The Children of the Mountain King

by

Tea with various philanthropic ladies

(This post is an excerpt from Paradise At Last, which I am currently frantically trying to get finished. I hope to publish in March.)

“I did not realise that the Duke of Winshire was a close acquaintance of Mrs Kellwood,” Eleanor commented. An intimate acquaintance? Perhaps. He had certainly emerged from her house well before the usual visiting hours. She wrestled with the hot jealousy that attempted to escape her iron control. It is none of my business. James and I have—had—no understanding. Especially not after…

Henry, Baron Redepenning, leaned closer to the carriage window to watch the couple strolling down the street together, Mrs Kellwood clinging to James’s arm. “They are much in one another’s company at balls and concerts and the like, but I have not heard of an affair,” he said.

Not consoling. If James had taken the woman as a lover, he would be discrete, though leaving by her front door in full daylight was hardly inconspicuous. Did that mean they were not lovers? It is none of your business, Eleanor, she scolded herself.

She had encountered Henry at Chirbury House when she called to collect Frances. Frances had greeted her with enthusiasm, but was less delighted at the idea of returning to Haverford House.

She, Daisy, Antonia, and a couple of other acquaintances had a full timetable of activities planned, “And very little time to complete them all, Aunt Eleanor,” Frances had explained, “since Daisy is leaving London at the end of the week to go back to Gloucestershire. Coming home would mean extra time travelling every day, and I would miss out on all the fun in the evenings. I may stay, may I not?”

And so Eleanor had left without Frances, but with Henry, whom she had offered to drop at the headquarters of the Horse Guard where he had his office, on her way back to Haverford House.

On second thoughts, she might call on a couple of other acquaintances while she was out. Her niece-in-law, Anne Chirbury, had mentioned a few people who were in town, and had talked about the difficulties facing the country-folk with the summer’s poor harvest. And, too, Henry was concerned for the injured and sick soldiers and sailors who were still trickling home from foreign ports after the tragedy that was Waterloo ended the long war with France.

Surely Cedrica Fournier would be home, and she would have a different perspective on the problems facing Londoners, since she lived here year round, and she and her husband owned a successful restaurant.

None of the Winderfield women were in town, though Eleanor would, in any case, be reluctant to call on James’s family without a direct invitation. But Henry had mentioned that the Earl of Hythe had arrived back from Vienna, and his sister, Lady Felicity Belvoir, had co-operated with Eleanor on several philanthropic causes. She could think of one or two others, too.

By the end of the afternoon, she had met with five of the woman she had worked with before, three in high society and two with a firmer finger on the pulse of the merchant ranks of Society. All of them had causes to espouse, and all of them were doing something about it.

“I learned from the best, Aunt Eleanor,” said Cedrica, who was a distant cousin and had once been Eleanor’s secretary. “I see a need and figure out how to bring it to the attention of others, as you taught me.”

The other women repeated variations on the same theme. They credited Eleanor with the inspiration, which was kind of them, but the fact was they were doing very well without her. When they realised she was looking for work, they all suggested roles for her. And all of the roles were minor, and could have been done by anyone.

In penance for her pique at that thought, she accepted them all. At least she would be busy for the few weeks until Haverford and Charlotte returned from Paris, and they all retired to the country.

by

Up and Rolling in Two 22

I’m trying to keep all my balls in the air while maintaining a work-life balance

Happy New Year! It has been a couple of peculiar years in a row. A global pandemic is not necessarily the best time to sell our home of 20 years, move to another town, buy a new house, and do a complete renovation inside and out. By the time I published To Tame the Wild Rake in September, I was weary to the bone. The plot elves hung on for a few weeks to see a novella finished for the next Bluestocking Belles (with Friends) anthology, and then packed up to begin an early holiday.

How did your 2021 end? And how has it started?

For me, the holiday is over. We saw the last tradesman finish his work just before Christmas. Since then, we’ve almost finished all of the tasks we’d set out to do ourselves, but the pressure is off and we can set our own pace. On the story front, the plot elves are back and so am I.

I’m starting back into my regular blogging schedule, so check back here on Monday’s for Tea with Duchess of Haverford, on Wednesdays for an excerpt from one of my works in progress, on Fridays for snippets from my research and on Sundays for my news or book news from other authors. Do check out my I love guest authors page if you’d like to appear on my blog or in my newsletter.

I have three works-in-progress on the go, and I’ve others lined up to pick from when I finish any of those. I’m signed up for several more anthologies, and also for some stories in series with other authors. And I’ve started a new series of my own (more about that later).

Paradise at Last, which suffered when the plot elves decamped, is one of those works. I hope to have it finished and ready for ARC within the next week. Here’s a sneak peek. The scene is between Eleanor and her son, just before Christmas in 1815.

She owed her son an apology. She had already acknowledged her wrong-doing to Cherry, and been forgiven. But how could she tell her son of her remorse when he avoided her, and spoke to her only with distant politeness?

She would have to ask him for a private audience, but before she nerved herself to do so, he made the request himself. She followed him to the library, and allowed him to close the door behind them.

“Haverford, I have apologised for interfering between you and Cherry, but I would like to do so again. I have known all along that I was wrong to go privately to Cherry as I did. You are adults, and I should have said what I thought to both of you and trusted you to make your own decision. I am truly sorry for the distress I caused you.”

Haverford opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Eleanor put up a hand to stop him. “I have a second apology to make, Haverford. Watching you and Cherry together in the past week shows me that I was wrong again—wrong to believe that your love for Cherry was less deep than hers for you. Wrong to think that you would fall out of love once you had achieved your prize. All I ever wanted was for both of you to be happy. You are perfect for one another, and I shudder to think how close I came to preventing that happiness.”

For a moment, Haverford said nothing, his mouth hanging slightly open as if the words he’d planned to say had dissolved on his tongue. Then he gave a slight shake of his head. “Thank you, Mama.”

“I will never interfere again,” Eleanor promised. Perhaps that was a bit rash. “At least, I will try my very best.”

Haverford’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “I shall not ask such a sacrifice, Mama. Both Cherry and her mother have pointed out what a marvelous gift you have for interfering, as you call it. All I ask is that you consult us first on any plans you have that involve us and that you promise not to proceed without our agreement.”

Eleanor’s eyes were wet. She blinked to clear them. “I can promise that,” she agreed.

His smile broadened. “Come on, Mama. We have a house to decorate.”

He offered her his hand to help her rise, and his elbow to escort her back to the ballroom, just in time to see a footman moving a ladder away from the arched doorway. A kissing ball hung in the middle of the arch. Cherry stood looking up at it, and she glanced their way and smiled to see them together.

Haverford put his arm around Eleanor, reached up for a mistletoe berry, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I love you, Mama,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”

And it was.

by

Emotions on WIP Wednesday

Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry, make ’em wait, says the old advice to aspiring writers. I’ve done the last with my story about Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford. I’m having a go at the first two. Here’s a bit. What do you think? And what do you want to share?

Ah yes. Of course. It should have occurred to her, but it had not. She had been about to ascend to the traditional chambers of the Duchess of Haverford—an entire suite of rooms that mirrored and were adjacent to the duke’s suite.

Another reminder that she was no longer the mistress of this house and the other houses of the ducal estates. She climbed the stairs with her heart sinking, turned into the family wing, and stopped at the indicated door.

Tears welled in her eyes. The suite had been fully refurbished. She saw new wallpaper and drapes in her favourite colours, the comfortable chairs that had sat for years either side of her fireplace looking as fresh as the day they were purchased, now each side of her new fireplace. Above it was the same painting of her two sons as little boys that had been over her mantle since the day the painter delivered it.

She drifted around the room, touching one familiar item after another, and stopping to examine the new pieces that someone had selected with care and an eye to her comfort. A warm throw rug in soft fur. A replacement for the old footstool that had always been just a little too low.

And, yes, the fireplace chairs had been recovered, but the original fabric had been copied exactly.

Following her dresser through the door into her new bedchamber and beyond into her dressing room, she found the same touch, redolent of love in every detail. Her study, too, on the other side of the sitting room, was perfect—almost a duplicate of the one she had created in the duchess’s quarters, with her delicate desk, all her books in glass-doored bookshelves, and her own comfortable reading chair. The one addition was delightful: a window seat from which she could look over the formal gardens enclosed in the u-shaped formed by the main house and the two large wings that stretched towards the river.

It must have been Charlotte. For the first time in months, Eleanor allowed the hope that she had been forgiven to unfurl in her heart.

by

The Rival on WIP Wednesday

In romances, some of the tension often comes from a would-be or imagined or actual rival for the affections of the main characters. This week, I’m inviting author who wishes to share an excerpt about a rival. Mine is from Paradise At Last, and James has no idea.

The usual chattering flock of maidens hovered in his vicinity, trying to attract his attention. In the thirty-three months since he ascended to his title, he’d lost count of the number of ladies who happened to swoon or trip or collapse just as he passed close enough to catch them. Sometimes, he fantasised about speeding up in time to let them crash to the floor behind him. So far, he had resisted the temptation.

At least the marriageable females could be defeated by icy civility. Not so the bored matrons and dashing widows looking for less respectable liaisons. They found it incredible that a widower who was also a wealthy duke might survive without someone to warm his bed, and therefore assumed he was extremely discrete, which made an affair with him even more to be desired.

He was not looking for a mistress. It was the truth, whether they believed it or not. As a young man, he had been unusual among his wild friends in needing an emotional connection before he could consider physical intimacy. Since experiencing the heights of bliss and the joys of partnership with Mahzad, his beloved wife, he had even less interest in mindless coupling.

Nor did he need a wife. He had his heir; his eldest son who wife was carrying their second child. In all the years since Mahzad’s death, he had considered joining his life with only one other. With Eleanor, whom he had lost once again.

Mrs Turner was approaching, a predatory gleam in her eye. James was pretty sure it was her who had groped his bottom when they stood side by side in the reception line. She stopped when greeted by a friend, and James took the opportunity to step sideways behind a group who were earnestly discussing, of all things, the most fashionable colour to use for evening turbans.

“Avoiding an ambush, Duke?” He knew that amused contralto, and turned to smile at the speaker as she slipped a hand onto his elbow.

“Mrs Kellwood. How are you this evening?” The widow had become a friend in the past few months—a safe lady to spend time with at events such as this. She had, initially, suggested a more intimate relationship, but had readily accepted his refusal.

“I survive, my dear, but would be the better for a stroll on the terrace, if you would be kind enough to oblige me.”

James offered his arm, wondering if she was about to overstep the boundaries of friendship, but she made no attempt to press close or to lean on his arm. Still, he stiffened when she admitted, “I have an ulterior motive, Duke. I will tell you all about it when we are out of the crowd.”

But all she was after was a listening ear. “My son is insisting I invest in this mining venture, Duke, and — I don’t know. I can see nothing wrong with it, but I just have a feeling…” She shrugged. “Am I being foolish? Do you know anything about diamond mining in the Cape Colony?

James’s guilt at having ascribed to her, even briefly, the marital or lustful motives of so many other females had him offering to read the prospectus and ask a few quiet questions among his contacts.

“But you are so busy!” she exclaimed. “I do not like to bother.”

“It is no bother,” he assured her. “Send it over.”

by

Tea with James, Duke of Winshire

An excerpt post, taken from To Claim the Long-Lost Lover.

Winshire looked around as he knocked on the door. The cottage had been kept in good repair, but nevertheless had an air of abandonment. He was trying to nail down what details indicated it was unloved in when the door opened. He turned to ask to be shown to his hostess, or allowed to wait for her inside until she could see him. There she stood, her warm smile the only welcome he needed.

He could feel his own smile growing in response. “Eleanor.”

The Duchess of Haverford stepped back to give him space to enter. “James. Come in!”

He followed her across a small entrance hall to a cosy little parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth and a tray with a tea set waited on a small table between two chairs. Eleanor took the seat closest to the tea pot and waved her hand to the other. “Be seated, dear friend. Would you care for tea?”

Tea was not what he hungered for. For ten years after Mahzad’s death, he had thought himself beyond desire, but Eleanor brought it roaring back the first time he saw her on his return to England. Getting to know her again had only increased his longing; she was even lovelier, both within and without, than when they had first met long ago, before her father accepted the Duke of Haverford’s suit for her hand, and rejected that of James, who was only the third son of the Duke of Winshire.

James was forced into exile and Eleanor was made to marry Haverford.

He kept his feelings to himself. If he told her his hopes, and if she shared them, he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her like this without besmirching his honour and insulting hers.

Eleanor was a married woman and virtuous, even if her husband was a monster. Even if the old devil was rotting from within and locked away for his own good and to protect the duchy. James accepted the offered seat and the cup of tea; asked after the duchess’s sons and wards and caught her up to date with his own family; exchanged comments on the war news and the state of the harvest.

“James,” she said at last, “I proposed this meeting for a reason.”

“To see me, I hope. Since Parliament went into recess and we both left London, I have missed our weekly visits to that little bookshop you frequent.”

Eleanor smiled, and James fancied that he saw her heart in her eyes for a moment, and it leapt to match his. But her smile faded and her lashes veiled her eyes. “That, too, my dear friend. I have missed you, too. But there is another matter I need to bring to your attention.”

She grimaced and gave her head a couple of impatient shakes. “It seems I am always muddying our time together with gossip and scandal. I am so sorry, James.”

“One day, I hope we will be able to meet without subterfuge, and for no reason but our pleasure,” James said. The last word was a mistake. He might be old, but at the word ‘pleasure’, his body was reminding him urgently that he was not yet dead.

Eleanor seemed unaffected, focused on whatever bad news she had to give him. “You are aware, I am sure, of the history of your niece Sarah’s ward?”

“Her son?” James queried. He had assumed Eleanor knew. She was a confidante of his sister-in-law.

“Indeed. What you may not know—what I have just found out—is that Society is making that assumption and spreading the story.”

James shook his head. “I guessed the gossips and busybodies would reach that conclusion, but without proof or confirmation, and with the family firmly behind her, the rumours will die.”

“True, if that was all. But James, you may not know—Sarah may not know—that her little boy’s father is back in England and, if my sources are accurate, seeking a bride.”

James stiffened. “The coward has returned?”

“As to that,” Eleanor said, “Grace always suspected that Sutton and Winshire had something to do with his disappearance, and it is being whispered that his father has recently bought him out of the navy, where he had worked his way up to being a surgeon.”

“And your sources are connecting Sarah and her child with this man?”

Eleanor shook her head. “Not yet. The two rumours are separate. But if the two of them meet, people may make connections. Especially if the child resembles his father.” She shrugged, even that small elegant movement unusually casual for the duchess. “It is all very manageable, James, but you needed to know.”

“I appreciate it, Eleanor.” He sighed. “English Society is more of a snake pit than the court of the Shah of Shahs or that of the Ottoman Sultan Khan.

by

Tea with Ruth, Countess of Ashbury

The new Countess of Ashbury was the Duchess of Haverford’s only guest today. She was shown out to the terrace where her grace sat taking the sunshine while looking over the gardens that sloped to the river. Her curtsey was gracefulness incarnate, and her looks not at all in the common way, but stunning.

“Your Grace, thank you for your invitation,” she said.

Eleanor waved to the chair that had been placed next to her own, and at an angle to it so that she could keep her eyes on her visitor’s face. “My goddaughter Sophia encouraged me to do so, Lady Ashbury. She tells me you have a charitable project that I might be interested in supporting. But first, let us have tea and talk about our families and the weather.”

Lady Ashbury’s amused smile flashed. “I shall feel very English,” she said.

She stated her preferences—black, with a slice of lemon and one lump of sugar–and accepted the cup Eleanor poured. “I have not thanked you in person for your influence in the matter of my sister-in-law, and the scandal she tried to raise,” she said.

Eleanor never did anything so crass as shrugging her shoulders, but she allowed her eyebrows to do so. “You blunted the worst of the rumours when you married Lord Ashbury,” she pointed out. “You are happy, I hope? Sophia tells me it is a love match.”

The glow in Lady Ashbury’s eyes, the softening of her voice, all confirmed the diagnosis. “Yes, Your Grace. I love Val, and I love his–our daughters. We would have come to it in the end, I believe. Elspeth Ashbury did us a favour by forcing us to decide sooner, rather than later.”

“Tell me about your daughters,” Eleanor encouraged. “Lady Mirabelle and Lady Genevieve, are they not?”

Ruth needed no further encouragement, extolling the talents and characters of her girls while they drank their tea. However, when Eleanor put her cup aside, she brought her current anecdote to a close, and commented, “But I have been rattling on about my family, which is hardly good manners, Your Grace. Will you further extend your kindness to me by allowing me to rattle on about my cottage hospital instead?”

“A cottage hospital! How interesting. Please tell me more.”

***

Ruth is the heroine of To Mend the Broken Hearted. She meets the Earl of Ashbury when she delivers his two daughters to him after they are sent home from school during a smallpox epidemic. By To Claim the Long-Lost Lover, she is running the cottage hospital mentioned above.

 

by

Announcing the Grand Prize winner

 

Congratulation to Zara

Zara’s name was drawn from nearly six hundred entries in the draw. She has won a print copy of To Wed a Proper Lady, a US$50 Amazon gift card, a personal card from me posted from New Zealand, and a made-to-order story.  Zara got to decide on one character, one object, and a story trope. She has asked for a spirited heroine that is loyal to those she loves, adores animals and books. Her object is a locket, and the story trope is friends to lovers.  I’m looking forward to coming up with something that uses those ingredients.

Thank you to all the people who entered. I hope you’ve had fun. I certainly have. And I think we can agree that Aldridge’s happy-ever-after has been well and truly celebrated.

by

Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 21

Epilogue

Winshire House, London, January 1813

Eleanor had not visited her friends in Winshire House in nearly a year; had not seen them since they quit London in July, after the series of attacks on the family.

Today, she was going to ignore the prohibitions of the despot who ruled her family. He was convalescing in Kent, and would be away for at least another month. By the time he found out that she had made a condolence call on Grace and Georgie, it would be far too late for him to stop her. She hoped to see her goddaughter, too, who had married James’s eldest son just before the turn of the year, a day before the Duke of Winshire died.

At first, she had thought to go on her own, but Matilda and Jessica wanted to express their sympathies to Georgie’s daughters, who had been their friends since the cradle. Rather, they seized on the excuse to visit with the girls, whom they had sorely missed during the feud between Haverford and Winshire. No one could possibly imagine that anyone in the Winshire family actually mourned the sour old man who had just died.

Since she was going for precisely the same reason, she agreed, and then Aldridge announced that he planned to escort them. “When I am duke, Mama, I hope that the new Winshire and I will be able to work together, and I like what I’ve seen of his sons.”

In the end, they all went, late in the afternoon. Only Jon was missing. A month ago, he had sailed from Margate in Aldridge’s private yacht, and just this morning, a package had been delivered by a weary sailor, with a report from Aldridge’s captain for the marquis, and a brief note from Jon for his mother. “Married. Safe. More news later.” Aldridge grinned at the scrawled words. “Jon has landed on his feet again, Mama,” he told her. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t know how he always manages to do that!”

The Winshire drawing room was crowded, of course, but the Haverfords were invited to remove themselves to a private parlour, where their hostesses joined them after the other visitors had completed the polite fifteen minutes and been shown out.

“Do stay for refreshments,” Grace begged, and before long Lord Andrew Winderfield had carried Aldridge off for a game of billiards, the girls from both families had gone up to the twins’ little sitting room, and the older ladies settled in to catch up on all that had happened in their lives while they had been separated.

James joined them part way through the conversation, staying when his sister assured him he was not intruding. I did not come to see him. Of course, she had not. And yet, here he was and she felt herself turn towards him, a sunflower to his sun. She hoped her reaction was hidden from her friends. Thank goodness, my all-too-perceptive son is out of the room.

The new Duke of Winshire. Had my father accepted his offer for my hand, I would still have become a duchess, in the end. And there would be no Aldridge. No Jonathan. Perhaps none of the charities she had brought into existence out of her own urge to make the world an easier place for women.

David would still exist, if his grandfather had not beaten him to death in childhood. He’d been conceived before the Duke of Haverford even set eyes on Eleanor.

None of James’s wonderful children, though.

Perhaps Matilda, Jessica, and Frances might have been born, too, though who knew whether they would have survived and what they might have become without her intervention.

As if her thought had conjured them up, the girls came back into the room, and immediately, the Winderfield girls began telling their elders about “Aunt Eleanor’s house party to support women’s education.”

“Matilda and Jessica have been telling us all about it, Papa,” the elder of James’s daughters told him, perching on the arm of his chair and leaning trustingly against his shoulder. “I want to help girls who want to acquire medical knowledge. What do you think, Papa?”

James looked past his daughter to smile warmly at Eleanor. “Your wards are powerful advocates of your cause, Your Grace.” He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Ruth, it is your money to invest. Perhaps you could fund a scholarship?”

The others broke in with objections about finding teachers, and strategies for overcoming that obstacle. Eleanor sat quietly in the warmth of James’s smile. Yes, they could be friends. It would be enough. And the charities she had sponsored as Duchess of Haverford would be in safe hands for the next generation. What wonderful daughters her three were.

THE END

(But, as you all know, heroines deserve a happy ending, as since Eleanor is not yet happy, it is not the end. Watch out for Paradise at Last, the final novella in the three that tell the story of the mountain king and the duchess who loved him.

by

Conversations–I talk to Elizabeth Ellen Carter about rakes

A couple of weeks ago, I had a lovely time on Zoom talking to Elizabeth Ellen Carter about redeeming rakes, unredeemable rakes, and my Marquis of Aldridge.

Here’s the interview.

Check out Elizabeth’s channel for other great interviews.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHbPv1zpUfKsHaCL__oaWRQ

 

 

by

Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 20

Thank goodness she had been strong enough to hold out for the right to keep the children. As long as he never saw them, was not expected to acknowledge them in any way, and provided nothing extra for their support, he chose to treat her fostering as an eccentric hobby.

Frances had been the third, her birth a scandalous secret even Haverford did not want disclosed. Eleanor loved the three girls with all her heart, loved them as fiercely as she loved her two sons. And she could not regret bringing them into her home, selfish of her though it was.

She had learned better, especially after the disastrous end to David Wakefield’s time under the Haverford roofs. For years now, she had been quietly settling her husband’s by-blows in less scrutinised households, carefully supervised to ensure they had the love and care she wanted for those who shared blood with her sons.

As for the three sisters, their origins and the prominence of the family meant they would face many barriers in a quest for a fulfilling life. If only they did not so strongly bear the Grenford stamp! Still, with her support and that of her sons, all would be well. She hoped. She prayed.

Time to announce her presence. “Miss Markson, is this a good time for an interruption? I have come to take tea with the young ladies.”

***

Hollystone Hall, December 1812

Eleanor smiled at the family gathered in her private sitting room. Matilda was pouring the tea, and Frances was carefully carrying each cup to the person for whom it had been prepared. Jessica was sitting on the arm of Aldridge’s chair, regaling him with stories about the kitten she had adopted from the kitchen. Cedrica sat quietly, as usual, but the distracted smile and the glow of happiness were new, and her thoughts were clearly on her French chef, whom she had, unless Eleanor missed her guess, kissed in the garden last night.

Jonathan—dear Jonathan, back in England and arriving by surprise on Christmas Eve—was making Jessica laugh with faces he was pulling out of Aldridge’s view, though from the quirk in the corner of Aldridge’s mouth, he was well aware of his brother’s antics.

Eleanor smiled around the room at her children, her heart at ease to have all five of her children with her. Two sons of her body, and three daughters of her heart. Deciding to bring the girls into her nursery had been one of the best decisions she had ever made.

Eleanor accepted another cup of tea from Frances, exchanged a smile with Matilda, and saluted the other three with her cup. How fortunate she was.

If she had been a cowed and obedient wife, her life would have lacked much richness. She had regrets—who didn’t? If she’d been braver, she would have permitted the girls to call her ‘Mama’, rather than ‘Aunt Eleanor’.  But that would have been a red rag to the duke’s bull. The safer path was, probably, the right one.

Eleanor caught Frances’s eye and patted the seat beside her. “You did that very well, my dear,” she told the girl. Frances was much younger than the other two, and Eleanor was pleased she’d be at home for a while longer. Perhaps, by the time Frances married, one of the others would have given her grandchildren. She smiled again at the thought. Yes, Eleanor had been very fortunate.