Monday for Tea

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Tea with the Fourniers

Fournier’s of London had been open for three weeks, three weeks in which the numbers of diners had grown nightly until they needed to take bookings and began to turn people away at the door.

Tonight, though, no bookings had been accepted and nor would casual diners be able to penetrate into the elegant interior, where polished wood, crisp white linen, shining silver, and sparkling crystal waited for the few privileged guests.

And tonight, welcoming the diners would not be the task of the maître d’hôtel who usually managed the dining room while the proprietor controlled the kitchen.

Tonight, Marcel had left his chief assistant in charge of the final preparations. Tonight, Monsieur Fournier himself would greet his patrons, and not alone. For tonight, the restaurant, normally a sanctuary for gentlemen, would be entertaining women, and not only women, but ladies. Including Cedrica, who was waiting at the door.

Had it been less than a year since she had written to her father’s noble relative in a last desperate bid to keep the bishop from locking the poor man up? How things had changed!

Here was the biggest change of all: her husband, looking splendid in a black dress coat and knee breeches. He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “Are you nervous, cherie?”

“Proud, Marcel. I am looking forward to showing our investors what we have done.”

He turned with her, surveying the largest of five dining rooms with satisfaction. Here, they could host up to one hundred diners at a time, with tables that could be divided or put together to suit the convenience of the patrons, from single diners to large banquets. The smallest of the rooms accommodated eight with comfort and could be configured for smaller groups.

Tonight, they would be using one of the medium-sized rooms, for tonight, they welcomed the friends who had taken shares in the restaurant.

It had been Lord Aldridge’s idea. When Cedrica first realized that he planned to pay the dowry he had promised, she voiced her decision to split it between buying care for her father and helping Marcel pay for the restaurant, but Aldridge advised her to think again.

“The Grenfords owe your father a duty of care,” he assured her. “Invest in the restaurant by all means, but not only in the restaurant. You also need a separate income. I suggest money in the Funds for security and then some other ventures that will give a greater return. You must think of your long-term security, cousin.”

Cedrica had quizzed Marcel on his plans and then spent hours collecting figures and doing sums. “But we will need all that money if we are to open this year.”

“We could work another year,” Marcel suggested, “or open a lesser establishment.”

“Or accept investors,” Aldridge suggested. “You and Cedrica to hold the majority share, and no one else with more than…” He pursed his lips as he considered, “five percent. You would have my support. I am confident you will make me money.”

Her Grace agreed, and so did the Laceys and the Suttons and others. In no time at all, it seemed, they had the funds to make over a building to Marcel’s high standards, the rental on a comfortable home nearby, and investments in the Funds, Aldridge’s cousin’s trading company, a woolen mill in Manchester, and a canal building enterprise.

Less than two months after the end of the house party where it all started, Monsieur Marcel Fournier and Mademoiselle Cedrica Grenford were married. Twice. Once according to English practice and law and again in a small comfortable parlor off the side of the local Roman Catholic chapel.

And now Monsieur and Madame Fournier would say thank you to those who made it possible.

“It looks well,” Marcel decided. “And the dinner, the dinner, my Rica, will be the most magnificent they have ever tasted.”

Cedrica smiled. He said that every night, and every night, his guests assured him it was true.

Out in the hall, the restaurant door opened, and they could hear the portier greeting the first arrivals. In moments, it seemed, they were surrounded by cheerful friends, the men slapping Marcel on the back and congratulating him on making them all rich, the women kissing Cedrica on the cheek and gently scolding her for being too busy to meet friends for tea.

“Mama and I brought you a present,” Aldridge said. “I left it in the hall. Just one moment.” He left the room and returned a moment later with a long, flat, oblong shape wrapped in silk and tied with ribbon, which he handed to the duchess.

“We wanted to give you something useful but unusual, something that would always remind you of Hollystone Hall,” she said.

Marcel, seated beside Cedrica, lifted her hand and kissed it. “I have a wonderful souvenir of that house party, Your Grace,” he said.

The duchess smiled. “Indeed you do. To remind you of us, then, Monsieur. We consulted with Mrs. Pearce, and she suggested that this might be suitable.”

What on earth could it be? Cedrica and Marcel took one end of the parcel each and began to untie ribbons. When Marcel cleared his end of the silk and saw the box within, he began to laugh. Cedrica was still mystified until she finished unwrapping and was able to open the box and see the pearwood mold within, the one with the dolphin shapes that had caused such contention.

“Look, Marcel, at last you will be able to make your ice tower!”

Leave it to Aldridge to have the last word, as he raised his glass of wine. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Fournier’s of London. May it, and its proprietors, be a towering success.”

***

Today’s scene is the epilogue from A Suitable Husband, a stand-alone novella that first appeared in Holly and Hopeful Hearts. In that anthology, the Bluestocking Belles wrote stories set around a house party hosted by the Duchess of Haverford.

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Tea with Jude

 

Her Grace gestures to a seat, and begins to pour a fragrant cup of tea from the teapot she has ready at her elbow. She does not ask how I have it — medium strength, no sugar, no milk or cream. We have been together now for more than six years, and we know one another’s habits.

She has become more than I expected when she first surfaced from the depths of my imagination. My notebook says:

Anthony George Bartholomew Philip Grenford, Duke of Haverford, Marquess of Aldbridge, Baron Chillingham
m
Eleanor Frances Sophia Grenford nee Creydon (daughter of Earl of Farnmouth)

Duchess with two sons and unhappy marriage treasures her many goddaughters. Links books through goddaughters. Sons have their own stories.The Duchess also rescued her husband’s by blows and put them into school etc. See David. Could be more stories about these by-blows.

“That was the start,” Eleanor agrees, “but we have gone beyond that, have we not?”

We have. Even from her first appearance, she has demanded her own voice. She is the maternal aunt of the hero of my first novel, and he goes to her when he needs help with the social circumstances of his lovely widow. England is in the middle of the 1807 election, and Eleanor has been canvassing the Kent electorate on behalf of her husband’s candidate.

The sun was setting on Saturday evening, and Rede was beside himself with frustration, before the Duchess of Haverford’s coach was finally seen tooling up the road to the castle.
He was waiting when she entered the front door, and she greeted him with pleasure. “Rede, darling. What a lovely surprise. Have you been waiting for me long?
“Such a circus in Deal. The electors were inclined to listen to the merchants, and the merchants did not favour Haverford’s man. Not at all.
“So I had to visit every shop in the town and buy something. The carriage, I can assure you, is laden. But Haverford believes that it may have done the trick.
“Just as well, dear, for I have enough Christmas presents for every one of my godchildren for the next three years. And some of them are not of the best quality, I can assure you.”
She was talking as she ascended the stairs, giving her cloak to a maid as she passed, her bonnet to a footman, and her reticule to another maid.
“You want something, I expect. Well, you shall tell me all about it at dinner. I left most of the food I purchased at the orphanage in Margate, but I kept a pineapple for dessert. Such fun, my dear, have you tried one?”
“No, dear aunt,” he managed to say, sliding his comment in as she paused to give her gloves to yet another maid. Or it may have been the first maid again.
“Well, today you shall. Join me in the dining room in—shall we say one hour?” And she sailed away towards her apartments, leaving him, as always, feeling as if he had been assaulted by a friendly and affectionate hurricane.
Over dinner, he laid all honestly before her. Well, perhaps not all. The lovely widow, betrayed by George, the three sisters, the little daughter. No need to mention that he’d played fast and loose himself with the lady’s virtue. Just that he needed to rehabilitate her. Just that he wanted to marry her and she had refused.
“She has refused you, Rede?” Her Grace was surprised. “But you are handsome, titled and charming. And rich. What does she object to?”
Rede hadn’t been able to work it out, either. “I know she cares for me, Aunt Eleanor. But she keeps saying no. The first time—to be honest, the first time I made a disaster of it. I told her… I gave her the impression that I only wanted her for a wife because she was too virtuous to be my mistress.”
Her Grace gave a peal of laughter. “Oh Rede, you didn’t.”
“I’m afraid I did. But the second time I assured her that I wanted her for my Countess.”
“And you told her that you loved her,” the Duchess stated.
“No. Not exactly. I told her I wanted to keep her safe. I told her I wanted to protect her.”
“I see. And I suppose you think if you bring her into society, she will consent to marry you?”
“I don’t know, aunt. I only know that she deserves a better life than stuck in a worker’s cottage in the back of nowhere working as a teacher so she can one day give her sister a decent life. If she won’t have me… Well, she has been to see a lawyer about a small inheritance she has coming. I thought perhaps I could make it a bit bigger. Without her knowing.”
“You do love her,” said the Duchess, with great satisfaction.
“Yes, but… Yes.” There were no buts. He loved her. At least he hadn’t told her so. He had no taste for laying his heart on the floor for her to walk on.
“You need to tell her so.” The Duchess echoed and denied his thinking, all in one short sentence. “She is probably afraid that you are marrying her out of a misplaced sense of duty. You are far too responsible, Rede.”
“No, she couldn’t think that. Could she?”
“Who knows? Well, I will do it. I cannot have my niece-in-law having her babies in scandal. I take it there is the possibility of a baby? You would not be feeling so guilty otherwise.”
Rede was without a response for a long moment, finally huffing a laugh. “Aunt Eleanor, a hundred years ago you would have burnt as a witch,” he told her.

Eleanor reads the words over my shoulder and laughs. “Silly boy,” she observes. “But it all turned out in the end.”

“And then you helped Becky and Hugh,” I reminded her. A shadow passes over her face. That also turned out in the end, though perhaps not for Eleanor’s son, the Marquis of Aldridge.

By that time, Eleanor Haverford had embedded herself into my Regency world. She appears again and again, always helping, always protecting the defenseless and supporting the cause of true love.

From her wistful look into her cup, I know what she is thinking. I know the question she wants to ask.

“Will it ever be my turn?” The room hums with the unspoken words.

I can’t answer; those stories are not written yet, although I’ve begun them. Things change as I’m writing. I can’t imagine that the one-word answer will reverse, but she will want details, and I need to write the six-novel series, Children of the Mountain King, to find out for certain whether it will ever be Eleanor’s turn.

I hope so. She deserves it.

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The hero’s friends on WIP Wednesday

A person is known by the company they keep. It’s an old saying, and a useful one for writers. Our characters show who they are in the friends they choose, and the way they behave with those friends. This week, I’m looking for excerpts with your hero and one or more friends. Please post it in the comments. Mine is from a story I’m just beginning to put together in my mind; one tentatively called Maximum Force and the Immovable Lady.

Max watched from the shadows as the Earl of Ruthford browsed the shelves in his library, one finger running along the leather spines, occasionally tipping a book out for further examination. So far, all those selected had been returned to their place.

The man looked well; better, in fact, than Max had ever seen him. His casual house attire — ornately-patterned banyan worn over an open-necked shirt, loose pantaloons and indoor slippers — suited him no less well than the regimentals of their joint past. The tall form, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, had not changed, and nor had the dark hair, cropped short enough to discourage but not eliminate the curls.

However, something about the way he carried himself spoke of comfort ; happiness, even. The ready smile, flashed at a book that amused him, carried no overtones of bitterness; no expectation of a dark tomorrow. Max’s old colleague and sometime commander had found a haven here in England; in his ancestral home. Max envied him.

Watching so closely, he caught the moment the earl realised he was not alone: a miniscule pause in the movement of the reaching hand, a slight tension in the shoulders. It was enough warning. When the earl turned and pounced, all in one fluid movement, Max was ready for him, sliding sideways and speaking as he did.

“Good to see you, too, Lion.”

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Tea with a friend in need

 

The child was asleep at last. Unconscious, rather. Much as she hated laudanum, the Duchess of Haverford had seen the wisdom of using it this once. It had been nearly a week since the incident, and her poor god-daughter had not dropped off for more than a few exhausted moments at a time.

The child’s mother hovered over the invalid’s bed, her face haggard. “Will she ever recover from this, Eleanor?” she asked. “Or have I lost my little girl, as well as…” She bit her upper lip, as if to keep it from spilling out the truth of the rest of her bereavement. Even between the two of them, who knew what had happened, the words should not be spoken. If the girl was to be saved, no one could ever know what she had suffered.

“We will help her,” Eleanor promised. “We will be her strength until she finds her own, dear one. We will not let her blame herself or fall into despair.”

A knock at the door had her friend stepping swiftly into the curtained alcove that hid the window. Eleanor waited a moment until she was concealed, then lifted her voice. “Enter!”

It was a maid with the tea. Eleanor bade her set down the tray and leave them, and sat to prepare a cup of tea the way her friend liked it. The lady emerged from her hiding place. “I could kill my husband. The things he said to her, Eleanor.” She took a sip of her tea and sighed.

“Men always blame women for their own failings,” Eleanor reminded her. But how could that insensitive cad think an innocent seventeen year old, walking peacefully in her own garden with a trusted family member, deserved to be so brutally and intimately assaulted? Doubtless, he sought to excuse sins of his own.

“Thank you for keeping her here. Does Haverford…?” The lady shook her head, as if in answer to her own question.

Eleanor put down her own cup to lean forward and take her friend’s hands. “No. He has no interest in what I do, my dear, which is as well in this case. Only the maid who cleans this room and my cousin Miriam know she is here, and no one knows who she is.” Eleanor had sent the faithful cousin to sleep as soon as the invalid had succumbed to the laudanum.

“Miriam has been wonderful.” Her friend’s tears welled up and overflowed, and the lady gave a huff of a bitter laugh. “I cannot even nurse my own daughter, for fear my husband will find out where she is and punish her for the crime of…” she trailed off again, once more avoiding the boggy quagmire concealed in their every conversation.

“Miriam understands,” Eleanor explained, which was as much as she would reveal of the circumstances from which Eleanor had rescued the distant relative who now cared for the injured girl.

The friend put her cup down, and stood. “I must go. I cannot be away too long, or they will become suspicious.”

“You have transport?”

“An unmarked carriage. An anonymous driver. My sister arranged it. I daresay the driver thinks I am here for an assignation.” Her smile was a feeble attempt, but Eleanor admired the courage behind the weak joke.

“The maid will be outside. Let her show you to your carriage, dearest, and tell her to return to me when she is done. Do not worry about the child. I will sit with her until Miriam awakens.”

The mother managed another weak smile, kissed the sleeping girl’s forehead, and hugged Eleanor before lowering her thick mourning veil over her face. Her identity concealed, she stepped into the hall. Eleanor took Miriam’s seat next to the bed, where she could watch over her charge. Whatever would become of the poor girl? Eleanor had once had hopes of a match between her friend’s daughter and Aldridge… But now? Even if the incident could remain concealed; even if Aldridge ever settled down enough to consider marriage; even if the dear child recovered enough to allow a man within touching distance… Those were just the start of the obstacles to such a connection.

Eleanor took a deep breath. Whatever was she doing thinking about her own wistful dreams when this poor darling’s life had been turned into a nightmare?  As the child began to toss and whimper, she leaned forward to murmur soothingly. “You are safe, my darling. You are safe. No one can hurt you here.”

 

 

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Tea with Matilda and Jessica

Her Grace of Haverford was wondering why she had thought an afternoon at home with Matilda and Jessica to be a good idea. Her foster-daughters — as she thought of them, though by Haverford’s decree she referred to them as foster-nieces — had not taken kindly to Haverford’s edict that they no longer socialised or even spoke to their dearest friends, the Winderfield twins, and now Matilda was furious because Aldridge had run off yet another suitor.

“Lord Almsley is a baron, Aunt Eleanor.” Matilda in a temper was a glorious sight, colour high, perfect form bristling wit indignation. “Does Aldridge intend us all to be old maids? If he is not glowering at our shoulders scaring all the good gentlemen away, he’s hustling us inside off the terrace when we take a breath of fresh air, and now he has beaten poor Lord Almsley just for asking to wed me.”

“Or Jessica’s,” Eleanor commented. The man had hoped to connect himself to the Haverford family and pay his debts with the dowry Aldridge had settled on each of his half-sisters. According to Aldridge, the idiot preferred Matilda’s exotic beauty, but was prepared to take Jessica if Matilda was already spoken for. “I haven’t punched someone outside of the practice ring in years, Mama,” Aldridge had told her, “but I made an exception for the obnoxious scum who so disrespected my sisters.”

Eleanor’s comment stopped Matilda’s pacing. “Jessica?” She shook her head, setting her dark ringlets swinging. “What does Jessica have to do with it? He was courting me!”

Jessica opened her mouth and then closed it. Eleanor raised an interrogative eyebrow, waiting for her to comment. Matilda looked from Eleanor to Jessica and back. “He was. He was courting me,: she insisted.

“He was,” Eleanor confirmed. “Everyone saw it. However, unless I miss my guess, he was also secretly courting your sister.”

Matilda narrowed her eyes. “Jess?” Jess’s blush confirmed her guilt to both observers. “Jess! How could you! Aunt Eleanor, it isn’t fair!” Matilda insisted.

“Do you want a man who regards you as interchangeable with your sister?” Eleanor asked.

Matilda sat down with a flounce. “I want a husband and a home of my own. If Aldridge has his way, I shall molder into an old maid in the Haverford residences, staying out of the duke’s way and never having children to love.”

Eleanor sat, too, and waved Jessica into a chair. Aldridge had been unwilling to explain to Matilda exactly why he had turned Almsley away, but the girl deserved to know. “Matilda, Almsley’s willingness to take either of you is not the only reason Aldridge punched him. He had already decided to refuse the young man because of his gambling addiction and other personal habits, but when it was Almsley’s answer when Aldridge asked if he would be giving up his mistress that was the final straw.”

Matilda paled but said nothing. “Almsley has a mistress?” Jessica asked.

“One with whom he spends most of his time, and on whom he has lavished much of his personal wealth.” She had their full attention now. She had always thought the practice of keeping girls ignorant was a foolish one, but some truths were hard to hear. “Girls, Almsley told Aldridge that he would not be in need of an heiress were it not for his mistress, who is expensive but well worth it. He further suggested that, given the circumstances of your birth, you could not expect a better match, and would therefore be happy with his title and any pin money that Aldridge insisted on writing into the settlements. He assured Aldridge he would treat you with respect in public, and otherwise wouldn’t bother you.”

“The cur!” Jessica exclaimed, taking her sister’s hand.

“I hope Aldridge made him bleed,” Matilda agreed. “Oh, Aunt Eleanor, will we ever find anyone to marry?”

The girls are half-sisters, born six months apart, the natural daughters of the Duke of Haverford, taken into Eleanor’s nursery as babies. Watch for them in various of my books. 

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Tea with Gil

The invitation had been for the new Viscount Rutledge, but Her Grace of Haverford was unsurprised to find his mother had accompanied him. The duchess had never warmed to Lady Rutledge, but the woman must be tolerated for the sake of her son, who deserved her support. Lord Rutledge, or Gil as his friends called him, faced an uphill battle to reinstate the wealth and reputation of the title he had just inherited after the excesses of his disgraceful rakehell of a brother.

“Of course, Rutledge is nothing like his brother,” Lady Rutledge complained. “My dear Gideon knew what he owed the title. Why, he would never have missed the Season. As for involving himself in estate business like some kind of peasant! Gideon would have no more demeaned his whole family in such a manner than he would have appeared in public in last year’s fashions.”

Eleanor was well aware of how the former Lord Rutledge spent the Season when he and his mother came up to Town, leaving the man’s poor little wife at home in the country. Gideon Rutledge seldom appeared in a gathering for polite Society, and would have been evicted from most had he tried. He was, however, to be found throwing money like water wherever vice and debauchery reigned. Hence the challenge facing his successor.

The duchess entered the lists on the side of the new viscount. “I am always delighted to see a peer who values the welfare of his people and his estate above his own pleasures,” she said. “Lord Rutledge, your many years of successful leadership in the service of the King will undoubtedly stand you in good stead as you face these new challenges.”

“Rutledge’s only challenge,” Lady Rutledge insisted, “is finding a wealthy bride willing to accept such a barbarian.” She shrugged. “The title covers a multitude of sins.”

Eleanor only just avoided showing her astonishment. To call one’s son a barbarian before a mere acquaintance! Was the woman mad? “It certainly did,” she countered. “How glad you must be that your second son is so much more responsible and civilised than your first.”

It was Lady Rutledge’s turn to gape. “Gideon? Are you calling Gideon uncivilised? Why, he always dressed in the first stare of fashion, and he knew all the on dits. He was even invited to Carlton House and the Duke of Richport was an intimate friend.”  She sat back proudly, clearly confident that she had rousted the opposition with the final argument.

Gil Rutledge caught Eleanor’s eye. He gave a slight shake of the head, before asking, “The landscape over the fireplace, Your Grace, is that one of the ducal estates? I do not recognise the house, but the painting is truly lovely.”

Eleanor accepted the change of subject, and followed his lead in ruthlessly keeping conversation during the remainder of the call on innocuous topics. Lady Rutledge followed the footman out after the requisite half hour. Gil remained long enough to say, “Thank you, Your Grace. It does no good to talk sense to my mother, but I appreciate you making the effort.”

“Hurry up, Rutledge,” Lady Rutledge’s voice called, but the duchess put a hand on the viscount’s sleeve to detain him.

“Lord Rutledge, I have heard many good things about you. You have the respect of much of Society; certainly of those who count. My nephew stands your friend, I know, and my son and I are pleased to know you. Remember that, when your mother’s insults become burdensome.”

The young man’s sombre mood lifted a little and he smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said again.

***

Gil Rutledge is the hero of The Realm of Silence. Check it out for more about the burdens he faces and how a love he believes he does not deserve finds him anyway.

 

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Tea with heroes and heroines from the Land of Ferns

Rosa held tight to Thomas’s arm, peeking around him at the other couples who waited in the Duchess’s parlour. They had all introduced themselves, and all expressed wonder at how they had arrived, concluding that somehow it was all a dream.

That must be true, for how else could people from different centuries be here together? Yet she could have sworn she had been wide awake, the gentle quiet pony Thomas had purchased so she could learn to ride following his along the trail that led beside the river to the next mining camp they planned to visit. Of a sudden, without warning, the scene changed to a street in a bustling city, and the ornate gates of a mansion larger than any building she had ever seen.

Another couple on horseback arrived at the same time, and appeared just as startled. The bemusement and the horses were all they had in common; the clothes they wore — especially the trousers that hugged the lady’s thighs and calves — beyond shocking. Kirilee and Trevor came from the 21st century, or so they claimed, where such clothes were proper for ladies.

She supposed she believed them, for the other two couples from the 21st century were also scandalously clothed, and their means of transportation left no doubt in her mind that they had stepped her from another time. Nikki and Zee arrived in a horseless carriage: a monstrous machine that nonetheless purred like a large cat and gleamed the red of a priceless ruby. Claudia and Ethan’s steed was far louder and somehow more shocking. With only two wheels, it resembled nothing she had ever seen.

The conveyance carrying the fifth couple really was a carriage; a one-horse buggy similar to that used for travelling around town or to near neighbours in town. If she understood them correctly, they came here from a New Zealand twenty years or more later than her own time. Perhaps her children would meet them in that future — they would be a similar age. She choked back a laugh.

At that moment, the door opened, and they all stood as their hostess arrived.

“Good morning,” said the Duchess of Haverford. “I am so pleased to meet you all.”

Meet the heroes and heroines of my new story collection, Hearts in the Land of Ferns: Love Stories from New Zealand. It’s available on 23 April for only 99c.

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Tea with James (Part 2)

 

Eleanor could not take her eyes off him. She had seen him, of course, since he returned to England; not just at that memorable ball when they stood face to face for the first time in nearly thirty-five years then passed without a word, but also in the distance on the street, in the park, even at other social events that they accidentally both attended at the same time.

She had not stood close enough to catalogue all the ways he had changed and all the ways he was still the young man — almost a boy — that she had loved and lost.

“James,” she said again, her vocabulary deserting her.

His eyes were the same warm brown, but the face from which they smiled had matured into a shape far distant from her memories. His height had not changed, nor were his shoulders broader. Indeed, if she ignored the maturity lines, and the wisdom and knowledge in his eyes, she would not believe him to be nearly sixty. He had been a handsome youth, almost pretty. The prettiness had worn into something sharper, something stronger.

“I waited,” she said, not knowing the words were in her mind until she heard them leave her tongue. “I told them if they dragged me to the church I would refuse Haverford at the very altar. Then they told me you were dead, and it didn’t matter any more.” It didn’t matter now. More than thirty years had passed. She had two sons. He had married a woman he loved and had ten children with her. How could she possibly care what he thought about the actions of that girl from so long ago. But somehow, it did matter that he knew she had tried to be faithful to their love.

His gaze had not left face. “Winshire had reason to believe that I was dead. My captor said he would kill me if Winshire did not pay the ransom he wanted.”

“Georgie explained.” She flushed, suddenly aware that she was gawking like a giddy girl. “Please, Lord Sutton, do have a seat.” She arranged herself in the chair closest to the tea makings. “May I pour you a cup.”

James’s lips curved, just a little. “Thank you. Black, please. No milk, cream or sugar.” As he took the chair opposite, he added, “Are we to be formal, then, Eleanor? Or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”

No. Never that. For James to address her as Haverford’s duchess struck her as a perversion of all things righteous and good. Floundering to regain her balance, she thought again of his wife. She had suffered decades of marriage to a monster, but he had loved and been loved, and she was glad of it. “I was sorry to hear about the death of Lady James. When Georgie told me she had died, I so wanted to write, but…” Unable to find the words to explain the social constraints she would have needed to ignore to write a condolence letter to her first love on the death of his wife, she gestured meaninglessly with one hand.

He seemed to understand. “Thank you.” He put out his hand to receive the cup she passed and her hand touched his. Even through two layers of glove, she felt a jolt, as if all the barely contained energy that gave him such presence and power had discharged up her arm and through her — through her torso. She snatched her hand back, and only his quick reflexes allowed him to take a firm grip on the cup in time to prevent more than a slight slosh into the saucer.

It was a relief when the door opened again, to let in Grace and Georgie. The flurry of greetings gave her time to calm down.

James said, “I will leave you ladies to your meeting and walk on to my own. The carriage will wait for you, my ladies. Your Grace, thank you for sparing me a few moments of your time.”

Eleanor curtsied and allowed him to bow over her hand, very properly not touching it. “It was a pleasure to see you, my lord,” she managed to murmur, her voice creditably even.

But one thought beat persistently in her mind all through tea with her friends, the ride home in the unmarked carriage she had borrowed from her son, her entrance into his private wing — yet another anonymous veiled lady visiting the wicked Merry Marquis — and her retreat to her own side of the house. Her attraction to James Winderfield, Earl of Sutton and future Duke of Winshire, was as potent as it had been when she was an innocent girl.

It was foolishness. She was married. They were enemies by her husband’s decree. James was a widower famous for still loving his deceased wife. Foolishness or not, he was still the only man who had ever made her heart race and her body melt. And nothing could ever come of it.

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Tea with James

Eleanor looked around the shop with interest. Long ago, in the early miserable days of her marriage, one of Haverford’s elderly aunts had told her to always look for the silver lining. Aldridge had been born later that year, the first silver lining in the dark cloud of her life as a duchess.

More than thirty years had passed, and she was usually able to arrange her life just as she liked it, but every now and again, the game of hunting silver linings still kept her calm and sane.

The current cloud was Haverford’s dictate that she have nothing further to do with her two closest friends on the grounds that they were sisters to the Earl of Sutton, on whom he had declared war.

The silver lining was all the places she was discovering. Duchesses, His Grace decreed, sent for anything they needed. The modiste came to her. Books were ordered from a catalogue and delivered. When she chose to redecorate, she selected what she wanted from samples and someone made it all happen.

Shops were a revelation. In all her life, she had never been to a fabric emporium, such as the one where she and her friends met two weeks ago, or a millinery — last week’s meeting place. Both had been fascinating, but today’s book shop surpassed them all.

After this ridiculous kerfuffle was over, she was going to continue to go out to shops, and not in disguise, either. She would adore the opportunity to stroll, as other ladies were doing, taking a book from the shelves and reading a few pages. But the veil that kept her from being recognised was too heavy to allow her to read.

Instead, she followed the shop assistant to the private room where she was to meet Lady Sutton and Lady Georgiana Winderfield. The shop also served refreshments and provided rooms for meetings. This room was set up with comfortable chairs, and the table was already set with all the appointments for making and serving tea.

Eleanor was the first to arrive. She seated herself before reaching up to lift her veil, and had no sooner cast it back over the bonnet, and sighed with relief at being able to see clearly, when the door opened behind her back. Just to be careful, she did not turn. “Grace? Georgie?”

“Your Grace.” The deep voice was male. “My sisters say I may have five minutes, provided you agree.” His tones warmed with humour. “I daresay they are watching the door to see whether you will send me off with a flea in my ear.”

Eleanor stood and turned, her heart in her mouth. “Ja— Lord Sutton.” If Haverford found out… No. She had taken every precaution. She let go the breath she had known she was holding and held out her hand. “How are you?”

 

 

 

by

Tea with memories of Eleanor

 

Now for something different — the scene is about the Duchess of Haverford, but she only makes a brief appearance. This is an excerpt from the rewrite of what used to be The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. In To Wed a Proper Lady, the Earl of Sutton meets the woman he once loved at a ball, and afterwards thinks about the days of their youth.

The muttering of the assembled guests swelled and then stopped abruptly when the Duke of Haverford crossed the floor, and stopped in front of the Earl of Sutton.

Sutton inclined his head, his face impassive.

Haverford sneered and turned on his heel. Sighting his wife at one side of the room, talking to their hostess, he marched twelve paces and spat out, “Lady Finch, that man is an imposter. The duchess and I will not visit any home where he and his devil-spawn are welcome. Duchess!” He beckoned to Aunt Eleanor, as Sophia called her godmother, and stalked off up the stairs.

The duchess followed, hesitating for a moment as she passed Sutton. Their eyes met. Sophia could have sworn that his had a question. If so, the duchess didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs after her husband. Most of the room watched the earl’s party crossing to Lord and Lady Finch, but Sophia continued to watch the duchess, and may have been the only person who saw her stop at the top of the stairs, to look after the earl.

***

“It went well,” Georgie proclaimed, once Drew and the girls had retired and only the older members of the household remained to consider the evening. “Haverford was a horse’s rear end, but that was to be expected.”

Yousef, the head of Sutton’s household staff, had been leaning against the back of his wife’s chair, but he came alert like the old campaigner he was. “What happened?” They had all agreed only the family would attend the ball, the first social outing from the house of Winshire since Sutton and his children arrived in England. Sutton’s closest friend and advisor had clearly been fretting the entire evening.

Sutton answered before his sister or one of the other ladies could. “Nothing much, Yousef. He left when we arrived, after announcing that the Haverfords and Winshires were at odds.” He took a sip of his drink. “I agree the evening was a success, Georgie.”

“Our girls made an impression,” Grace commented. Her smug smile at Lettie hinted at the hours the two women had spent concocting the scene that began the evening: the four Winderfield cousins at the top of the stairs, each beautifully coiffed and dressed in vibrant colours that contrasted and complimented each other.

“Keeping young Jamie in reserve was a good idea, Patience.” Georgie raised her glass to Yousef’s wife, who made a return salute with her teacup. “It worked just as you suggested,” Georgie continued. “They are intrigued. If I had one person ask me if the heir was as good looking as Drew, I had twenty. And I told the biggest gossips in the ton how glad I was that you were so wealthy!” She grinned at her brother. “When Jamie arrives back from the errand you sent him on, make sure he knows not to be alone with any marriageable female, anywhere, at any time.”

The others continued to dissect the evening, prompted by questions from Yousef and Patience. Haverford’s claim that Sutton was an imposter could be ignored, they all agreed. If recognition by his father and sister was not enough, at least a dozen people at the ball last night had known him as a young man. Sutton did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting back to the encounter with Haverford and the glimpse he’d had of Haverford’s duchess.

The old man, he’d called him when he was twenty-four and a fool. “You can’t marry her to that old man,” he’d screamed at Eleanor’s father when his own suit had been rejected because she was already promised. Haverford was thirteen years his senior, and that seemed old to him then, especially compared to Eleanor’s seventeen. The man would be in his seventies now—an old man in truth, gnarled and bent as an old tree, the once handsome face withered and twisted into a peevish mask.

Eleanor, though… Sutton would have known Eleanor anywhere, as soon as her lovely eyes met his. Through a long and happy marriage to the mother of his children, the bittersweet memory of the young Eleanor had lingered in a corner of Sutton’s heart, and seeing her had brought all those memories flooding back.

She was older, of course, though if he’d not known she was approaching her fifty-second birthday he’d have guessed her no more than forty. Time had delivered on the promise of great beauty and grace.

From what his sister-in-law said of her—they were dear friends, it seemed—time had also honed the strength under the softness that made her submit to her father rather than run away with Sutton. His Eleanor had become the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame known for her works of charity, her kindness to those who fell afoul of Society’s censure through no fault of their own, and her generosity to her husband’s poor relations and a whole tribe of godchildren.

Such a pity that the feud with Haverford would mean they could not meet. He would have liked to know the woman his Eleanor had become.