Jackie’s climb

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Tea with her messengers

Her grace poured coffee for the three men, and tea for herself. James and two of her sons had joined her today, and she was impatient to hear what Drew and Thomas had to say about their recent errand. They had travelled north to witness a wedding, both as Eleanor’s representative–the groom was the grandson of an old friend–and because they had become friends with the young man themselves.

She did not, of course, show her impatience, and the young men, who had excellent manners, did not keep her waiting. As soon as she had poured her tea, Drew said, “The wedding went off very well, Aunt Eleanor. The bride looked lovely, the groom was happy, and the entire village turned out to cheer.” It was a very good summary and made pleasant hearing, but Eleanor had questions.

“Tell me about Jackie’s gown,” she asked.

Jackie’s gown was a rose pink figured silk, simply but elegantly cut. It was embellished a richly embroidered silk ribbon—one row at cuffs and neckline, and three rows at her hem. Maman had wound the same ribbon through her hair, taking over from Jackie’s new maid.

The bridal flowers Jackie had chosen had prompted something of a disagreement between her and her mother. Maman thought the flowers were common. “They are vegetable flowers, Jacqueline,” she kept saying. “Why would you want to carry the flower of a vegetable?”

When Maman and Jackie had taken Papa to see the cottage where they had lived, the beans that Maman had thrown out the window had grown, and smothered one side of the house, spreading even up part of the roof. The flowers waved petals of the palest pink on long stems, and a few of the stems already sprouted rows of baby bean pods.

“They are bridal flowers,” Jackie had said. “And they go perfectly with my gown.” Not only were they lovely, but carrying them in her bouquet was a sort of poetic justice. Louella’s accusation that she—Jackie—had made up to Oscar to climb from seamstress to the rank of mistress had always been ridiculous, but had smarted a little, nonetheless.

No one she had met since the betrothal was announced had repeated the slur, at least not to Jackie’s face. Human nature being what it was, people were surely thinking it.

So, she carried the bean flowers as a symbol of her climb, and to thumb her nose at her detractors, even if they never knew it.

Only a keen gardener would know, she realized, as she looked at herself in the mirror. And even they may question it. She had been right about them complimenting her gown.

“Jacqueline, ma fifille, said Maman. “Tres belle. Tres, tres belle.” Clearly too overcome for words, she hugged Jackie instead, being careful not to crush the gown or the flowers.

Gran was next in line. “Your mother is right, dear one,” she murmured. “Very, very beautiful.”

Maman was trying to recover her usual brisk self. “Now, cherie, the carriage awaits to take us to the church, Clara and I.” She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Go down to Papa after we have gone,” she instructed, her tone scolding. The arrangements had been in place for days, but if it helped Maman to scold, then Jackie would not challenge her. Not today.

“I will, Maman,” she said.

And if she rolled her eyes at Maman’s back, no one saw except Bella Whitely, who giggled, but only after Maman shut the door.

“Me own Ma be the same,” Bella confided. “More like to growl than to hug, but loves us summat fierce. You do look right purty, Miss Haricot.”

“Are you coming in the carriage with us to the church, Bella?” Jackie asked. She’d hired the eldest Whitely daughter as a favor to Pete. The girl had the makings of an excellent maid, and the housekeeper had already taken her under her wing, to teach her what was expected of a maid in a peer’s household. Jackie hoped she’d not entirely lose her habit of blurting out her thoughts in Jackie’s presence.

“Nay, Miss,” she said. “It’s nobbut a hop, skip and a jump, and it ain’t—” she caught herself and tried again. “It is not proper.” She even sounded a little like the housekeeper as she repeated what she had obviously been told. Then she, her voice, and her accent relaxed, and she added, “Not today nonewise. Just ye and yer Da, and I’ll be waitin’ for ye at the church, as will ‘’bout everyone.” She sighed her satisfaction. “And I saw ye first.”

They walked downstairs together and Papa’s reaction was as satisfying as Ma’s. “Ma petite Jacqueline,” he kept saying, with a shake of his head as if he could not reconcile the tomboy he had left behind him and the bride beside him in the carriage. “Ma petite jeune fille.”

What would Pol think? She would find out in a moment, for here they were at the gates of the church. The people standing around in the road and in the church grounds gave a cheer. Papa handed her down, and Bella was there to tidy her slight train before hurrying into the church ahead of them. She must have run through the woods like a hare!

She put her hand on her father’s arm, and the men who were waiting by the double doors flung them open. The church was filled to capacity, with the gentry in the pews and every standing place taken by somebody.

Every soul in the neighborhood must be either in the church or outside. But all of them faded from her mind as she looked down the aisle, where Pol waited for her, with his heart in his eyes.

The excerpt is from Jackie’s Climb. I hope to have preorder details soon.

 

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First meeting on WIP Wednesday

In Pol’s dream, he was chasing the gambler from the night before—Le Gume. Jack Le Gume, to be precise. Pol had asked a few questions and discovered that the man was well known in the area. And liked, too. He was remembered as a graceful winner and a cheerful loser. He won more than he lost, apparently. But not huge amounts, and those who had met the man swore to Pol that he was honest.

She was honest. Pol was certain of his impression from the night before, but now, in the dream, he tackled her to stop her from running away, and as she fell, the beard tore from half her face. Pol looked down into a face he knew. Jackie Bean, the stable boy from Squire Pershing’s.

Was he wrong, then? And yet his body insisted that the lithe shape underneath him was female and desirable.

At that point, Pol woke up. He was in the study, lying on the sofa under a rug, half aroused. Suddenly, he realized what his dream had been trying to tell him. He should have guessed sooner, for she had done little to disguise her name. Jack Le Gume. Legume. A bean was a sort of legume. Jackie Bean. Yes, and Jacqueline Haricot, too. Haricot was French for bean, and the French born Miss Haricot, the dressmaker’s apprentice and daughter, was very definitely a woman.

A lovely woman. Slender, but beautifully curved, with light brown hair that she usually wore tightly confined. But he had seen it loose, once, falling in soft waves to her shoulders. He had been riding past the field where she and her mother kept their cow, and she had not seen him, but the horse had stopped at a signal he did not know he had sent, and he had sat for a minute, staring at her with a dry mouth and an odd ache in his chest.

No wonder he had not guessed. The seamstress might be small, but she was all woman. However, now that he’d noticed it was obvious. She was was also the stable boy, and the gambler.

A soft click came from the door, which he had locked before he went to sleep. A similar sound had reached through the mists of sleep to wake him, he realized. Someone was tapping metal upon metal outside the study door.

No. Inside the door lock, for the light from the embers in the fireplace was enough to see the door open, and he had locked it himself, before he had settled on the sofa.

He watched as a slender figure slipped through the opening and closed the door. Not Oscar, then. His cousin was the only person with a right to pick the lock, though it was not likely he’d try. In the unlikely event he even wanted to enter the study and found the door locked, his style would be to hammer on it and demand to be let in.

This person was twelve inches too short and more than a hundred pounds lighter. For the same reasons, it couldn’t be the viscountess. Amanda, perhaps? But Pol already knew who it was. Perhaps it was the faint scent of violets, so vague he might have been imagining it. Perhaps it was the tightening of his body, already primed by the dream. She is safe, said a part of his mind, rejoicing far more than made sense, given they had not had even a single conversation.

Why was Jackie Haricot or Bean, or whatever her surname might be, breaking into Oscar’s study?

She had made her way to the desk and was crouching down by the drawers on one side. He shifted the rug from his legs and swung his legs to the floor to sit up, watching her the whole time. Her focus was on the drawers, and she didn’t notice him. The scratching sound suggested she was once again picking a lock.

He did not speak until he was ready, his weight balanced forward so he could make a spring for the door if she attempted to escape.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” he asked. “If it is the money Oscar cheated you out of, I’m afraid it isn’t here. Probably Oscar took it with him. He has ridden over to Civerton, I daresay for gaming and… um… other things.”

The girl froze when she heard his voice. As he kept speaking, she slowly moved, her head coming up so she was looking at him over the desk. “Is it you, Mr. Allegro?” she asked, only a small tremble in her voice indicating what was probably a turmoil of emotions.

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Happy families (or not) on WIP Wednesday

Another excerpt from Jackie’s Climb, which is back with the editor and perhaps even being proofread as I write.

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That shall be all for today, Allegro,” Lady Riese said.

Apollo Allegro inclined his head politely and began to gather the neat stacks of paper into a file basket. Completed correspondence awaiting the viscount’s signature. Bills the viscountess had authorized him to pay. A pile of bills and correspondence that he’d been ordered to investigate further.

In theory, he was secretary to Lord Riese, the lady’s son, but the viscount had no interest in his lands and business affairs, and no head for them either. Oscar’s mother and Pol ran everything between them, Pol doing all the preparatory work and the management, Lady Riese making decisions.

Decisions that Oscar, Lord Riese, seldom overturned, except when his own interests were affected.

“About the dressmaker’s rent—” Pol began. Oscar had given him the order last night. Madame La Blanc’s rent—already double what it should be and due in less than a week—was to be doubled again. The dressmaker had already been told.

Lady Riese interrupted him. “My son has made up his mind,” she said.

Of course, Oscar had. The rutting villain wanted Madame’s seamstress. He probably had no idea that the girl was also Madame’s daughter. Pol made it his job to know everything there was to know about the people of the estate and the nearby village, the better to protect them from Lady Riese and her son.

Pol had no intention of sharing any of their secrets with his employers. Who were also his relatives, but a man didn’t choose his family. He tried another tack with the viscountess. “It will unsettle the other tenants, my lady.”

Lady Riese fixed him with her icy glare. “They will not question the viscount’s decision. Nor shall you. Remember your place, Allegro.”

Pol picked up his basket, bowed, and left the lady’s sitting room. He knew his place in the Riese household. Far beneath the viscountess and her children. Not quite a servant and certainly not part of the family. Required to be grateful for every bite of food and every thread of clothing.

He had been made aware of where he fitted in the Riese household from the first. He had arrived from Italy as a child of not quite ten to discover that the uncle who had sent for himto whom he had been sent after his mother’s death had also died.

Finding himself in the care of strangers after his mother’s death, missing his mother and the only home he had ever known, another death—and that of a stranger—was of little moment. In the face of his grief, the loss of his surname was no more than a blip. He still remembered the moment, though, when he ceased to be Apollo Riese and became Apollo Allegro.

“Your name is not Riese,” the viscountess had told him, her voice cold and harsh. “Your father never married your mother. You have some claim on us, for your father was my husband’s brother. You may stay as long as you obey orders and make yourself useful.”

Or, at least, those were her sentiments. He had been only nine years of age, and perhaps his memory of the exact words was faulty. Certainly, though,What was certain was that he had been called Apollo Allegro from that time, and he had been sent to the housekeeper to be put to work.

From that moment, Pol cleaned pots in the kitchen, polished silver, and emptied chamber pots. He initially slept in a little nook off the kitchen, although later he was given a room upstairs, near the family. He obeyed orders and made himself useful.

It could have been worse. The estate’s steward, the housekeeper, and the butler remembered his father, and though they expected him to complete the tasks they gave him, they also made certain he had time to play, plenty to eat, and as much affection as they could provide without the viscountess noticing.

He grew up in the servants’ hallservants’ hall, progressing through roles and taking on more and more responsibility. Lessons also had to be fitted into his busy day, for his grandmother, Clara Lady Riese, as she was known, had insisted he have the education of a gentleman. Or, rather, all his other activities had to be fitted around the lessons that he shared with his cousin Oscar, who—despite being the same age as Pol—was already the Viscount Riese.

Oscar was a bully, a sneak, and not very smart. The first two were a problem. The last was an opportunity, and Pol soon found himself trading help with homework for immunity from mean tricks and nasty tattling. “Help” being another word for doing the homework for Oscar.

“I won’t need to know all of this stuff,” Oscar insisted. “You shall be my secretary, Polly, and will deal with all my correspondence and other rubbish of that nature.”

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In Regency England, what was a curate? What is a solicitor?

The lawyer writes the gentleman’s will while the curate acts as a witness.

My editor questioned a couple of terms in my book Jackie’s Climb, because she’d seen them in a different context. Here’s my answer, written into the author’s notes, in case other people have the same concerns. The question? Did the Anglican church at the time have curates? And what did they do? And should I have said attorney instead of solicitor?

In the Regency era Anglican church, a curate was an ordained minister of any age who was paid by the vicar to assist him in the parish.

A post as vicar of a parish was called a living, because it guaranteed a fixed amount of property or income (which the vicar would live on). This income came from tithes paid to the holder of the living, either great tithes or small tithes. A great tithe was 10% of all cereal grown or all wool shorn in the parish, and a small tithe was 10% of all other agricultural produce.

A vicar with a big parish, or one who simply didn’t want to do the work, could employ a curate to help him out.

In England, to this day, practitioners of law are either solicitors or barristers. A solicitor is a legal practitioner who undertakes a variety of legal work, and also prepares cases for a barrister. A barrister is a legal practitioner who pleads cases in court. In New Zealand, where I live, most lawyers are both.

In England prior to the 19th century, the term solicitor was used only for those who prepared cases for Chancery. A legal practitioner who prepared other cases was an attorney at law, or public attorney. This is the term that has prevailed in the United States, but in England during the 19th century it fell into disrepute because of the behaviour of private attorneys. A private attorney was anyone with the power to act on behalf of another person–to this day, we talk about “power of attorney”.

I could have chosen the term lawyer, which simply meant (and means) one whose profession is suits in court or client advice on legal rights. Solicitor is more specific.

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Tea with an old friend

An excerpt post. I am currently going through the edits for Jackie’s Climb. My hero and heroine have come to London with his grandmother and her mother, seeking the help of an investigator. When the Duchess of Winshire discovers her old friend Clara Lady Reise is in Town, she sends her stepson to bring the party to stay at Winshire House.

We are fortunate the duchess is in town and remembers Gran fondly,” Pol commented.

“She has been very kind,” Jackie said.

The duchess had said that Gran had been kind to her, when she was a young bride and still finding her feet as a duchess. It was hard to imagine the commanding grand lady had once been unsure of her place. Now, said the duchess, she could return the favor.

“She has been very helpful,” said Pol. The four of them had agreed not to disclose the details of why they were in London to anyone but the enquiry agent, and even then, they had intended to be judicious about what they said.

Gran must have forgotten, for within ten minutes of her reunion with the duchess, she was spilling out everything. Her belief that Pol was the real heir to his grandfather and that her daughter-in-law had hidden the truth. The terrible treatment Pol had suffered in what should be his own house. How Oscar and his mother terrorized the neighborhood, with the connivance of the local magistrate. The trumped-up charges against Pol and Jackie. Even her own poisoning.

When Pol, Jackie, and Madame de Haricot du Charmont had joined the two older ladies, Her Grace knew everything. She asked how she could help. “I will, if you have no objection, ask Wakefield and Wakefield to send an enquiry agent to discuss your case. I am familiar with the firm, and agree they are a good choice.”

The agency had responded to the duchess’s note to say that someone would call as soon as possible. “Do you want to be part of the meeting with the enquiry agent?” Pol asked Jackie. “This affects you as much as it affects me.”

“I would like that,” Jackie agreed.

Her gaze moved to a point behind Pol’s shoulder. He glanced back. A footman was standing a few paces away, waiting to be noticed. “Lord Riese, sir. Mr. Wakefield has called to see you. He is in the Chinese parlor.”

“Thank you,” said Pol. “Can you show us to the Chinese parlor? Jackie? Are you coming?”

Having a guide was essential. The whole of the first floor of the town house was given over to reception rooms of one kind or another. The Chinese parlor must have taken its name from the style of the interior. Everything from the wallpaper and light fittings to the furniture and ornaments was in the chinoiserie style that had been highly fashionable in the middle of the previous century.

The person who was waiting for them did not fit Pol’s picture of an enquiry agent. He was expecting some bluff burly character of indeterminate middle age, with a working man’s coat and flat cap, and perhaps a flashy waistcoat.

This man was dressed quietly but neatly in a gentleman’s morning attire—the kinds of garment worn by a solicitor or a physician—or, for that matter, any gentleman with no particular desire to scale the heights of fashion.

In appearance, nothing about him stood out. Dark hair, hazel eyes, medium height and build. He was notable only for the smile he was addressing to the other occupant of the room.

The other occupant was a surprise. The Duchess of Winshire sat with the enquiry agent, engaged in warm conversation. She stood when she saw Pol and Jackie, and the man rose, too.

“There you are. Miss de Haricot du Charmont, Lord Riese, allow me to make known to you Mr. Wakefield.” She put an arm on Mr. Wakefield’s arm. “David, dear, do give my love to Prue. And let Antonia know that I was very proud of her last night.”

Mr. Wakefield bent for the peck of a kiss she placed on his check. “I will leave you to business,” she said, and sailed out of the room.

“Her Grace is godmother to my eldest daughter, who is currently enjoying her first Season,” Mr. Wakefield explained. He shuddered. “Unlike her poor Papa.”

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Family matters on WIP Wednesday

This is a segment from Jackie’s Climb, which is with the publisher for editing.

Pol remembered when his grandmother had been a lively and compelling force in the manor. Back then, when he first arrived, she and the dower house where she lived had been his sanctuary from his cousin’s bullying and his aunt’s nagging.

It was thanks to her that he had been taken from the kitchen and given a room of his own—a small one, but on the family floor. She had insisted on him being allowed to take lessons with Oscar. He had even—back in those days—taken his meals with the family on the occasions that the older Lady Riese joined them, rather than in his room or with the servants.

She had begun to fade, though, losing focus, regularly stumbling, falling asleep throughout the day. Perhaps she had had some kind of fit or perhaps it was grief over the loss of her last surviving son.
By the time Pol escaped into an apprenticeship with the steward, she was barely in the land of the living, spending most of the day asleep and frequently failing to recognize the members of the household, including her own grandsons and granddaughter.

Nonetheless, Pol visited her most days. Unless she was asleep, she was always welcoming, even if he had to reintroduce himself every time. Today, her sour nursemaid—more keeper than maid or nurse—reluctantly admitted the dowager was awake and would see him.

She was sitting by her window, looking out at the garden, but when he spoke, she turned to face him. “I know you, young man, do I not?”

He said what he said almost every day. “I am Apollo, Gran. The son of your son, Richmond.”

“Richie. He hasn’t been to visit me. You look like him, a little. His eyes were blue, though.”

Pol had heard that before. He had his Italian mother’s dark brown hair and brown eyes. “How are you today, Gran?”

She waved a frail hand—her skin was crinkled and age spotted, the blue tracery of veins clear under the translucent skin. “Well enough, young man. Well enough.” She frowned at him and then her face cleared. “Richie went to Italy,” she declared. “He met a girl there.” She grabbed his hands and gazed into his eyes, her own distressed. “Aaah. Poor Richie. He died. The poor girl had a baby. I told Frederick to write to her and invite her to bring her little boy home to England. He belonged with his family, young man, even if he was half Italian.”

She frowned. “Did he come? I think he came. Who did you say you were, dear?”

Frederick was the name of her husband, Pol’s grandfather. Had grandfather written to Pol’s mother? Then Mamma had ignored the invitation. But perhaps that was the reason he had been sent to England after Mamma died. If so, the welcome he received had been far less than Gran remembered. He had come believing his parents were married. His mother had been addressed as Signora Riese, and he had been called Apollo Riese. Discovering he had no right to the name had been only the start of the shocks in store.

“My lady has had enough, Mr. Allegro,” said the maid. “She is becoming confused. It is time for you to leave.”

Pol was prepared to argue, but Gran’s brief burst of energy had gone. Her hands slipped from his and her eyes drifted shut. “I will come back tomorrow,” he said. She was getting worse, and the tonics that crowded her dressing table didn’t seem to be making any difference. It was time to take her away.

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Sightseeing on WIP Wednesday

In a book full of lies, deceit, assault, attempting kidnapping, theft, and other offences, I was happy to send my hero and heroine on a day of sightseeing.

The following morning, the duchess provided not just the guidebook and a maid, but also a carriage and a driver, waving off protests and thanks. “There is no need for thanks, Apollo, Jacqueline. My dear Clara was a Godsend in the early days of my marriage. I have no idea how I would have survived without her. I am only too happy to be able to repay her many kindnesses.”
Nor would she hear of them seeking work just yet. “I know I am being selfish, dear children, but I am not willing to give Clara up, yet. However—it is foolish, I know, but people will have these ideas—you cannot run a dressmaking business from my husband’s house, Jacqueline, and Apollo, you must not abandon your grandmother and your betrothed for a new position. Not yet. Surely it cannot hurt to just take a holiday for a week or two. While David Wakefield looks into your problems.”
How could they argue when she presented it as a favor to her? Not to mention that a week or maybe two of holiday was enormously appealing, especially when they expected to spend it together.
It was a gloriously day. Just the day to be out and about in London in a sociable, or two-bodied phaeton, with the maid and driver up before and Jackie and Pol in the seat behind, the whole of London at their feet.
Their first goal on the first morning of their London adventure was Westminster Abbey. “It was built by the order of Henry the Third,” said Jackie, reading from the guide book. “Or rebuilt, rather. There has been a church and abbey here for more than a thousand years.”
“Henry the Third is… what? Six hundred years past?” Pol commented. “It is certainly a magnificent building!”
“Breathtaking,” Jackie agreed, and insisted on seeing the choir where kings of England were crowned, each of the chapels, and dozens of tombs, including those in Poet’s Corner. Pol, who was taking a turn with the guide book, read, “It says, ‘never could a place be named with more propriety.” They spent perhaps fifteen minutes reading the epitaphs of luminaries such as Chaucer, Spencer, Shakespeare and Milton.
For sixpence each, they were allowed to climb nearly three hundred steps to the top of one of the western towers, to look out over London. The maid was offered the chance to accompany them, but looked so alarmed at the prospect that Pol suggested she make her way back to the carriage and gave her a couple of pennies to purchase tea or ale from a street vendor.
They were not alone on the tower, however. A kindly verger explained the vista spread before them: the Banqueting House at Whitehall, St. James’s Park, with the Parade and Horse Guards, Carleton House where the Prince of Wales had his principal residence, the gardens of the Queen’s Palace, the Green Park, the western end of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park, with the Serpentine curling amongst the green trees and lawns. Looking towards the Thames, they could see both Westminster and Blackfriars bridges, with the river spread between them. Beyond, St Paul’s Cathedral, with the sun falling on, was exquisitely beautiful.
“We shall go there, shall we not, Pol?” Jackie said.
And they did. They visited St Paul’s Cathedral, drove past Queen’s Palace and Carleton House, and through Green Park and Hyde Park, all before the fashionable hour.
They returned to Winshire House to describe the sights they’d seen to Gran and Maman, and to read out what the guide book has to say about the Tower of London, which was to be their first stop the following day.
And Pol managed to find an unused parlor after dinner, as they made their way upstairs to bed, so Jackie finished the day thoroughly kissed, and went to sleep dreaming of more. It was a perfect day.

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Not quite a proposal on WIP Wednesday

The two older women were so absorbed with one another that Pol and Jackie might have been alone in the house. Pol constantly fought the temptation to touch her, to kiss her. More than that, he would not do until they were wed, or at least until she accepted the proposal he had not yet made. With his future so uncertain, it would be unfair, possibly even dangerous. He shuddered to think what Oscar might do to Pol’s wife. That is, if he had been told that Pol was the rightful heir to their grandfather.

Should he kiss her, though? She was attracted to him, he was certain. He was not the rake his cousin was, but nor was he a complete innocent. She wanted him, unless he was imagining the signs of her desire—the way her body tilted towards his, the husky tone when they were alone and she spoke to him, her habit of touching her tongue to suddenly dry lips, her enlarged pupils.

As for him, he yearned to hold her, to kiss her, and everything that followed. In his dreams, they enjoyed the greatest of intimacies. He slept restlessly and woke hard and aching. Would kisses make it all worse?
Surely not. He had learned self-control in a hard school. He could kiss her, and do no more. Day by day, he became more certain that a private kiss or two would do no harm. More than that, it felt inevitable.
In the end, though, there was no question. He stepped out of his little bedchamber off the kitchen just as she hurried past, and suddenly she was in his arms. He made no conscious decision to lower his head and press a kiss to her lips. One tender but gentle kiss became another, the heat building in him as she responded.

“Jackie,” he murmured.

“Pol,” she replied, or tried to, for as soon as she opened her mouth, he slipped his tongue past her lips to explore her mouth. It was clear she’d never been kissed before, but she was a fast learner, as he might have guessed she would be. Everything he did to her, she did in return to him, stroking his tongue with her own, brushing her tongue along the inside of his cheeks and pressing it far into his mouth and then retreating so that his tongue followed hers into the warm cavern of her mouth.

They were pressed together as tightly as two people could be with clothes on, he with one hand on her buttock and one in the middle of her back, and she exploring his chest and his back with hands that stroked and caressed.

His own hands stayed where they were, though it took every ounce of self-control he still possessed not to use them to shape her breasts, to reach for her feminine core. Not here. Not yet. Not in the kitchen where her mother might appear at any moment.

The thought was enough to slightly temper his ardor, but rather than step away, he backed into his bedchamber, bringing her with him. He wouldn’t close the door, because even in his current state—especially in his current state—he didn’t think it wise to be kissing Jackie in a room with a bed in it.

“Beloved,” he said to his dear delight. “Jackie, my heart, my love. You cannot know how much I want you.”

“Perhaps nearly as much as I want you,” she replied, which made him chuckle. Trust Jackie to challenge him.

“I’ve no right to ask you to marry me when my future is so uncertain,” he admitted, taking the leap towards his heart’s desire—if only part way.

But half a leap was never going to satisfy his intrepid darling. “The future is never certain, Pol. I’ve learned that. Anything can happen. We should snatch what happiness we can.”

“Then you will promise to marry me?”

“Ask and you will find out,” she retorted.

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Tea with guests

In the novel I am writing at the moment, the Duchess of Winshire is pleased to help an old friend.

“We are fortunate that the duchess is in town and remembers Gran fondly,” Pol commented.
“She has been very kind,” Jackie said.
The duchess said that Gran had been kind to her, when she was a young bride and still finding her feet as a duchess. It was hard to imagine that the commanding grand lady had once been unsure of her place. Now, said the duchess, she could return the favour.
“She has been very helpful,” said Pol. The four of them had agreed not to disclose the details of why they were in London to anyone but the enquiry agent, and even then, they had intended to be judicious about what they said.
Gran must have forgotten, for within ten minutes of her reunion with the duchess, she was spilling out everything. Her belief that Pol was the real heir to his grandfather and that her daughter-in-law had hidden the truth. The terrible treatment Pol had suffered in what should be his own house. How Oscar and his mother terrorised the neighbourhood, with the connivance of the local magistrate. The trumped-up charges against Pol and Jackie.
When Pol, Jackie, and Madame de Haricot had joined the two older ladies, Her Grace knew everything. She had asked how she could help. “I will, if you have no objection, ask Wakefield and Wakefield to send an enquiry agent to discuss your case. I am familiar with the firm, and agree they are a good choice.”