Monday for Tea

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Tea with Hopkins

Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, hadn’t wanted to speak of matters that should remain private, but the rumors had reached the ears of Her Grace. If it were anyone else, he’d tell them to go hang, but this was the Duchess of Haverford, and perhaps she could help still the gossiping tongues come spring.

He pulled at his tight cravat. Nerves he hadn’t experienced since he was a lad entering Eton for the first time coursed through him as he followed the livered footman to the parlor where Her Grace awaited him.

“Hopkins, thank you for joining me,” Her Grace greeted, as a cup of the most delicate porcelain was presented to him.

“It is I who should thank you for the audience.”

Her Grace’s eyes twinkled. “You are wishing me to Hades, my dear. But you shall forgive me. I have heard the rumors, and I mean to help if I can. But first, I must know the truth for myself.”

“Yes, well, the truth.” He resisted the urge to pull at his cravat again as he settled across from the Duchess of Haverford.

“Is your wife truly back from the dead?”

It was the question everyone asked and wondered about. Everyone presumed Elaina dead, but Tristan never gave up hope, even when urged to do so and told to marry again and provide a mother for his small children. “She is,” he answered simply.

“How? Where was she? We all assumed….”

“It was a reasonable assumption.” He took a sip of the tea. “My wife, Elaina, washed up on the shores of Alderney, where she remained for three years.”

“I am informed that she didn’t recall who she was, or where she came from.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered. “The only knowledge she possessed was her name because another sailor, who also was washed overboard, had heard it called out before the tragedy. He could only supply that she was on a merchant ship traveling from Saint-Malo, France to Plymouth.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. He’d not known of her presence before the storm struck and everyone had come up on deck to abandon the ship, which was soon to sink because of damage from the storm. For three years Elaina knew nothing else. When my brother, Harrison, visited Alderney and a man he hoped would be a business associate, and was introduced to her.”

“Did she remember your brother then?”

“No. Seeing his face, a man she’d known several years, stirred no memories.”

“Oh dear.”

EXCERPT:

Elaina took a deep breath. Fear clutched at her heart, as she followed Harrison into the inn and remained silent when he inquired as to which chamber his brother could be found, and then followed him up the stairs until they stood before a dark wooden door and knocked.

A petite woman with blond hair answered the door. “Harrison!” she cried, clearly happy to see the man.

“So, this is where my family is,” he announced and stepped into the set of rooms. Elaina didn’t follow and tried to breathe through the anxiety crushing her chest. “It’s a good thing that I stopped at my home and discovered the various notes, or we would have traveled directly home and missed you completely.”

“We?” a voice questioned.

“Yes, we,” Harrison cleared his throat. “And I’m happy to be the one to facilitate this reunion.” At that, Harrison stepped aside and held out a hand to her. “I found Elaina.”

She allowed Harrison to pull her into the parlor and glanced around at the sea of shocked faces.

“Oh dear,” the blonde woman sighed.

“Elaina is it truly you?” a gentleman with dark hair set a glass aside and slowly crossed the room, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe that what he was seeing was real.

She had no response as she studied his appearance from the dark hair to the brown eyes, aquiline nose, firm lips and strong jaw, hoping for a sense of familiarity, but he was just as much a stranger as everyone else in the room.

“I can’t believe you’re back. I hoped, prayed…”

Before she knew what was happening, the stranger pulled her into an embrace. “Elaina, thank God you’ve come back to me.”

His voice was heavy with emotion and all she could surmise was this must be her husband.

He pulled back and looked down at her, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a light misting in his eyes as if he were near tears. Had he loved her so very much?

“Where were you? What happened? We thought you’d drowned.”

Elaina quickly glanced at Harrison and hoped for his assistance.

“Tristan, there is something you must know.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “I’m certain you’ll explain all of the details,” he dismissed and took Elaina’s hand, drawing her further into the room.

“Elaina doesn’t remember who she is.”

He stopped and turned. “What?”

“She washed ashore after the shipwreck and never recovered her memory of who she is, where she came from or why she was even on a ship,” Harrison explained.

Tristan’s eyes widened, and he studied her again. “Is it true? You don’t know me?”

At that, the tears threatened, but Elaina blinked them away. Harrison had told her that Tristan was her husband and Elaina had prayed that once she gazed upon his face that her memory would return. Except it hadn’t. Everything about her life before she woke in Alderney was gone, an empty canvas, and now she feared that it would never return.

The Forgotten Marquis

For three long and lonely years, Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, waited for his wife Elaina’s return. Eyewitnesses insist no one could have survived the storm that swept her overboard, but Tristan refuses to give up hope—even when he is trapped into a betrothal he doesn’t want and forced to declare Elaina dead.

Elaina Trent has no memories of her life before waking in Alderney surrounded by strangers, and three years of trying to recall an elusive history has left her life in limbo. Determined to have a future even though her past is gone, she accepts a marriage proposal and a promise for a new life. But when a man claiming to be her brother-in-law stumbles across her, Elaina has no choice except to end her engagement and return to a husband she no longer knows.

When Elaina and Tristan are finally reunited, she still cannot recall what they once shared. Can she begin anew with a gentleman she doesn’t even know and hope that love grows once again, or will they remain strangers forever?

BUY LINKS:

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2knpTxS

iBooks: https://apple.co/2lqOceB

BN/Nook: http://bit.ly/2ls4V17

Meet Jane Charles

USA Today Bestselling Author Jane Charles lives in the Midwest with her former marine, police officer husband. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand, until one day, out of boredom on a long road trip, she borrowed her sister’s romance novel and fell in love. Her life is filled with three amazing children, two dogs, two cats, community theatre, and traveling whenever possible. Jane has authored romances set in the Regency era as well as Contemporary/New Adult.

JaneCharlesAuthor.com

Jane can be contacted at: janecharles522@gmail.com

Twitter: @JaneACharles

FB: https://www.facebook.com/JaneCharlesAuthor/

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tea with a willing deputy

Today’s post is an sneak preview of the novella I’m writing for the Belle’s next anthology, due out in February. Matilda is Her Grace’s ward.

Matilda had apprenticed to her guardian at enough major events to be able to write lists of the possible problems with ideas on how to solve them, and by early afternoon, she was satisfied that, whatever the weather did, they could cope.

She visited the duchess again, and this time was invited inside. Her Grace was dressed, but lying propped up on pillows on a sofa in her sitting room, her eye swollen nearly shut by a large purple bruise. Reassured that Matilda was fully recovered, she claimed that she, too, was on the mend.

“I shall be perfectly well by the auction and ball, my dear,” she insisted, “but I know you will all fret if I get up too quickly. Indeed, I am still a little shaken, so I shall rest, and you shall be my deputy and run my messages.”

“Of course, Aunt Eleanor,” Matilda agreed, and explained what she had been doing. By the time she had displayed her list, the duchess had paled and was drooping on her pillows.

“Tell me what is most urgent for me to know,” Matilda said, “then I shall go away and let you rest.”

“Nothing, Matilda. You are doing an excellent job. Give me a kiss, my dear, and off you go.”

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Tea with Rand Wheatley

Randolph Baldwin Wheatly—plain mister though he boasted an earl and a duke among his nearest family—prowled, ill at ease, in the anteroom of the Winshire Mansion waiting for the duchess’s favor. She was, he had been told, engaged in some sort of charity project, one of her innumerable works, but she would see him.

The more he paced the more foolish his errand seemed. He had been here on more vital errands before, and yes, he had been summoned for a chastising from Her Grace more than once in his life. His purpose today might puzzle or confuse the lady, although if you had asked him a year ago he would have said he doubted anything could do that.

“Mr. Wheatly, Her Grace will see you now,” the young lady who had greeted him announced.

Rand cleared his throat and tugged on his formal waistcoat. Even properly dressed with his hair trimmed by the earl’s valet he suspected he still looked more mountain man than proper English gentlemen, the result of too many years in a reclusive cabin in Upper Canada. What can’t be fixed must be endured. The duchess will have to take me as I am.

“Rand, this is a surprise.” A few graceful movements on the duchess’s part and he found a delicate porcelain cup in his hand, the aroma of tea tickling his nose. After a few months in England he’d become used to the stuff again.

“How can I help you?” Her Grace asked. “I thought your efforts in Bristol went well. Are congratulations in order?”

“No she’s— You mean the investigation? Yes. The entire operation has been shut down and the Duke of Sudbury is seeing to the conspirators.”

“But your personal endeavors…” the duchess peered at him sympathetically.

“Meggy is at Songbird Cottage, if that is what you wish to know. Charles is nearby watching over her while I keep my distance. I can’t guess the outcome.”

“Sadly, we often can’t. The future always includes surprises.”

“Actually,” he said, “The future is what I came about. You will think me fanciful, but my sister Catherine thought you might help.”

“What exactly does the Countess of Chadbourn think I can tell you about the future? I am not an oracle.” She seemed amused.

“Since returning from Bristol, I’ve had nightmares. Armies moving over a hellish landscape scraped clean of vegetation, trees with no branches or leaves on them, andmen lying in holes in the ground. The guns and the cannon are like nothing I’ve ever seen before, as if factories will begin to mechanize war beyond our understanding. I fear I’ve seen a Great War in our future.”

“Nightmares indeed!”

“Do you believe it is real?”

“If it is, don’t fear it is the entire future. Remember the past contains its share of death and destruction as well, and yet mankind lumbers on. Love, faith, and family see us through.

“That’s the other thing,” Rand said. “There’s one man in particular. I heard someone call him Canadian. He has courage, determination, and strength yet he battles despair in the midst of it all. There’s a woman who gives him hope to go on I think.”

A beatific smile came over the old woman’s face. “Love, faith, family,” she repeated.

“The thing is, he looks like me,” Rand said. “He’s a Wheatly. Could he be my son or grandson?”

“Or a great-great if your dreams are true, but yes, I think so,” she mused. “Do you see what that means?”

He had no idea what she tried to tell him. His face wrinkled in the attempt to puzzle it out.

She signed deeply. “Don’t be dense, Rand, you’re a bright boy. It means you will return to Canada, and you will have a family there.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want one of mine to endure that horror.”

“We can’t protect the ones we love, Rand. Besides, you didn’t see the end. You have to believe he comes through it. You have to have hope.”

Rand Wheatly’s story, including the doings in Bristol and the outcome of his love for Meggy is told in The Renegade Wife.

As to that great-great grandson, Harry Wheatly will face the Great War in 1914. Christmas Hope tells his story.

About Christmas Hope

After two years at the mercy of the Canadian Expeditionary force and the German war machine, Harry ran out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters color among the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son, hope ensnares him. Through three more long years of war and its aftermath, the hope she brings keeps Harry alive.

Rosemarie Legrand’s husband left her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation when he died. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier, but Harry’s devotion lifts her up. The war demands all her strength and resilience will the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going?

When the Great War is over, will their love be enough?

There are links and an excerpt here:

Christmas Hope

About the Author

Award winning author of historical romance usually set in the Regency and Victorian eras, Caroline Warfield reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the world. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart, because love is worth the risk.

Carol Roddy – Author

 

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Tea with a tohunga

Tuhoto Ariki, Tohunga who predicted disaster before the Tarawera eruption

The old  man waiting in Eleanor’s parlour was unlike anyone she had seen. Old? The man was ancient. He had ignored the chairs scattered around the room, and sat on the hearth rug before the fire, but he looked around as she entered the room.

“Tuhoto Ariki?” she asked, unsure of how to pronounce the unfamiliar name that had appeared in her appointment diary.

He gave a smile of considerable sweetness, distorted though it was by the tattoos that covered his face. His return greeting was in a fluid and musical language that she did not know, but whatever alchemy presented people from other times and places in her parlour also translated their words, so that her ears heard a foreign tongue, but her brain understood the meaning.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am he, and this is a strange dream. Am I in the land of Queen Victoria? Perhaps you are she?”

Eleanor took a seat on the chair closest to the old man. “Our queen is Queen Charlotte, the wife of King George. I am the Duchess of Haverford. May I ask where you come from, and what year?”

She could make nothing of his answer. He spoke of a canoe, a mountain, a river. He talked about the generations since that ancestral canoe first arrived, but none of the names he mentioned translated into anything Eleanor could understand. In return, she told him a little of the United Kingdom in her time, but that got them no further.

They were interrupted by the procession of maids, bringing the makings for tea and plates of refreshment. Tuhoto Ariki accepted tea, asking for sugar but refusing the milk.

“I am trapped in my house by the ash from the taniwha’s fire,” he explained. “My throat is parched, back in my life. I like your pretty room better, though it is cold, Duchess of Haverford.”

“Trapped in your house?” Eleanor queried.

“I warned them, the foolish young men. You are greedy, I told them, and the gods are angry. You take too many visitors to the sacred places. ‘The visitors make us rich,’ they said. ‘The carvings in Hinemihi, our meeting house, have gold coins for eyes.'” He shook his head. “They did not listen. Even when the phantom canoe came, they did not listen.”

Eleanor leaned forward. “Tell me about the phantom canoe.”

“They appeared out of nowhere. A canoe the like of which has not been seen on the lake in half of my lifetime. They were dressed for a funeral, chiefly spirits who paddled a short distance and faded away like mist. ‘We shall be overwhelmed’, I warned the villages, but no one listened to me. Then the taniwha under the mountain awoke and the sky split apart with its fire. Who knows how many will survive? Te Wairoa, the village of the meeting house with the golden eyes, is buried and me with it.” He took another great gulp of his tea, and then faded away like the phantom canoe, leaving nothing behind but a cup and saucer tumbling from the air to land on the hearth rug.

Tuhoto Ariki is an historical figure. The events of which he speaks, culminating in the eruption of Mount Tarawera, form the background for my story Forged in Fire, in the Belles’ collection Never Too Late and my own collection of New Zealand based stories, Hearts in the Land of Ferns, Love Tales from New Zealand.

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Tea with a love letter

The Duchess of Haverford took tea in her rooms this quiet Monday afternoon. She was alone for once; even the maid who brought the tray sent off back to the servants’ hall. Her life was such a bustle, and for the most part, that was how she liked it, but just for once, it was nice to have an afternoon to herself. No meetings. No entertainments to attend or offer. Not even any family members–her current companion had gone to visit her mother for her afternoon off, Aldridge was about his own business, Frances was at lessons, and Jessica and Matilda had been invited on an outing with Felicity Belvoir.

As to Haverford, who knew where he was? But he would not disturb her here. He had not come to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery–the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and her own freedom from his intimate attentions.

It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his–not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.

Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.

Putting down her tea, she fetched the little box of keepsakes from the back of a cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. A pair of Jonathan’s bootees. She had knitted them with her own hands, and there had been a cap to match. A rose, faded and dry, that she had pulled from a bouquet James had sent her, to wear in her hair. It still bore a faint scent of the perfume he had delighted in as they danced that night.

And the letter. It was one of several she had kept; most of them brief notes about nothing in particular. ‘I saw these and thought of you’, on a card with a bouquet of sweet spring flowers. ‘Save me a dance at the Mitford’s tonight?’ ‘I saw you in the Park. You rode like a goddess.’ They did not have to be signed. They were all from James, and short because they had to be passed to her in secret. “I’m not throwing you away on a third son, Eleanor Creydon. Winderfield is a fribble; a useless pup. Haverford wants you, and I’ve accepted him.”

James was back in England, a widower, father of six sons, heir to a dying duke. “Take that, Father,” Eleanor thought. “The third son will be duke, and his sons after him.”

He had attended the ball she was at the night before last. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

She caught herself sighing over the man like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Gads! She was prevaricating. She had come here to reread James’s last letter; the one that had broken her heart; the one she had ignored, leaving her to a lifetime of regret.

Stealing herself, she opened it.

My dearest, dearest love

My father is in it, too. He says that Haverford is to have you, as soon as he has recovered from his wounds.

I wish I had never challenged the duke, or that I had shot to kill. I meant only to defend your honour; to show he could not speak of you as if you were his possession. Even a husband should hesitate to show such disrepect to the woman he has promised to cherish above all others, and so I told him. ‘You are not even her betrothed,’ I told him, ‘and the last man on earth to deserve her’. I am very sorry, Eleanor. I lost my temper, when I should have been thinking of the best way to press my case with your father.

Now, the devil is in it, my father insists that I must flee the country. He says Haverford will have me arrested for shooting him, and Father won’t lift a finger to stop him.

Come with me, Eleanor. I promise I can look after you. The ship my father has organised leaves in two days, but I have a friend who can get me away tomorrow night. I promise I can look after you. I’ve sold the little estate my mother left me, so I have funds. We will go to the Continent. I can find work, I know I can, and we will be together. I know it won’t be what you are used to or what you deserve, but I love you, and you love me. Is that not worth fleeing for?

Meet me by the oak near the back gate of your garden as soon as the house is quiet tomorrow evening. I will be there from 8 of the evening and will wait until 2 hours after midnight. We have to be on the ship in time to sail with the dawn, and by the time your household wakes, we shall be gone down the river, and out to sea.

Come with me, my love.

Yours forever

James

 

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Tea with Sally

The Duchess of Winshire’s beloved James had added a conservatory onto his townhouse as a wedding present for his new wife. Even a decade later, Eleanor felt warm at the thought. No. A decade did not decrease her appreciation of her husband. Rather, it made it richer and deeper. The conservatory was just one of many ways he showed his deep love for the companion of his old age. Her lips curved in amusement. Not as old as all that! Bed sports with a generous man she adored, and who adored her in return had been a revelation to the former Duchess of Haverford. Neither her children nor his appreciated the passion between the couple, and they tried to be considerate, but really! They were married, after all.

Today, the conservatory was a play house for two of her favourite people. The little Marquess of Abersham, not quite four years old, was a godson–almost an honorary grandson, since his father had been a close friend of Eleanor’s own son for most of his life. Lady Sarah Grenford, that son’s daughter, was almost a year younger, but imperiously certain of her right to rule of the child-sized tea table where the two children entertained an assortment of dolls, stuffed toys, wooden animal and tin soldiers to afternoon tea.

Eleanor had refused a seat on the tiny chairs in favour of an adult-sized chair pulled close to one side of the table, but she accepted the tiny porcelain cup Sally handed her, filled with coloured lemonade.

“Now you must hand Grandmama the custard squares, David,” Sally commanded, and Abersham obeyed, carefully carrying the plate around the table balanced on both palms. He bowed as he offered it, and it tilted, the contents threatening to slip off before he slapped a hand over the top of them.

“I saved them, Aunt Eleanor,” he told her proudly, lifting a sticky hand to allow her to select from the offerings, the custard slightly squashed under cracked icing.

“You crushed them, silly,” his sternest auditor pronounced.

“I’m not silly,” the young lord protested. Then, clearly feeling that honour must be restored, he stalked towards Sally waving his custard-covered palm in threat.

“Abersham, your manners, please,” Eleanor reminded him. “And Sally, ladies never call other people ‘silly’. You have hurt your friend’s feelings.”

Sally’s eyes widened and she turned to Abersham, all contrition. “I did not mean to, David. Here!” She picked up a linen napkin. “Let me wipe your hand clean.”

Abersham grinned, and licked his palm. “All clean,” he said, “and it tastes good.”

Eleanor thought about reprimanding the child again, but he had nurses and parents for that and, after all, he would not still be licking his palm at dinner parties when he was twenty. Let him learn kindness now and manners later.

Both were the eldest children of dukes, which meant they were more indulged than was good for them, but they both had sweet natures, and were dearly loved. And they had one another as the best of friends. What would the future bring them, she wondered, as she used a spoon to select the undamaged edges of her custard square.

 

 

 

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Tea with Jonathan

 

Her Grace of Haverford answered a question about her plans for the evening, while watching her younger son prowling her private parlour, picking up ornaments and putting them down, smoothing out a crinkle in a linen mat, twitching a flower out of a vase to smell it and put it back in the wrong place. He clearly had something to say, and was barely pretending to listen as he tried to decide whether to come out with it.

“What is on your mind, my dear?” she asked, after he had tossed out two more conversational sallies, neither of which related to the other.

He flopped into a chair opposite to her. “I need something to do, Mama. His Grace stops everything I try, and Aldridge thinks I am complaining about nothing.”

So that was it. The duchess knew that His Grace refused to allow his back-up heir to take up any worthwhile activity, but she had not realised that her older son had also proved unsympathetic.

“You know what happened when I tried to join the army,” Jonathan complained. “His Grace refused his permission. So I joined under a false name. His Grace had me hunted down, bought me out, and confined me until I gave my word not to do it again.”

“I am rather glad about that,” Eleanor confessed. “It is cowardly of me, but I hate the thought of you risking your life in the struggle against Napoleon.”

“I am not afraid,” Jonathan insisted, completely missing his mother’s point. “At least I would have a purpose.” He continued his litany of things he’d done. “I went to work for an architect. His Grace had the man beaten. I changed my name again, and found work as a factory clerk. He threatened to ruin the man if I wasn’t fired. He told me that if I tried it again, he’d throw my old nanny out of the cottage she has retired to.”

Eleanor had purchased the cottage, and Jonathan’s nanny now owned it outright, but the duke would find another stick with which to threaten his son into compliance.

“Don’t tell me to speak to Aldridge. He doesn’t understand. I can’t live this life—this meaningless, idiotic life. He has work. I am allowed none. He has purpose. Mine is to simply exist until he marries and has children. After that, I’m redundant. Aldridge thinks I should be happy to drink and gamble and swive — I beg your pardon, Mama. And indulge myself until I’m silly, then get up the next day and do it again. He can’t believe I’m not. But he wouldn’t like having nothing useful to do nearly as much as he thinks. Can you talk to him, Mama?”

“Of course I will.” It would not help. The duchess knew His Grace had forbidden Aldridge to involve Jonathan in the many duties of the duchy that burdened the eldest son. Still, she would speak to Aldridge, and suggest he explain that to Jonathan, so at least the young man’s ire would be directed at the proper target. Meanwhile, she would try to give his mind another direction. “Perhaps, my dear, you might consider being of use to me?”

He looked up from the fist he had been punching into his other palm. “With what, Mama?”

“I understand you are friends with Miss Lilly Diamond,” the duchess said. Jonathan blushed. So those particular rumours were true, then. Eleanor discounted much of what she heard about her sons, but clearly Jonathan was at least acquainted with the famous demi-mondaine. “My friend Lady Sutton is concerned. Apparently Lady Georgiana is a frequent visitor at Miss Diamond’s house.”

The young lord sat up straight, his face grave, “I do not think it the part of honour to be your spy, Mama.”

Eleanor hid a smile at the indignant rebuke. “Nor do I ask you, dear. But Grace thinks, and I agree, that something odd is going on in the circles where your friend Miss Diamond presides. It may be nothing to do with her, of course. But will you keep your eyes out, Jonathan? And will you watch out for Lady Georgiana, if you can? I would hate to see her hurt.”

“I can do that,” Jonathan agreed. His eyes lit, and he shot her a devilish grin. “I see what you are doing, Mama. You are making it my job to drink and gamble and– other things. Well, a man has to do what a man has to do.”

Lord Jonathan Grenford is carrying out his mother’s commission when the courtesan, Lilly Diamond, is poisoned. Gren (as his friends call him) finds himself helping his half-brother David Wakefield to investigate the murder, in Revealed in Mist.

 

 

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Tea with the charitable Society

My excerpt post today is from a story tentatively entitled The Granite Earl and the Ice Princess, which I’m writing for the Bluestocking Belles’ anthology Fire and Frost.

Jessie rose to her feet. “We had best change for the meeting, Tilda. The Society for Brats is coming.”

Oh, yes. One of the duchess’s charities was meeting here today, rather than in the Oxford Street bookshop and tearooms that was their usual meeting place. The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans intended to hold a fundraising event in a few weeks, when most of the ton had arrived in London. Even the dreadful fog could not be allowed to interfere with deciding what that event was to be.

The maid they shared brought them warm water to wash, and they helped one another into afternoon gowns suitable for receiving company.

“This is my third change today,” Jessica commented. “Yours too, I take it.”

Matilda knew what was coming. She and Jess had been deputed to the duchess’s causes since they were old enough to help, but for some reason this one had got right under Jess’s skin, and just last week, she had all but accused their benefactor of hypocrisy.

Jess ignored her silence, repeating the essence of what she had said to the duchess. “The cost of the gowns we have already worn today alone would have provided a year’s care for one of the indigent families for whom we were fundraising.”

Matilda gave her the answer that Her Grace had given last week. “If we both dressed in sackcloth, Jess, it would still be not enough. Aunt Eleanor says that we need to draw money out of those who would not otherwise give. To do that, we need to be seen as part of the ton, and that means we need to dress the part.”

Jess was not convinced. “If Aldridge would give me my dress allowance, instead of paying my bills, I could get by with half the clothes I have. I know I could.”

They dropped the conversation as they entered one of the less formal parlours, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier no longer served as Her Grace’s secretary, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jess and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few or two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Lady Clermont rose to her feet and waited for Mrs Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Lady Clermont,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Lady Clermont explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fornier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Tea with Lady Overton and Mrs Wakefield

 

The Duchess of Haverford was entertaining two younger women to afternoon tea, and so far, the afternoon was going as she planned. The children, who were having their own tea party at a small table further along the terrace, were getting on well. Frances and Antonia, both thirteen,  fussed happily over little Belle, treating her as an animated version of the dolls they had outgrown.

“Your other children would have been very welcome,” she said to the two mothers.

Becky Overton smiled. “The older girls are looking forward to having Overton to themselves, Aunt Eleanor. They love Belle, but she does rather demand the entire family’s adoring attention. Besides, I thought you might enjoy having her …” she trailed off, darting a glance at Prue Wakefield and then another at Antonia, Mrs Wakefield’s daughter.

Ah. She had noticed the girl’s eyes and her colouring. Eleanor had assumed that she would. No such biological markers identified Belle, though — under the circumstances — it was as well she favoured her mother. In this situation, though, it made things difficult. Eleanor wanted to accomplish her purpose for bringing the mothers and daughters together without breaching the confidence of either of them, but she could not immediately see how to do it.

“I have left the rest of my brood with my husband, too, Lady Overton.” Prue addressed her remark to Becky, “and I suspect my reasons were similar to your own.”

Becky’s slight flush indicated that she’d heard the last part of the sentence, but she addressed the first. “How many children do you have, Mrs Wakefield?”

For a few minutes, they traded the names and ages of children. Becky had three older daughters, and Prue a son and two daughters all younger than Antonia. Their eyes kept drifting to the tea party, and eventually, Becky asked, “Did you invite us both here for the same reason, Aunt Eleanor?”

The duchess hinted at the truth. “I think it important for Belle and Antonia to know one another, my dears.” She thought for a moment and added, “More than that, I cannot say.”

With two such intelligent women, it was enough.

Prue went first. She had always been a woman of great courage. “Antonia is my David’s daughter, Lady Overton, but she and I met him for the first time some seven years ago.”

Becky nodded acknowledgement. “Belle was born after my marriage and is my Hugh’s little treasure, Mrs Wakefield.” She took a deep breath and continued. She had never lacked for courage, either. “Her Grace is one of the few people who know that Hugh was not present for her conception.”

They turned to Eleanor, and Prue put their question into words. “They are half-sisters?” She read the answer in the duchess’s eyes. “Yes. You are correct. They should know one another.”

“May I ask, Your Grace,” Becky ventured, “is Frances also a sister?”

Eleanor shook her head. “An aunt, rather, as are my older wards.”

The relationships would not be mentioned again. Eleanor knew she did not have to discuss the necessity or even the decision; these ladies had been keeping secrets for many years, and would not risk any harm to their families. But as she watched them talk, joining in from time to time; as she enjoyed the chatter of the children at play; she gave thanks that, even if she could never recognise her granddaughters, she was at least blessed to know them and to love them.

 

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Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Today’s post is an excerpt from To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel I’m creating from The Bluestocking and the Barbarian.

Several days after her arrival in London, Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have someone for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”