortled. “You will say so indeed. I have brought you a treasure, Jakob.”

James said nothing more but led the way into a chamber off the main hall, turning everyone away except Mahzad, Gurban, and Garshasp.

James wasted no time, cutting straight to the point with Western directness. “I took from you a treasure, excellency, and for her sake you are always welcome here, but you have also brought trouble to my gates. I am told you have promised me an explanation.”

“And you shall have it. I took it from its hiding place the moment I knew you were here. Look, my son. Look.”

Mahzad leant forward to see the small gold item her father pulled from his robes. James plucked it from Garshasp’s palm and held it up so that she and Gurban could see.

“A seal stamp?” Gurban asked.

“The inscription reads ‘Abu Rahman ul Hafi,” Mahzad said. She turned to look at her father aghast.

“Abu Rahman ul Hafi?” James closed his fingers over the seal, hiding it from view. “The saint whose shrine is in Asadiyeh?” He whistled low and long. “No wonder the Qajar are at my gates.”

Garshasp smiled broadly. “A treasure, as I told you, and one you can use to buy the safety of my daughter and my grandsons.”

Mahzad rounded on the old fool. “We were safe until you brought them on us.”

The old man looked down his long nose at her. “Think you the Qajar would leave any of my blood alive? No. The purge is underway even as we speak. And you, you ungrateful woman, are the last of my children. Your sons are the only hope of my line.”

She would have retorted, but James cut through with quiet authority. “You will address Mahzad with respect, excellency. She is no longer merely your daughter. She is the katan of this valley, a position her merits won for her. Beyond that, she is, as you have pointed out, my wife and the mother of my sons and daughters.”

“Daughters!” Garshasp growled. “Wait till your own are grown and then talk to me of daughters. Hah! I have given you the seal, Jakob. Use it as you will, and the rest of the goods I brought with me are for you and your sons, though half the value was in the slaves, which this wife of yours declared free. You will excuse me. This old man needs to rest.” He turned and strode out, though his steps faltered as he passed through the doorway.

 

 

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Marriage on WIP Wednesday

 

The goal of a romance is a happy ever after, or at least a happy for now — that is, we leave our readers confident that our pair are right for one another, and that they can navigate the storms and shoals of love together, finding safe harbour in one another. For most romance, this means marriage of some type, either at some point during the book or on the horizon as we finish.

In this week’s post, I’m inviting excerpts on marriage: what the characters think of it, how they approach it, how they live it, if they are wed during the book. My story for the Belles box set is about a couple who married over a decade ago for entirely practical reasons, who have eight children, and who have grown apart. Here they are with their children in a rare moment of peace between them. James has just returned home after months away.

James resented every circumstance that kept him from his wife. Not, perhaps, the children. He was introduced to little Rosemary, who was a perfect miniature of her mother, and became reacquainted with the rest of his offspring as he fished through his pack of surprises for their presents.

“Look, Mama, a sailing boat like in the book!” Andrew ran across the room to show his mother, wildly waving the boat and narrowly missing his sister as he passed.

Mahzad took him up onto her lap and showed him how to hold it safely.

“I have a boat for each of you,” James explained, looking up from showing young Jamie how to set the rudder on his perfect miniature of a jahazi, a broad-hulled trading dhow, “even Rosemary and little Ruth. When they are bigger, they will be able to race with you on your moth­er’s pond.” He met Mahzad’s eyes. Her frown was belied by her dancing eyes. “With your mother’s permission, of course.”

“Mine is a brigantine,” John boasted. “See Mama?”

He leaned on his mother’s shoulder and began a discourse on the difference between gaff-rigged and square-rigged sails, accurate as far as James’s recently-acquired knowledge went. He must have learned it from books, since he’d never seen a sail boat larger than the one in his hands or a body of water bigger than the pond in the valley when it flooded with the spring melt.

Jamie and Matthew abandoned their model boats when he handed over the cases holding their next presents. In moments, they were taking sword craft positions, balancing lightly on the balls of their feet, a scimitar in one hand, a rapier in the other.

“These are not toys, my sons,” James warned. “Your mother and I judge you old enough to treat them with the respect they deserve and to learn how to handle them without danger to yourself or others.”

“Except those who threaten our people, Papa,” Jamie insisted. “There is another case,” Matthew observed.

Mahzad looked in alarm at John, who was too absorbed in his boat to notice.

James was quick to reassure her that he did not mean to set John to sword fighting with an edged weapon. Not yet. “It is for your Mama,” James told Matthew.

He’d received the benison of his fierce warrior queen’s smile when he had given Rebecca and Rachel good English yew bows in miniature and a quiver full of arrows each, but it was nothing to the glow that greeted her own sword case. The children, hugging their own gifts, stopped to watch her. Matthew let out a long sigh of pleasure as Mahzad lifted the sheathed sword in two hands.

“Toledo made,” James said. It was a Western-styled small sword, like the ones he’d taught her with but in the best steel in Europe, perhaps the world.

She slid the blade partway from the scabbard, and when her eyes met his, the heat in them made him wish his much-loved offspring at the other end of the palace. He smiled her a promise for later and turned back to passing out children’s books in English that he’d purchased in Siricusa, in Sicily.

He’d left the Christmas presents outside the valley to be brought in after they’d dealt with the Qajar troops. If Mahzad loved her blade, she would adore the pistols that were still packed in the abandoned luggage.

He was smiling at the thought when the messenger arrived.

 

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Tea with a purpose

 

Her Grace looked around her living room with a smile of satisfaction. Her protégées, many of them her goddaughters, made a formidable fighting force, and a fight was exactly what they had on their hands.

In one corner, the Countess of Sutton (formerly Sophia Belvoir until she married the heir to the Duke of Winshire) was writing a series of letters to other Society ladies, with the help of her sister Lady Felicity and her sisters-in law, Ladies Ruth and Rosemary Winderfield. On the settee by the fire, the Countess of Chirbury and Selby, wife to the duchess’s nephew, was dictating a letter to the editor of the Teatime Tattler, penned by her cousin-in-law, Mrs Julius Redepenning. All around the room, those the duchess had summoned had sharpened their nibs and flown into the battle of words over the forthcoming box set by the Bluestocking Belles.

Every woman in this room, and the fictional worlds they inhabited, owed their lives, their loves, their very existence, to one or more of those mysterious women. And the attempts to close down their next set of Christmas stories could not be tolerated.

It began with a letter from one styling herself ‘A Concerned Society Matron’. Salacious scenes of seduction? The woman must have a mind like a pig pen.

Lady Hultinford of St Brendan’s Priory responded with a strong attack on the forces of censorship, and there it should have rested.

But no. The next shot was fired by a cleric on a campaign to signing himself The Right Honorable the Reverend Claudius Blowworthey, although in Her Grace’s opinion, he was not Honorable, not to be Revered, and certainly not Right.

Mrs Maud Goodbody, who described herself as a Christian and modestly well-educated, brought a cheer to the duchess’s lips with her sound rebuttal of Blowworthy’s opinion. Her Grace had immediately sent a donation to the Chapel of the Faithful, which Mrs Goodbody attended.

But just today, the ‘Concerned Society Matron’ burst into print again. While Mr Clemens was quite correct in allowing both sides to have their say, the duchess did think the latest letter was a waste of paper and ink.

Enough was enough. The Duchess of Haverford and her troops were going to war.

To find out what all the fuss is about, see the Bluestocking Belles’ latest joint project, Follow Your Star Home.

To join in the debate, comment on any of the Teatime Tattler posts in the links above, and watch for more to come.

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Sunday Spotlight on Follow Your Star Home

 

Divided sweethearts seek love and forgiveness in this collection of seasonal novellas.

Forged for lovers, the Viking star ring is said to bring lovers together, no matter how far, no matter how hard.

In eight stories covering more than a thousand years, our heroes and heroines put this legend to the test. Watch the star work its magic as prodigals return home in the season of goodwill, uncertain of their welcome.

On preorder at 2.99USD. Published 4 Nov. Published price will be $3.99.

Barnes and Noble nook

Kobo

Amazon US

A Yule Love Story, by Nicole Zoltack

When Sonja stumbles upon fallen bodies littering her beach, she heals the lone survivor. After all, her late mother had been a healer.

Unbeknownst to Sonja, that survivor is none other than Anoundus. At one time, he ruled alongside his brother as co-kings of Sweden, but no longer. He has been banished.

What kind of life will he face here? What role will Sonja play? Can the two dare to find love this Yuletide?

Paradise Regained, by Jude Knight

James Winderfield yearns to end a long journey in the arms of his loving family. But his father’s agents offer the exiled prodigal forgiveness and a place in Society — if he abandons his foreign-born wife and children to return to England.

With her husband away, Mahzad faces revolt, invasion and betrayal in the mountain kingdom they built together. A queen without her king, she will not allow their dream and their family to be destroyed.

But the greatest threats to their marriage and their lives together is the widening distance between them. To win Paradise, they must face the truths in their hearts.

Somewhere Like Home, by Lizzi Tremayne

Things are heating up in the Scottish Highlands. When Robert refuses to become clan tacksman after his father, he is disowned and heads for the city to build a new life for himself and his beloved Sofia.

Sofia’s waiting turns to despair when her mother buys safety for herself and the remainder of the family during the clearance of their village—and leaves Sofia to the lusts of the laird’s degenerate son.

Rob emerges from the hell of Waterloo wanting only to see Sofia again…and his father.

But Sofia is dead, or is she?

A Wish for All Seasons, by Rue Allyn

The last thing Caibre MacFearann wants is to return to Scotland let alone be forced to stay there. But the chance to rekindle the lost love of his youth is too tempting to resist.

Losing Caibre MacFearann’s love once hurt so much that Aisla MacKai wants nothing to do with him when a blizzard brings the man to her doorstep. Kindness and human charity require that she give him shelter, no matter that her poor heart had never mended.

From the Umbrella Chronicles: James and Annie’s Story, by Amy Quinton

His Grace, James Quill, will not be a bachelor-in-poor-standing for very much longer. For I, Lady Harriett Ross of the Infamous Umbrella, have avowed to orchestrate his betrothal to his former best friend, Miss Annie Merryweather, whether either of them wishes it.

Surprisingly, His Grace has agreed to my proposed 10-step plan.

Not-so-surprisingly, Her Soon-to-be-Grace is determined to resist the notorious prodigal son.

Will they find love and forgiveness this holiday season?

Time will tell.

Lady Harriett Ross,

Self-proclaimed Motley Meddler * Mistress of Destiny * Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella

I’m just an old woman with opinions. On everything.

The Last Post, by Caroline Warfield

Love for Rosemarie Legrand gave Harry the will to go on during the horror of trench warfare. Now, army orders trap him in a camp awaiting repatriation. A bout of the Spanish flu lays him even lower, but he is determined not to leave without her. He’ll desert if he has to.

Rosemarie waits for word on her cousin’s farm where she took refuge when war reached the outskirts of Amiens. She wrote to tell him. Has he forgotten her? When the slimmest of information arrives, she sets out to find him.

Can these two lovers reunite before it is too late?

A Fine Chance, by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Helen Watson arranged a job for an out-of-work former soldier at her workplace, unaware that she’s the miracle Robert Fairmont needed.

Robert has returned from the Great War a new man with a new name. A job in his father’s factory is the first step toward reconciliation.

Can Helen forgive him for hiding his true or will Robert end up losing his father and his one true love?

All he needs is a fine chance.

One Last Kiss: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time novella, by Sherry Ewing

Banished from his homeland, Thomas of Clan Kincaid lives among distant relatives, reluctantly accepting he may never return home… Until an encounter with the castle’s healer tells him of a woman travelling across time—for him.

Dare he believe the impossible?

Jade Calloway is used to being alone, and as Christmas approaches, she’s skeptical when told she’ll embark on an extraordinary journey. How could a trip to San Francisco be anything but ordinary? But when a ring magically appears, and she sees a ghostly man in her dreams…

Dare she believe in the possible?

Thrust back in time, Jade encounters Thomas—her fantasy ghost. Talk about extraordinary. But as time works against them, they must learn to trust in miracles.

Can they accept impossible love before time interferes?

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Tea with Mr Clemens

 

Sam Clemens, editor and proprietor of The Teatime Tattler, juggled the delicate porcelain cup and the matching plate, wondering how he was meant to drink the one and eat the dainty iced confection that adorned the other.

The aristocracy learned such tricks in the nursery, but Sam had never claimed nor wished to be one of them. His own more humble folk were good enough for him, though one could not deny the ton made good copy, providing an unending stream of scandal to delight his readers.

No doubt Her Grace thought to impress him into agreeing to suppress one story or another — perhaps one about her outrageous son? The Merry Marquis entertained the whole of London with his antics, and Sam had no intention of agreeing to ignore a useful piece of copy just because the Duchess of Haverford favoured him with an invitation to tea. He responded to a polite enquiry about the health of his brother’s family. The younger Clemens sibling had emigrated to the Americas, and was raising his hopeful family there. Sam often thought of visiting them, especially his namesake, young Samuel, but his commitment to his paper did not leave time for a long sea journey.

He couldn’t fault the lady’s graciousness. She noticed his dilemma with the cup and plate, gave a twitch of her eyebrows and a nod to a hovering footman, and moments later a small table materialised at Sam’s elbow. The duchess, meanwhile, continued to show a great interest in the exploits of young Sam, as reported in his mother’s letters. Sam took a grateful sip of his tea.

At last, Her Grace came to the point. “Mr Clemens, I am sure you wonder why I invited you here today.”

He appreciated her forthrightness. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I did.”

“I have been approached by a number of people who wish me to use my influence to stop you publishing articles and letters about the forthcoming book from the Bluestocking Belles,” she explained.

“For, Your Grace,” he asked, “or against?”

“Both,” the duchess replied. “Some support the detractors, some the authors. A pretty conundrum, is it not?”

Sam took a deep breath, ready to make his position clear. Surrounded by the evidence of heritage and wealth, faced by the great lady herself, one step down from royal and every inch a noble, he found it harder than he expected to voice the rejection he planned. Before he could speak, she continued.

“Let me put your mind to rest, Mr. Clemens. I have no intention of interfering either way, except perhaps to pen a letter myself. Publish as you will. I will watch with interest to see whether the salacious rumours prove to be true.”

Watch The Teatime Tattler over the next eight weeks as the debate unfolds. The first shots have already been fired, and we expect more, starting 3 September.

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Tea with Mahzad

 

The garden was beautiful. It was a long rectangle, walled on three sides and on the fourth bounded by steps up to a house. Or perhaps a castle, though unlike any castle Eleanor had ever seen. A fort of some kind, its arches and domes giving it an exotic air entirely in keeping with the garden.

A pool divided the garden in half; no, in quarters, for it had two straight branches stretching almost to the walls from the centre point of the walled enclosure. Eleanor had woken to find herself in one quadrant of the garden, surrounded by flowers in a myriad of colours, some familiar and some unknown. Not woken. She could not possibly be awake. Nowhere in England had the mountains she could see over the walls, and nor was this an English garden.

She must have spoken the last thought, because a voice behind her said, “Not English, no. Persian, originally, though I am told they are found from Morocco to Benghal. It is a chahar bāgh; a Paradise garden.”

Eleanor turned. Behind her, a lady as exotic as her garden stood on the steps of a pavilion, raised to give a sheltered place from which to enjoy a view over the garden. “I am asleep and dreaming, I think,” the lady said, “for it is afternoon by the sun, and at such a time my garden is full of my children and my ladies.” She waved to indicate the deserted space, her lips gently curved and her face alight. “We should enjoy the peace while it lasts. Will you join me for coffee, or perhaps tea?”

Eleanor nodded and mounted the stairs to join her, following her into a space as alien as the garden, the stone-paved floor almost invisible under brightly coloured rugs and cushions. “Is it your dream or mine? For when I went to sleep, I was in Haverford House, in London. And this is not England.”

The lady raised both brows, and then let them drop, her face suddenly bland. “You are, perhaps, the Duchess of Haverford?”

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. Yes, I am Eleanor Haverford.”

If Eleanor had any doubts that this was a dream they were dispelled in the next instant, when a small table appeared from thin air, laden with a tea pot, a long full-bellied coffee pot, two cups, and plates of small delicacies.

The lady gave a brief huff of amusement. “The dream reminds me of my manners. Please be seated, duchess. Your Grace, is it not? I am Mahzad.”

Now it was Eleanor’s turn to wipe all expression from her face as she inclined her head. “Your majesty. Is that the correct form of address? Cecily McInnes spoke of you when she returned to England.”

“Please call me Mahzad. After all, we have a lot in common, you and I. Tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee, and please call me Eleanor. Cecily said he was well, and very much in love with his wife.” And Eleanor was happy for the man she had once loved with a maiden’s ardent passion. Of course she was.

Mahzad smiled and placed a protective hand over her belly, where a slight rounding indicated yet another child on the way to join the already large family. “You have a generous heart, Eleanor. You have not been as fortunate as James and I, I think.”

Eleanor waved away the sympathy. “I have my children and my work. I am content. But tell me about your family. Who knows how long the dream might last, and I wish to know all about them.”

In her youth, Eleanor loved James Winderfield, who was exiled for his temerity in aspiring to her hand. This year, the Bluestocking Belle’s box set includes Paradise Regained, a story from me about James and his Persian wife, Mahzad. For more about the box set, keep an eye on the Belles’ website. We’ll be putting the details of the book up on the Joint Projects part of the site as soon as we reveal the name and cover. Or come to our cover release party, on Facebook on the 8th September 2pm to 9pm Eastern Daylight Time. And I’ll put Paradise Regained up on my book page once the cover is released and we have the buy links.

Oh, and for those who remember The Bluestocking and the Barbarian from nearly two years ago, Mahzad is the mother of the hero of that novella, which is soon to be rewritten as a novel. (It is still available as part of Holly and Hopeful Hearts, the Bluestocking Belles 2016 collection.

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Tea with a stern moralist hiding a shady past

Today’s guest had presumed on old acquaintance to ask for an interview. The Duchess of Haverford was surprised and intrigued. They had barely known one another when Her Grace was a girl, just out in Society. Marabella Clouston had been the cousin and companion of one of her friends, but was already garnering the reputation that soon saw her exiled. Or, rather, run off to the Continent with one of her lovers.

Since her reappearance in England six years ago as the stalwart moralist Mrs Whitehead, she and the duchess had not met. Mrs Whitehead, a teacher of manners to the offspring of newly rich merchants, did not mix in the same circles as the Duchess of Haverford.

So what did she want today? Perhaps she had heard that Her Grace, who believed in second chances, had squelched the resurrections of the old rumours. Mrs Whitehead should be allowed to earn an honest living without being contaminated by decades’ old stories of a foolish youth.

The lady was announced. Time had not been kind to Marabella, who looked old enough to be the duchess’s mother if not older. The black garments, relieved here and there by touches of white, gave the impression of deep mourning, though if Mr Whitehead had died, if there ever was a Mr Whitehead, it had surely been at least six years ago.

Mrs Whitehead curtseyed, a low reverence belied by the sneer she did not quite hide as she looked around Eleanor’s comfortable sitting room.

“Please be seated, Mrs Whitehead. May I offer you tea?”

They spoke about Mrs Whitehead’s preferences for her beverage while the lady took the indicated seat and settled her skirts around her. The duchess moved the conversation smoothly on to the weather, and the activities currently curtailed by the persistent rain. Mrs Whitehead complained about the inconvenience of her dwelling, too far from Hyde Park to walk without risk of being splattered along the way by coaches, carriages and carts “driven far too fast for the conditions, and without considering those who are obliged to walk.”

Eleanor passed Mrs Whitehead a cup of tea (strong with a slice of lemon) and began to make another for her companion, who sat quietly in the background. “Indeed,” she replied, vaguely.

Mrs Whitehead made an abrupt turn in the conversation. “You will be wondering why I asked to see you, Your Grace. After all, it has been a long time since we were girls together.”

Hardly that. Marabella must have been in her late twenties when Eleanor was seventeen. Eleanor inclined her head. “I assumed you had reason, Mrs Whitehead.”

Mrs Whitehead put her cup and saucer down and leant forward, her eyes glittering. “Nothing less important than the moral wellbeing of Society, Your Grace, which is under such threat you cannot imagine.”

Her Grace was far too well trained to cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and her straight back allowed for no more stiffening in preparation for yet another diatribe from someone who wanted her to rein in her husband, or her sons, or the current fashion for low necklines, or some other outrage. What Mrs Whitehead said next, she did not expect.

“I understand you to be in some sort a sponsor of a group of dreadful women. Authors, they call themselves, as if any lady would publish a work of literature. Not that it can be called literature. Gossip and scandal, I call it. They say it is fiction. Hah! We all know they must be drawing from life, and what lives they must have led! Why, they write about… But I get ahead of my theme.”

She drew a breath before continuing her diatribe, and the duchess took the opportunity to say, “I take it you speak of the Bluestocking Belles?”

“I do. You cannot possibly be pleased with the book they published about your house party, and the way they portrayed your sons. And the next book strongly promoted the idea of second chances in love, love itself being a pernicious doctrine that undermines the very fabric of society. But this next one! Your Grace, I have come to know it goes even further beyond good taste and morality. Even the cover! Your Grace, you must help me to prevent the publication of the cover!”

Eleanor was born and raised to be a lady of high estate, and had been a duchess for more than thirty years. She froze the silly woman with a raised eyebrow and a pointed look.

“You are much mistaken, Mrs Whitehead, if you think I will join you in such an enterprise. I am sure the Belles will produce another volume of stories that celebrate the healing power of love, and I look forward to reading it. Please allow me to express my deepest regrets that you have not known such love in your own life, for if you had, you would not be so disdainful of the concept.”

Mrs Whitehead surged to her feet. “Then I will take no more of your time. You were a silly fribbet as a girl, even if you did manage to trap a duke, and you are clearly an even sillier woman now you are old. Good day, Your Grace.”

Eleanor watched the woman leave, then turned to her companion. “Fenella, we have an invitation to the Bluestocking Belle’s cover release party, do we not? Send an acceptance, please, and be sure to order the new book as soon as orders are being accepted.

Watch The Teatime Tattler for more about Mrs Whitehead’s campaign closer to the date of the cover reveal party.

And come to the party! It’s on Facebook in September. Check out the details.

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Tea with the duchess – will the Canadian recluse refuse?

 

This is a bit of a prequel to a confrontation over tea…

The Duchess of Winshire studied the missive in her hand carefully, although there was no doubt about the message. The bold hand of the Earl of Chadbourn scrawled a message as succinct as it was unwelcome.

He will not come.

Randolph Wheatly, the earl’s brother-in-law had stormed into town sporting spectacular purple bruises and calling down the wrath of the Almighty on certain abusive and dishonorable members of His Majesty’s forces the day before. That he sought the assistance of his sister’s husband and the rest of his family spoke volumes about his desperation.

Rand Wheatly left London six years ago announcing to all and sundry that he would never return. Shattered by what he saw as betrayal by his cousin—the man who had been his closest childhood friend—he refused all attempts at reason and sailed for Canada on the first available ship. That the woman was, in Eleanor’s opinion, not worth the pain didn’t make the pain any less.

He spent the intervening years obtaining land—heavily timbered land. Now he was back, choking on his pride, and asking for help. Yet…

He will not come.

He sought the earl’s help, accepted his sister’s support, and even allowed the Duke of Sudbury, Chadbourn’s crony, to stick his ever-managing oar in the water, but the insufferable puppy wouldn’t take the advice or assistance of the Grenfords.

The one he needs is that cousin of his, she mused. She folded the note and tapped it on the arm of her chair, lost in thought. There had been another message, that one from Catherine, Rand’s sister and the earl’s intrepid wife. Eleanor had never heard Catherine so desperate. Six years of worry and the man turns up dirty, beaten, and breathing fire—no wonder the countess was frantic. He needed to gain control before he did something spectacularly stupid. Perhaps she could help. Perhaps she could give him a push in the direction of the cousin; if the two of them would simply talk to one another it might resolve any number of problems.

First I have to get him here.

“Bring my writing desk, please. Isadore,” she said to her companion, so lost in thought she failed to smile. If the stubborn man insists on acting like a child I may have to treat him like one. She took pen and began to write.

The Duchess of Winshire summons you…

_________________

Rand accepted the duchess’s summons, of course. How could he not? You can read the results here:

https://judeknightauthor.com/2018/03/13/tea-with-rand/

About the Book, The Renegade Wife

Reclusive businessman Rand Wheatly finds his solitude disrupted by a desperate woman running with her children from an ugly past. But even his remote cabin in Upper Canada isn’t safe enough. Meggy Blair may have lied to him, but she and her children have breached the walls of his betrayed heart. Now she’s on the run again. To save them he must return to face his demons and the family he vowed to never see again.

It is available in Kindle format free with Kindle Unlimited or for purchase as ebook or in print:

Amazon.      

Barnes and Noble

BooksAMillion

The Renegade Wife is Book 1 in Caroline Warfield’s Children of Empire Series.

Three cousins, who grew up together in the English countryside, have been driven apart by deceit and lies. (You may guess a woman was involved!) Though they all escape to the outposts of The British Empire, they all make their way home to England, facing their demons and finding love and the support of women of character and backbone. They are:

  • Randolph Baldwin Wheatly who has become a recluse, and lives in isolation in frontier Canada intent on becoming a timber baron, until a desperate woman invades his peace. (The Renegade Wife)
  • Captain Frederick Arthur Wheatly, an officer in the Bengal army, who enjoys his comfortable life on the fringes until his mistress dies, and he’s forced to choose between honor and the army. (The Reluctant Wife)
  • Charles, Duke of Murnane, tied to a miserable marriage, throws himself into government work to escape bad memories. He accepts a commission from the Queen that takes him to Canton and Macau, only to face his past there. (The Unexpected Wife)

Who are their ladies?

  • Meggy Campeau, the daughter of a French trapper and Ojibwe mother who has made mistakes, but is fierce in protecting her children. (The Renegade Wife)
  • Clare Armbruster, fiercely independent woman of means, who is determined to make her own way in life, but can’t resist helping a foolish captain sort out his responsibilities. (The Reluctant Wife)
  • Zambak Hayden, eldest child of the Duke of Sudbury, knows she’d make a better heir than her feckless younger brother, but can’t help protecting the boy to the point of following him to China. She may just try to sort out the Empire’s entangled tea trade–and its ugly underpinning, opium, while she’s there. (The Unexpected Wife)

Book 3, The Unexpected Wife, will be released on July 25.

Here’s a short video about it:

https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7/videos/924791187669849/

For more about the series and all of Caroline’s books, look here:

https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

About the Author

Caroline Warfield grew up in a peripatetic army family and had a varied career (largely around libraries and technology) before retiring to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, where divides her time between writing Regency and Victorian Romance, and seeking adventures with her grandson and the prince among men she married.