Monday for Tea

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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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Tea with a granddaughter and friends

As she held her first gathering for debutantes in 1818, Eleanor reflected that it would be a red-letter Season, though only a few people knew that it was special, and why. Her smile was wistful, as she watched the chattering groups of very young ladies gathered in her parlour. She had been holding such gatherings for many years–social occasions for debutantes in the weeks before the Season got underway. The young ladies under her patronage had an opportunity to make friends, and she learned a little more about them, the better to help them to navigate the pitfalls and discover the delights of the London social scene.

This year’s crop of hopeful maidens included sixwho were family connections, and who had been friends since they were little girls. Daisy Redepenning was circling the room arm in arm with her friend and cousin by marriage, Chrissie Cunningham. They were stopping to talk to the shyest girls, those who were on their own and who knew nobody here. Daisy was the stepdaughter of Eleanor’s nephew, the Earl of Chirbury and Chrissie was granddaughter to Eleanor’s dear friend Henry Redepenning.

Sarah Overton had a special place in Eleanor’s heart, though she was technically not a relative, and nor was her sister, Sophrania Overton. Sarah and Sophrania were part of a laughing group that were leafing through fashion magazines. Eleanor had known the sister’s stepfather, Hugh Baron Overton, since her son the current Duke of Haverford, who had then been Marquis of Aldridge, first brought him home when the pair of them were not quite old enough to shave. But the connection was closer than that, for Sarah’s mother, Lady Overton, had once been known as the Rose of Frampton, and had been Aldridge’s mistress. As to Belle, Sarah’s youngest sister, even in her thoughts she would not consider how much closer a relative that child was.

Closer than Frances Grenford, Eleanor’s foster-daughter and ward, whose conversation with Antonia Wakefield appeared to be intense. As close as the relationship with Antonia, and even more secret. Frances, the whole world believed, was the by-blow of one of the Haverford males. Eleanor knew the man to be her deceased husband, the previous Duke of Haverford. Everyone looked at Antonia and knew she was a relative, too. It was in the distinctive hazel eyes, which she shared with the Haverford men and with two of Eleanor’s wards. But since her father was David Wakefield, another of her husband’s by-blows, no-one guessed the truth. Antonia was Eleanor’s granddaughter.

Yes, this Season would be special.

 

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Tea with Ellie

Her grace is expecting a visitor from the future today. 1889! Oh my. All Eleanor knows about the girl is her name, Miss Eloise de Voss, that she has recently been in France, and that her story involves some misdirected letters.

And here is Miss de Voss, stepping through the parlour door.

“Miss De Voss,” the Duchess says, “welcome. I’m glad you were able to make time in your day for me. Would you like tea, my dear? Although I hear you have just returned from France. Perhaps, like the French, you prefer coffee?”

“Tea will be lovely, Your Grace. Thank you so much for your invitation.”

“What took you to France, dear? I loved Paris back when it was still safe for people like me to travel there–back before the revolution. I don’t know if you know what’s going on in our time, but we’re not currently on friendly terms with the French.”

Eloise nodded. Of course, as a well educated young woman, she must be aware of the long war with the French. Please God it would be over soon! “What took me to France? There was an event there in our time called the Exposition Universelle. I read about it months ago–it’s a kind of World Fair. And I was just so curious, I had to go. Though I admit, I hadn’t seen anything there to compare with that mechanism of yours that made your invitation arrive in my hands in 1889. We’ve heard so much about you, Your Grace, Mother and I simply couldn’t believe it.”

The Duchess of Haverford raises an eyebrow. “How kind of you, Miss De Voss. I have no idea how it works, I must say, but a young man of my acquaintance assured me it would work. Mind you, I suspect him of being a time traveller myself. My son and I have a great interest in supporting new ideas.”

The duchess pours tea into a delicate teacup with pink roses. “I must say, the style you’re wearing is interesting. Is that the style in your time? Why, there is enough fabric at your derriere for my seamstress to make three dresses!” She chuckles to show that she is joking.

Eloise laughed with her. “Why, bustles are all the rage back….I mean, in my day.” She smiles, “Your dress is fetching, Your Grace, but you’d look fabulous in a gown like mine. May I give you my seamstress’ –Oh.” Eloise looks around the parlor. “Perhaps her ancestress is in business now. I’m sure she’d be happy to accommodate you.”

And wouldn’t that set the gossips talking! Eleanor could just imagine the astonishment on the faces of people like Sally Jersey. “I’d be happy to meet her,” she said, a noncommital answer if ever there was one. “Miss De Voss, let us turn to a more important matter. Do you have a beau? Or, even more intriguing, did you find anyone in Paris worth bringing to the altar?”

Eloise chokes on her sip. “Your Grace!” Eloise picked up her napkin, wiped her mouth and wondered if she could fan herself discretely.

The duchess smiles over her teacup. “You didn’t answer the question, Miss De Voss.”

Eloise is blushing. “As a matter of fact, I do have someone of whom I’m fond, however, I met him before I left for Paris.”

Up goes the duchess’s eyebrow again. “And he didn’t convince you to stay home?”

“He had to visit Paris, as it happened.”

“Ah!” Eleanor’s smile broadened. “I was going to ask if anything exciting happened on your journey, but you’ve already answered my question.” Would the time device work both ways, she mused. “I will expect a wedding invitation, my girl.”

Eloise wonders what that look on the duchess’ face meant. “Er? You were saying?”

The Duchess of Haverford, though, was more interested in hearing about this someone of whom Eloise was fond. “Tell us about your beau. Is he handsome?”

Eloise sighs. “He is–though the first time I saw him, I didn’t think so.” Her cheeks heat and she dips her head, hoping some loose hair would hide her embarrassment.

The Duchess laughs “So the fellow is a beast to your beauty?”

“He’s just not what I think most people would think of as being as devastatingly handsome as a lord ought to be. But I lo–” she caught herself. “ Like him.”

A knowing smile graces the Duchess’ face. “What was that I heard, Miss De Voss?”

Eloise puts down her cup. “My mother’s calling me. I’m sure that’s what you heard, Your Grace.”

“Oh, then we shouldn’t keep your loved ones waiting. Especially the young man you mentioned?”

Miss Eloise De Voss is the heroine of Letters to Ellie (The Lost Slipper Society, book 2) by Juli D. Revezzo.

Letters to Ellie

London debutant Eloise fell in love with a foreign baron who returned to Luxembourg far too soon. Unfortunately, her heart is broken when their correspondence suddenly breaks off.

After a lowly maid, Ellie, begins receiving love letters from the Luxembourg baron, she doesn’t know what to think. She is so distracted by the possibilities, she cannot see a dear neighbor’s heartfelt devotion.

When the misdirected letters are discovered at long last, will either Ellie or Eloise find happiness–or has fate dealt them both a cruel blow?

Buy links: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DV532S1D

Letters to Ellie comes out February 5.


An excerpt from Letters to Ellie:

Winifred frowned. “Lord De Voss?”

Her father paused and peered down the table at her friend. “Yes, Miss Clankton?”

“Eloise is wondering something.”

All eyes turned on her. Somehow, thanks to their scrutiny, now didn’t seem the time. Not that what she wanted was particularly personal, but a sense of exposure crept over her. She couldn’t do it. So she only smiled. “Don’t forget, you promised me a dance.”

He reached for her hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”

“She wonders about her gift,” said her brother, round-faced and chestnut-haired Jack. “I’ll bet that’s what troubles her.”

“As I said, dear, we’ll discuss it during our dance.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s a tradition we have, you see.”

“To teach our children the value of patience.” Her mother shot her a look.

Eloise cringed. “I failed at that today.”

Yes, asking right now was the wrong thing to do. Maybe your plan is a bit too ambitious. They surely won’t agree to it. Not when they had the bill for this party to consider. And your dress, and all the food.

Soon, they returned to the ballroom.

The first quadrille played and Eloise danced with a handsome gentleman. He had a fine fashion sense, if no color-sense–his coat was a dark brown with green stripes. They paused for a moment in their dance, and she found herself facing her father. He touched her cheek and stepped aside to continue his dance with the young man’s mother.

At the end of the set, Winifred approached her again. “Did I see you cross paths with your father? Did you ask him about Paris?”

Eloise drooped against a nearby oak pillar. “No. He’s far too distracted by the party and our guests. Besides, I’m not sure I should ask. He’ll say no, I’m sure of it.”

Winifred flinched backward. “My word!”

Something landed between them. “Are you all right?” Eloise peered at the floor. “What is that?”

Winifred picked it up. “It’s a pit of some sort.”

Eloise took it from her, sniffed. “It smells like plum.”

Meet Juli D. Revezzo

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Tea with Belinda Westcott

The Duchess of Haverford’s waiting salon might intimidate any young lady. Bel Westcott was terrified. After the fiasco at the duchess’s venetian breakfast two years ago caused by food prepared by her own hands, she had good reason.

“Calm down, Bel. She is both wise and kind. She knows it wasn’t your fault.” Bel’s best friend Merrilyn Finchwater, ever loyal, had been there when half the ton was sickened by food prepared in Bel’s kitchen.

Bel had her doubts.

Just then, the rather stern young woman who was Her Grace’s current secretary returned. “She will see you now.” It didn’t help that she cast Bel a sympathetic glance.

Regal and dignified, in subdued silk and simple pearls, the duchess yet radiated warmth and welcome from her high-backed chair. A fine porcelain tea set, bright white with delicate lavender flowers sat on the table at her side.

“Come sit with me ladies. It is good of you to join me.”

Bel murmured thanks. Her Grace requested their preferences and made certain to satisfy the polite requirements of tea service.

“I’ve quite looked forward to speaking with you for some time, Miss Westcott. What is it that troubles you?” the duchess said.

Bel’s head jerked up from her absorption in her own slippers to gaze directly at the duchess. “I— The venetian breakfast so humiliated me. All those people ill, and your fete ruined. I can barely face you.”

“My dear! That was two years ago. And I have reason to believe it was not your fault,” Her Grace said.

“Quite right, Your Grace. Bel would never,” Merrilyn said. “Her cousin—””

“Yes, yes, Lady Finchwater, I know. The not so Honorable Cecil Hartwell had his grubby hands all over it. My son Aldridge assured me that was the case and that the miscreant was dealt with,” the duchess said.

Bel stiffened her spine. “But I bear the stigma even now.”

Her Grace studied Bel carefully. “So you do. And that ridiculous nickname follows you. Westcott Menace. What nonsense. It has recently risen again among the gossips.”

“Untruths are spreading again, Your Grace,” Merrilyninterjected. “Lady Arncastle attended the house party at Hartwell Hall and has piled story on story.”

Both women looked to Bel. She nodded firmly. “Most of the stories Lady Arncastle spreads are untrue.”

“Most.” The duchess’s eyes twinkled. “But not all?”

Heat crept up Bel’s neck and burned her cheeks. “There was one thing. I…”

“Poisoned Lady Sophie Gilray?” The duchess asked, brow raised imperiously.

“Never!” Bel exclaimed. “That is, I may have tainted the cocoa but it wasn’t meant for my cousin Sophie. And John, well I was mistaken in him, and I thought—”

“You thought to get your own back for what happened two years ago.” The duchess completed the thought.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The duchess leaned forward and whispered “Good for you,” startling Bel right out of her attack of remorse. She sat back. “And I have reason to suspect things turned out well in the end.”

Merrily beamed and nudged Bel. “They certainly did. Tell her, Bel.”

Bel did better. She reached in her reticule and pulled out a card printed in formal letters, and invitation. She handed it to the duchess.

“Marriage to John Conlyn, Earl of Ridgemont! Oh well done, my dear. You may be certain I will attend.

Bel smiled then, confidently. Things truly had turned out well in the end.

Snowed by the Wallflower

By Caroline Warfield

Belinda Westcott doesn’t want to injure the Earl of Ridgemont. She merely wants to humiliate him. After all, one good prank deserves a payback. How could she anticipate that it would go so terribly wrong, or that he would turn out to be nothing like she expected?

Skilled in both chemistry and cooking, Belinda happily hides in her aunt’s kitchen rather than risk embarrassment at the ongoing house party. The unexpected appearance of the earl and a skating party present the perfect opportunity to embarrass him in front of some snooty society miss. Unfortunately, his partner is Belinda’s own cousin, and even worse, the cousin drinks the hot chocolate—laced with emetics—meant for the earl.

As plain Major John Conlyn, John had sunk into a morose of dissipation when first released from the army. Neither his actions nor his companions make him proud. The death of a beloved cousin shocked him back to sense. It also made him an earl and the heir to his grandfather, a duke. He’s been ordered to find a wife and settle down. He wouldn’t mind, but now he’s surrounded by flighty debutantes and their grasping mothers. The one woman who interests him avoids him. She acts as if she despises him. Is it possible he did something when out of control that he ought to apologize for, something he can’t recall?

https://books2read.com/snowedbywallflower

What happened at the Duchess of Haverford’s venetian breakfast? Be sure to read Jude Knight’s The Blossoming of the Wallflower to find out.

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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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Tea with the emissary of a reformed villain

Her Grace served the Earl of Chirbury a cup of tea, made just the way he liked it, and passed him the plate containing several of the little cakes that Fourniers of London had sent over just that morning.

“Well, Rede,” she said, as she began pouring her own tea, “You are an emissary, you said in your note asking to visit. Not that you need to ask, dear boy. You are my nephew, and I am always at home to you. If I am at home, so it was as well you asked, for I am particularly busy these days. I have taken over from Cherry on several of her charities while she and Haverford are in Europe visiting Jonathan.”

She took a sip of her tea, and returned to the point. “An emissary for whom?”

“Do you remember Ruth Henwood, Aunt Eleanor?” Rede asked, and answered himself. “Of course you do. You remember everyone.”

“Miss Henwood was governess to your wife and her sisters at the time of their father’s death, and stayed with them when they fled the wicked uncle,” Eleanor replied. “She is somewhere in Spain, is she not? Did I not hear that she was governess to a princess somewhere in that region? What does Ruth Henwood need from me, my dear? I am, of course, willing to help her. Such a dear girl, and so much help to your darling wife.”

“Yes, Anne loves her as dearly as a sister, and indeed, I also think of her that way, though she insisted on seeking a position rather than staying with us at Longford. Her pupil is the Crown Princess of a small principality in the Pyrenees. And she is Miss Henwood no longer. Indeed, it is her husband who needs the favour, and not from you so much as from Haverford. They want to come home to live in England, you see, and he needs to know that your son will tolerate his return.”

“I do not understand, Rede,” said Aunt Eleanor. “Who has Ruth married, and how has that man offended my son?”

“You will understand the second when you know the first,” Rede said. “Ruth is now the Duchess of Richport.”

Readers of my books will, I hope, recognise Richport’s name. He is first mentioned in Revealed in Mist, as the holder of wild parties. And his name comes up again whenever I need a dissolute and amoral aristocrat. In To Tame a Wild Rake, he goes too far. He has offended too many powerful people, and is in disfavour with the Prince Regent as a result. He is about to go into exile to avoid consequences and decides to take Haverford’s beloved along as his wife. Without her consent. The kidnap is foiled, of course. But Richport is concerned that Haverford still bears a grudge.

The story of how the Duke of Richport came to marry a governess was one of the 43 plots I had worked out in a notebook before I wrote my first novel. It is The Duke’s Price, and will be published early in April.

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Tea with the Marquess and Marchioness of Ellington

Recently, the Duchess had the pleasure of receiving James, Marquess of Ellington, and his wife, the former Edythe Cavendish. The ton was abuzz with her ladyship’s story. You see, my friends, she lost both her parents in a fatal carriage accident and became the ward of her distant cousin Prudence. For ten years, young Edythe survived her cousin’s control of both of her bank accounts, a sizable sum and attempts to eradicate any sign of her independence. She kept telling her she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But Edythe was her father’s daughter, and if anything, a Cavendish is a survivor. There is a happy ending to this story. As a matter of fact, there are two happy endings. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Our duchess, Eleanor, has become a close friend of the couple and has invited James and Edythe to tea. Oh, wait. I believe I hear their coach arriving. Sit tight, my friends and Eleanor will find out all about their amazing story.

“James, Edythe, it’s wonderful to see you both,” Eleanor said, gesturing for them to take their seats.

As they settled, Eleanor’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. “Now, I must confess, I’ve been dying to know more about the infamous Cavendish ghost and its curse. I hear it played quite a role in your union.”

Edythe’s eyes met James’, a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, it did. Though a tragic tale, it brought us together in the most unexpected way.”

James nodded, taking Edythe’s hand. “The ghost, Lord Alistair, was denied his love, Isabell. She wasn’t of the correct family. As he lay dying of a broken heart, he cursed the family and Cavendish Hall.”

Eleanor leaned in, captivated. “And how did this curse bring you two together?”

“A series of strange happenings. Mr. Hughes, the prestigious solicitor, had been searching for the heir to the Cavendish estate and fortune for some time.” Edythe held Eleanor in rapture. “Imagine, after ten years of searching, he found me.” Edythe sat back, removing her hand from Eleanor’s. “It was difficult to accept, especially with Prudence telling me terrible things.”

“It’s for me to gossip, my dear.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “When you were discovered, let’s just say that the way in which you had been treated by your cousin appalled many if not all of us. But enough about her, how did you and James meet?

“We met when he pulled me into a moving train that was leaving the station for Cavendish Hall. He jumped on the train and gave me his hand,” Edythe recounted. “It was quite breathtaking.”

“Oh, dear.” Eleanor was quite taken aback. “Such daring.”

James continued, “I had been documenting the Cavendish family history. As a remote relative, I was interested in finding out if the ghostly hauntings were true or simply stories told to children to keep them away. When Edythe told me she heard the ghostly music in the ballroom, I knew we were close to finding out the truth.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened, her breath held. “And how did you do it, find the truth?”

“It was a combination of things, Lord Alistair needed to know the truth about his love. Isabell hadn’t abandoned him.” James took Edythe’s hand and stared at her. Eleanor didn’t miss the love between them.

“Edythe found the secret that lifted the curse.” James chuckled. “We started our quest when Edythe learned of a missing music box. Not too long after that, she heard ghostly music box playing in the empty ballroom. That was the first time Lord Alistair appeared.”

“We danced to the music. I thought it was a dream, but he left me a small gift, his handkerchief, so I couldn’t doubt our meeting. Ultimately, it was the music box that held the answer. But it took our declaration of love for Alistair and Isabell to reconcile,” James’s voice resolute. “It was All Saints’ Day Eve, at the witching hour. At the stroke of midnight, the ghosts of Alistair and Isabell reunited, and the curse was lifted. We married soon after.”

Eleanor sat back, a smile playing on her lips. “What a remarkable tale. And to think, it led to your happily ever after.”

Edythe squeezed James’ hand, their connection undeniable. “Indeed, it did.”

Tea continued, conversations flowing easily, but the legend of the Cavendish ghost lingered in the air, a reminder of the power of true love and the mysteries that bind the past to the present.

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Lord Alistair,” she said, turning to Edythe. “And I’m thrilled that you found your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

A Wraith at Midnight

When spooky manors and or ghostly specters call,
this stunning collection of haunted Historical Romance novellas
is sure to answer, leaving you breathless with ethereal, romantic tales…

Many of your favorite Historical Romance authors have come together for a collection of never-before published stories inspired by legendary hauntings and ghostly myths. A derelict old castle? A spectral lady wandering the forests? These tales will give you a chill, a thrill, and have you reading them over and over. From the moors of Devon to the ballrooms of Regency London, and far north into the Scottish Highlands, these stories will bring you wistful dreams of legendary and haunting romance. You’ve never before experience a collection like this by some of the very best authors in Historical Romance.

My Heart’s Song
by Ruth A. Casie

In the melody of a haunted past, romance unfolds, revealing a tale of love,
spirits, and a song that transcends time.

In 1850, tucked away in the heart of Northumberland, Edythe Cavendish’s life is upended by the inheritance of a manor shrouded in mystery and whispers of a bygone era. The sprawling estate, with its rolling hills and ancient woodlands, harbors secrets that echo through the manor’s corridors, watched over by the ghost of Lord Alistair, its last lord. His ghostly warnings speak of an enduring curse, a narrative of love forsaken and a legacy shrouded in darkness.

Lord James Ellington, heir to the Duke of Northumberland, shares Edythe’s passion for unraveling the past. Together, they discover a music box whose haunting melodies are intertwined with the manor’s troubled history, revealing their intertwined fates. Their journey through the archives uncovers letters and relics that draw them closer to the truth and to each other.

Yet, as the curse’s grip tightens, a near-fatal accident threatens their future, and a heated argument pushes them to the edge of despair. In their darkest hour, a hidden letter from the past holds the key to their salvation. Will Edith and James’s love prove strong enough to break the silence of centuries and herald a new beginning?

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

September 12, 1850
East Coast Main Line

Miss Edythe Cavendish’s heart fluttered with a peculiar blend of trepidation and exhilaration as she boarded the train, her shoulder brushing against a gentleman’s arm in the chaos of the boarding crowd. She offered a quick, apologetic smile to the stranger whose startling summer blue eyes lingered in her mind as she settled into the velvet seat of the train compartment. A half-hour later, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks echoed her own restless thoughts. Her hand instinctively reached for her reticule. She withdrew a crisp and formal letter from Mr. Hughes, the solicitor. She had read it and reread it at least one hundred times. The document informed her of an inheritance most unexpected—a manor house, no less.

The correspondence arrived three weeks ago at her cousin Prudence’s home, where she had lived for the last ten years since her parents’ passing. Mr. Hughes’s letter set off a flurry of activity. By the end of the week, preparations and farewells were set into motion. Yet, amidst the bustle, a shadow of Prudence’s discontent cloyed the air like a pall, along with vivid descriptions of a haunted decrepit house. It was clear, in the tightness of Prudence’s smiles and the sharpness of her gaze, that her cousin resented her good fortune, or was it her loss of control over the modest inheritance left to Edythe by her parents? To her relief, Mr. Hughes saw to that as well.

With her solicitor’s assurance, the house was not decrepit, and with his help, Edythe settled her affairs in London and made the necessary travel arrangements. Prudence, ever the matriarch, had deemed Edythe’s solitary journey inconceivable and insisted a seasoned chaperone was required for a young lady such as herself. As a result, Prudence condescended to go with Edythe; after all, who else would go with her? Edythe quickly reminded her while young ladies indeed needed a chaperone, spinsters, the word Prudence used to reference her, did not. So here she was, on her own, aboard the train to Sommer-by-the-Sea and Cavendish Hall.

As Edythe settled into the rhythmic sway of the train, she once again unfolded the letter from Mr. Hughes. The words “rightful and true heir to the Cavendish land and all its holdings” stood out, evidence of the solicitor’s thorough decade-long research and the unexpected turn her life was about to take.

“While the Cavendish legacy allows for female heirs, the lineage has been meticulously traced to ensure that only a direct descendant, who embodies the true spirit and virtues of the Cavendish name, can claim the estate. It appears, Miss Cavendish, that you are the first in a century to meet these stringent criteria. Furthermore,” the letter continued, “it is important for you to be aware that Cavendish Hall has been without a resident Cavendish for the past 100 years since the passing of Lord Alistair, the last recognized lord of the manor. The estate has been maintained through a trust established by your ancestors, ensuring its preservation until such time as a direct heir could be located and take rightful ownership.”

With the proof of her lineage secured within the crisp folds of the paper, Edythe felt the weight of her new responsibility — she was, indeed, the last of the Cavendish line, bound for a home she’d never known, a home waiting for her arrival.

She glanced at the empty paper cone beside her and sighed. The shrill cry of the steam whistle broke her reverie. The train slowed, and Edythe seized the opportunity to disembark briefly and get another helping of chestnuts at the provincial station. The platform bustled with life, the air filled with the scent of coal smoke and the cries of vendors hawking their wares. She exchanged a few coins for a paper cone of roasted chestnuts, the warmth a comfort against the autumn chill. As she ate her treat, she gazed out into the countryside, thoroughly enjoying the view.

As the whistle blew its warning, Edythe turned to see the train lurch forward without her.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the young man with the summer blue eyes she had brushed against in London striding toward her, concern etched on his brow. “Miss, your train!” he called out.

Panicked, her snack spilled out on the ground as she dashed toward the moving train, her boots pounding the wooden planks of the platform.

The young man leapt into action. He jumped onto the train and then extended his hand. “Quick. Grab my hand.”

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Tea with a daughter-in-law

This week’s post is an excerpt from Paradise at Last.

Eleanor was too busy to fret much about her would-be suitors, or about the chill distance between her and the one man for whom she might be tempted to forsake her new freedom. She and Jessica had much to do preparing for Jessica’s wedding in April and shopping for Jessica’s trousseau. She continued the work she had begun, seeking donations for the several charities she had offered to help when last in Town.

She also found herself deputising for Cherry on many of the same committees that she had managed when she was duchess. Eleanor met with her daughter-in-law after every meeting to report on progress.

They took tea one afternoon in the little parlour Cherry had made her own. The previous evening Haverford had escorted them both to a formal dinner, with dancing afterwards, at the home of Lord Henry’s daughter Susan.

“You will be able to take up the work again, now that you are feeling more energetic,” Eleanor told her daughter-in-law. “I’m very happy to hand it all back to you, or to continue with some of it. You must just tell me what you need.”

“We shall see,” Cherry commented. “I expect I will need your help later in the year. You have guessed have you not?”

Eleanor acknowledged the truth of that with a smile and a nod.

“I thought so. You have not fussed over me as much as Anthony, but you are always there with a snack or a drink when I need it, and always ready to take over when a nap overwhelms me.” She put a hand over Eleanor’s and squeezed. “You and Mother are the only ones to know, apart from Anthony.”

“And, I imagine, your dresser,” Eleanor joked. “It is hard to keep such a secret from one’s maid.”

It was Cherry’s turn to smile and nod.

“Dearest, I could not be more thrilled,” Eleanor said. “And not because of that nonsense about an heir to the Haverford duchy. I have seen enough of you together to know that the love you bear one another is far more important than who carries on the title after we are all gone. But you deserve the little blessing you carry. You and my son will be wonderful parents.”

Cherry burst into tears. “Excuse me, Aunt Eleanor. I seem to have little control over my emotions at the moment.” She put her arms around Eleanor and Eleanor hugged her back, then offered a handkerchief so she could dry her eyes.

“And what of you?” Cherry asked. “I always thought you and Uncle James would make a match of it after the old duke died. We would all be so pleased. Can you not talk to him, Aunt Eleanor?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I expect you know what he thinks of me. Sarah was there when he found out what I had done. I cannot even blame him for it, for I was wrong.”

Cherry made an impatient noise. “And I suppose he has never made a mistake in his life? To throw away all of your history and the friendship you have found in the last few years—surely he is not so foolish.”

Eleanor sighed. “Shall we talk about something else, my dear? What dreadful weather we are having.”

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Tea with Georgie and a charitable impulse

“What did you think of the singer?” Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, asked her sister-in-law. Lady Georgina Winderfield had travelled up from the country for a lecture series at the British Museum, and had by chance been here at the right time for Eleanor’s charity concert last night.

“I take it you mean Miss Lind,” Georgie said. “She was the outstanding singer of the evening, as you know, Eleanor, since you gave her the last spot of the evening before the auction and supper.”

“She was, wasn’t she? But I wondered about your personal impression of her.”

Georgie put her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. It was a mannerism shared by her brother, Eleanor’s beloved husband.

“You will have your reasons, my friend,” Georgie commented. “You always do. My impressions of Miss Lind?” She pursed her lips. “I did not meet her. The Earl of Coombe rushed her away immediately after the concert. So I am only reacting to her appearance on the platform.”

Eleanor nodded, encouraging Georgie to continue. Her friend had a gift for sizing people up on sight, and the singer had been in sight for twenty minutes or more as she sang.

“She was too thin,” Georgie commented. “Starvation thin. Possibly an illness, but more likely, I think, overuse of laudunum or the like. She had that bruised look around the eyes. When she sang, it was hard to think of anything but that magnificent voice, but between songs, she seemed to shrink into herself. I daresay Coombe abuses her. He has that reputation.”

“She is a childhood friend of a friend of Drew’s,” Eleanor commented. “Sir Johan Trethewey, a Cornish baronet. Drew says that Sir Jowan has tried to see Miss Lind but has been turned away on Coombe’s orders.”

“Poor girl,” Georgie commented. “Perhaps we could get word to her somehow. If she is being abused, and wants to escape, we could help her, Eleanor.”

“I daresay she will do more private contests,” said Eleanor. “Of course we shall help, if we can. And Georgie, I was not aware of Coombe’s private reputation until James told me, and by then the invitations to the concert had already gone out. Perhaps, once Miss Lind has been given her opportunity to flee to safety, we should make sure that Coombe finds England too uncomfortable for him.”

Georgie nodded. Between them, they were related to at least a third of England’s most influential women, close friends with a good half, and able to influence a fair percentage of the rest. If they decided someone was to be ejected from good society, ejected he would be.

But first, Miss Lind needed a chance to escape.

As it turned out, the singer did not need the duchess’s help to escape. Jowan and his friends, including Drew, managed the feat themselves. But Eleanor, Georgie and their friends were certainly instrumental in driving Coombe out of London Society. For more about this story, read Hold Me Fast, which was inspired by the Ballad of Tam Lin.

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Tea with the Viscountess Andrepoint

“Your Grace,” Jane curtsied deeply, hoping that the amount of respect she was showing was adequate. She often granted far more depth to her courtesy than was strictly necessary, but she’d rather err on the side of respect than not.

“Lady Andrepont, please come in.” Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford gestured to a waiting teapot and sitting area.

Jane’s palms sweated as she gripped her silk gown, crossing the plush pile rug of the duchess’s drawing room. “Thank you.”

Jane almost tripped on the way over, but righted herself in time. She was grateful when she was able to sink into the deep cushion of the Duchess’s upholstered settee. Finally she pulled out an unadorned tin that she’d held gripped in a sweaty fist lodged deep in her pocket on the way over. “If it is not too forward, I would like to gift to you a tisane of my own making.”

“Oh?” The Duchess asked, reaching out to take the small, undecorated box. “Shall we brew it up now?”

“Oh, no, it is for medicinal purposes.” Jane managed to get out the words. She was as skittish as a colt on ice, and her voice took so much effort to use. “It is especially meant for cramping or for headaches. I use it myself as well as for my staff.”

The duchess opened the tin and sniffed. She had the politeness to not wrinkle her nose at the pungent aroma. Jane had not yet learned how to mask the odors well yet.

“I have a greenhouse that I use to brew up my mentor’s receipts. Or, she was my mentor before I married.” Jane hurried through the explanation feeling foolish. But the duchess looked on with generosity. “I, of course, do not seek education now.”

“Cream?” Duchess asked, poised with the tiny ewer.

“Yes please.” It seemed impolite to refuse, so she accepted without thinking.

“You must be very well accomplished to have had a mentor,” the duchess said, pouring tea for them both.

“Well enough, I suppose. I had thought I would stay in the country, unsure if I would ever marry. It seemed prudent to have a profession.”

“If I may say, Lady Andrepont, you are quite a beauty. I know you are young, but you have many years of beauty yet. A profession would not have been needed.”

“Very kind of you to say. But I rather enjoyed my time with the midwife. She did more than attending the birthing room. The skills seemed preferable to marriage.”

“And now?” The duchess inquired.

Jane tried to give the polite answer. The one she should say, especially given the company. “I’d rather be a midwife.”

“And this tisane you’ve gifted me, you say you’ve tried it yourself?” The duchess inspected the tin again.

“Yes. Though I will caution that it does make bruising worse, even as it aids the feeling of the cramping.”

The duchess snapped her eyes back to Jane. She’d said too much. Jane looked down at her cup, the deep brown of the high quality tea swirling with the pale cream. Her heart hammered in her ears.

“Is it the viscount who does this?”

“Does what?” Jane said, before she could think of a lie, forcing herself to meet her hostess’s gaze. There was a pause, and Jane knew the duchess was weighing her options, on how much intervention she could muster. But no one could stop Andrepont. If someone could have, it would have already happened.

“Do you need protection?” the duchess asked, and even her asking the question made Jane tear up.

Jane couldn’t fathom anyone being nice to her anymore. She had spent long enough in Andrepont’s house to know that she was not a person who deserved kindness. That charity was nothing but bait to hurt her even further. There was a part of her that insisted the duchess had no such malice, but experience pushed those thoughts away. Jane shook her head.

“I’m sure I could help, if you are in true danger.” the duchess pursed her lips.

Jane thought of Vasya. He was the man who had built her greenhouse. The man who kept her safe despite her husband. Jane pulled her shoulders back, giving the impression of confidence she did not have. “I have protection. You have no need to worry.”

A Lady’s Resilience by Edie Cay

When the Blood Is Up series finale

Love Makes Us Desperate

In 1780, Queen Charlotte hosts a ball for her birthday. Jane Laurent has not been to a ball because at age sixteen, she isn’t ready. Raised in the country, Jane appointed herself apprentice to a midwife—a calling she wants to pursue. But the family traipses into London so Jane’s older sister Emma can land herself a lord. The family celebrates when lovely Emma catches the eye of the handsome viscount Andrepont. But the night of the engagement ball, dependable Emma runs away with a soldier instead. The family panics and pushes Jane forward to fulfill the marriage contract with the older and oddly unsettling Lord Andrepont. How bad could he be that pragmatic, reliable Emma ran away?

Vasily Nikolaevich Kuznetsov is a man with a past, but at least its far away. Meeting up with Gareth Somerset in a seedy gambling hell outside of Paris was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Aimless, he follows Gareth to London where he helps his friend win the girl of his dreams, and vows to keep an eye on her while Gareth is deployed to the colonies. But when Gareth’s wife joins her husband in the colonies, and Vasya hears the younger sister is marrying Andrepont, a monster well-known to the seedy underbelly of London, Vasya takes a position as a groom in the lord’s household to protect the sister-in-law of his friend.

Years pass, and Vasya watches Jane grow into the formidable and beautiful Lady Andrepont. He can only love from afar, but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. And when it comes to murder, Vasya has the experience and the moral flexibility to help…

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