Grasp the Thorn

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Tea with Rosa Gavenor

Rosa Gavenor waited for the butler to return and conduct her upstairs to the duchess who had commanded her presence. The double duchess, they called her in the ton, for she had been the wife of the Duke of Haverford for long enough that her son was a man entering his middle years when he inherited the title.

The duchess married again shortly after the end of her period of morning, becoming the Duchess of Winshire.

Rosa had been raised in isolation as the daughter of a gentleman who was librarian to a baron. She had never met even a single duchess, let alone a lady august enough to be chosen as wife by two dukes, one after the other.

This was without a doubt the most scary thing she had done during her visit to London.

She had been nervous about the visit, but determined to be a credit to her beloved husband. She had the wardrobe to look like a prosperous gentleman’s wife. She had purchased several afternoon gowns, two carriage ensembles, and a ball gown in Liverpool, at the same modiste who made her wedding gown and the other clothes that Hugh had ordered for her before they were married.

Hugh said what she had would be inadequate for a month in London, and appealed to the Countess of Ruthford, wife of Hugh’s beloved colonel, whom everyone except his wife called Lion.

Lady Ruthford agreed, and offered to take Rosa to her own modiste. Before the shopping trip was over, Rosa and Dorothea, the countess, were firm friends.

Then came the invitations. Hugh was far more popular, and have deeper connections into the upper reaches of the ton, than Rosa had realised. She had her own connection, of a sort, too. The Marquess of Raithby recognised her as a sort of a sister, since her aunt had been his father’s long-term mistress, much loved by both the marquess and his children.

Rosa very quickly found other married women she liked, and soon had invitations that did not depend on Hugh’s connections or those of the marquess. While much of the ton was as standoffish and smug as Hugh always said, he was correct, too, that people were people, no matter their status in life. She could ignore the self-centred and cruel, and enjoy those who were prepared to be friends.

What sort of a contact would the duchess prove to be? It didn’t matter. Hugh was doing business with the Duke of Haverford and with the Earl of Sutton, Winshire’s son and heir. As his wife, Rosa must make a good impression, or at the very least, not make a bad one.

Knowing how important this meeting was did not make the waiting any easier. It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an age before the butler returned, and invited Rosa to follow him.

The elegant and expensive decor was unusual for an English house, reminding Rosa that the duke had spent many years in the east. She did not have time to examine it, though, for the butler hurried up the staircase and along a wide hallway to an elegant parlour.

As soon as she saw the duchess’s smile, Rosa knew her worries were for nothing.

“My dear Rosa… may I call you Rosa? I feel that I know you, with what my god son, dear Raithby, has said. Come and sit down, my dear. Tell me all about yourself, and how I can help you and your dear husband.”

Rosa’s love story with Hugh (aka Bear) Gavenor is in Grasp the Thorn, free this month.

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Tea with Mrs Clifford

The innkeeper could not be more apologetic. There had been a misunderstanding. He had not been expecting Her Grace until the next day. The letter requiring a private parlour to be set aside for her comfort for an hour in the afternoon specifically said Thursday. He was terribly sorry.

Eleanor listened as her major domo conceded that they were a day early, but demanded the private parlour anyway.

“But I cannot turn out the lady currently using it,” the innkeeper protested. “She is elderly, and not too well.”

The major domo was of the view that his great lady’s convenience superseded the needs of anyone else, so it was time for Eleanor to intervene.

“If your guest would be kind enough to share the parlour for an hour, I shall do very well,” she said. “And if not, you might perhaps have a bedchamber I could use?”

The innkeeper looked even more worried, and no wonder. Eleanor’s impetuous decision to bring her plans forward a day had landed her in this town on the day some sporting event was about to take place. Her major domo was not prepared to discuss the nature of the match, so Eleanor assumed it was boxing or something equally unfit for the gentle sensibilities of ladies.

Fortunately for the poor innkeeper’s peace of mind, the lady in the parlour proved willling to share, and Eleanor spent a pleasant hour with her feet up, a nice hot cup of tea, some delightful ginger biscuits, and the company of Mrs Clifford, the original occupant of the parlour.

Eleanor knew who Mrs Clifford was, of course, but did not embarrass the lady by mentioning it. And she was a lady, by her behaviour. Indeed, as mistress to the recently deceased Marquess of Raithby, she had been more faithful to the gentleman over thirty or more years than the marquess’s wife. Kinder to his children, too.

Eleanor said none of that, but simply talked about the purpose of her trip. “My foster daughter’s confinement is fast approaching, and I completed the last of the obligations that kept me in London, so I wished to wait not a moment more. I must beg your pardon for intruding on your peace. It is entirely my fault for leaving early.”

Mrs Clifford raised a hand in demurral. “It is my pleasure to have your company, Your Grace.” She paused, then confided, “I am also travelling to see a beloved relative. My sister’s child. She lives in the village where I spent my childhood, and I wish to see it and her one more time before…” She trailed off, but Eleanor could finish the sentence in her own mind. It was clear that Mrs Clifford was very ill.

“Do you have far to go?” Eleanor asked, and discovered that the other lady was going all the way to the Wirral Peninsula in Cheshire.

“I am travelling a day and resting a day,” she assured Eleanor. “I shall see Rosabel one more time, and I shall be happy.”

Eleanor’s maid popped her head around the corner of the door to let Eleanor know the carriage was ready. Eleanor stood, and could not resist saying, “I hope the rest of your journey goes well, Mrs Clifford. And may I express my sincere condolences on your loss? Raithby was a great man.”

Mrs Clifford’s raised her eyebrows but smiled. “He was, Your Grace. He was.”

Mrs Clifford is a secondary character–and a scandal–in Grasp the Thorn, published tomorrow.

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Background characters on WIP Wednesday

You’re absolutely right. All of you who think I fall in love with my background characters are correct. But they are such fun! For example, how about Mrs Able and her kids in Grasp the Thorn?

Once out of the gate, Miss Pelman turned uphill, towards the village centre, and then almost immediately down a little narrow side street with four terraced houses on either side. They looked to be of the same vintage and type as the hovels at the bottom of the hill, but in much better condition, and lights flickered behind the downstairs window of each.

Miss Pelman stopped at the second house on the right and mounted the three steps that took the doorway higher than the muddy road. How many people lived here? The cacophony behind the door suggested at least a score: a baby crying, children shouting, and a couple of adult voices pitched to be heard above all the rest.

A knock brought an immediate response: a child’s voice retreating as it shouted, “Mam, Mam, someone’s to door.”

The door opened, just enough for a half-grown girl to insert her wiry body in the gap and examine first Miss Pelman and then Bear with eyes that were twenty years older than the rest of her.

“We’re here to see your mother,” Miss Pelman did not waste courtesy on the children of the poor. “Take us to her.”

The girl let the door swing open and led the way a few paces down the narrow, cluttered hall to a parlour door. Five children of various ages and sizes tumbled up and down the stairs leading to the upper floor, playing some complicated game that required frequent pauses for negotiation of the next move. In the parlour, more children draped themselves across the furniture, sat against the walls, or lay on their stomachs on the knotted rag rugs.

A lushly built woman, not old enough to be mother of all these children, let the suckling infant she held detach itself from her nipple, and reached for the wailing baby that one of the older girls held. Another girl scooped up the little sprite who had finished his or her meal, and skirted Bear to whisk it out of the room.

The nursing woman watched Bear with a sardonic eye, as if daring him to comment on her exposed, full breasts. He kept his face impassive as the baby in her arms bumped blindly against her bare skin. She thrust her nipple into its wailing mouth, silencing, at least, that source of noise.

“Mam Able, it’s Miss Pelman and a gentleman,” the door opener announced. She wasn’t looking at the nursing woman and Bear turned to see who was being addressed.

Half screened by children, another woman watched them from one of the couches. She was much older. The first woman’s mother, perhaps? They shared the same eyes, though this second woman had run to fat, with several chins, a bosom like the prow of a ship and arms like young oaks. Above her broad face, hair an unlikely shade of orange stuck out in a parody of a fashionable coiffure.

“Wha’ might Miz Pelman ’n a gen’leman want of Mrs Able?” she asked, tipping her head to one side in question.

Miss Pelman drew herself up to announce, “Mrs Able, Mr Gavenor is a great friend of my brother’s, and he has need of your services.” She ignored the nursing mother as if she were not in the room.

Bear regretted his keen sense of smell, which detected urine-wet child, heavy sweat, and an overlay of juniper. Gin, probably.

“Lying in, laying out, wet nurse, or sick-bed nurse? Only, if you need a wet nurse, You’ll ’ave to ’ave Penny.” She gestured to the woman feeding the baby, explaining, “Me dugs ’ave dried.” Miss Pelman glanced in the direction of the gesture and as quickly looked away.

“Sick-bed nurse,” Bear told her. “Just for the night, until the daughter can make other arrangements.”

“It is Neatham,” Miss Pelman explained. “But Mr Gavenor is paying.”

Mrs Able pursed her lips. “Just tonight?”

Bear nodded.

“Two shillings by the night. Extra if he soils himself.”

Highway robbery, but undoubtedly anyone with this many mouths to feed needed the money. “Half now, half in the morning.”

“And dinner from the inn and a pint of porter.”

He would pass the inn on his way back to Rose Cottage. “I will pay to have it sent. Enough for Mr Neatham, too.”

The sick-bed nurse hoisted herself from her seat. “Penny, they’re all yours,” she announced.

Penny cast her eyes upwards, though whether in prayer or protest, Bear couldn’t say. “I’ve someone I promised to meet tomorrow, noonish,” she warned.

“I’ll be back by then, or Sal can watch them.”

Mrs Able left the room to a chorus of “Night, Mam,” and pulled on some men’s boots in the hall while the children on the stairs stopped long enough to add their good nights.

Then she covered her head and shoulders with a blanket before leading the way back across to the Pelman’s street and to the entrance of a steep flight of steps that led down to the hollow where the Neathams’ new abode wallowed in its pond.