Monday for Tea

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Tea with Mr Clemens

 

Sam Clemens, editor and proprietor of The Teatime Tattler, juggled the delicate porcelain cup and the matching plate, wondering how he was meant to drink the one and eat the dainty iced confection that adorned the other.

The aristocracy learned such tricks in the nursery, but Sam had never claimed nor wished to be one of them. His own more humble folk were good enough for him, though one could not deny the ton made good copy, providing an unending stream of scandal to delight his readers.

No doubt Her Grace thought to impress him into agreeing to suppress one story or another — perhaps one about her outrageous son? The Merry Marquis entertained the whole of London with his antics, and Sam had no intention of agreeing to ignore a useful piece of copy just because the Duchess of Haverford favoured him with an invitation to tea. He responded to a polite enquiry about the health of his brother’s family. The younger Clemens sibling had emigrated to the Americas, and was raising his hopeful family there. Sam often thought of visiting them, especially his namesake, young Samuel, but his commitment to his paper did not leave time for a long sea journey.

He couldn’t fault the lady’s graciousness. She noticed his dilemma with the cup and plate, gave a twitch of her eyebrows and a nod to a hovering footman, and moments later a small table materialised at Sam’s elbow. The duchess, meanwhile, continued to show a great interest in the exploits of young Sam, as reported in his mother’s letters. Sam took a grateful sip of his tea.

At last, Her Grace came to the point. “Mr Clemens, I am sure you wonder why I invited you here today.”

He appreciated her forthrightness. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I did.”

“I have been approached by a number of people who wish me to use my influence to stop you publishing articles and letters about the forthcoming book from the Bluestocking Belles,” she explained.

“For, Your Grace,” he asked, “or against?”

“Both,” the duchess replied. “Some support the detractors, some the authors. A pretty conundrum, is it not?”

Sam took a deep breath, ready to make his position clear. Surrounded by the evidence of heritage and wealth, faced by the great lady herself, one step down from royal and every inch a noble, he found it harder than he expected to voice the rejection he planned. Before he could speak, she continued.

“Let me put your mind to rest, Mr. Clemens. I have no intention of interfering either way, except perhaps to pen a letter myself. Publish as you will. I will watch with interest to see whether the salacious rumours prove to be true.”

Watch The Teatime Tattler over the next eight weeks as the debate unfolds. The first shots have already been fired, and we expect more, starting 3 September.

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Tea with Mahzad

 

The garden was beautiful. It was a long rectangle, walled on three sides and on the fourth bounded by steps up to a house. Or perhaps a castle, though unlike any castle Eleanor had ever seen. A fort of some kind, its arches and domes giving it an exotic air entirely in keeping with the garden.

A pool divided the garden in half; no, in quarters, for it had two straight branches stretching almost to the walls from the centre point of the walled enclosure. Eleanor had woken to find herself in one quadrant of the garden, surrounded by flowers in a myriad of colours, some familiar and some unknown. Not woken. She could not possibly be awake. Nowhere in England had the mountains she could see over the walls, and nor was this an English garden.

She must have spoken the last thought, because a voice behind her said, “Not English, no. Persian, originally, though I am told they are found from Morocco to Benghal. It is a chahar bāgh; a Paradise garden.”

Eleanor turned. Behind her, a lady as exotic as her garden stood on the steps of a pavilion, raised to give a sheltered place from which to enjoy a view over the garden. “I am asleep and dreaming, I think,” the lady said, “for it is afternoon by the sun, and at such a time my garden is full of my children and my ladies.” She waved to indicate the deserted space, her lips gently curved and her face alight. “We should enjoy the peace while it lasts. Will you join me for coffee, or perhaps tea?”

Eleanor nodded and mounted the stairs to join her, following her into a space as alien as the garden, the stone-paved floor almost invisible under brightly coloured rugs and cushions. “Is it your dream or mine? For when I went to sleep, I was in Haverford House, in London. And this is not England.”

The lady raised both brows, and then let them drop, her face suddenly bland. “You are, perhaps, the Duchess of Haverford?”

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. Yes, I am Eleanor Haverford.”

If Eleanor had any doubts that this was a dream they were dispelled in the next instant, when a small table appeared from thin air, laden with a tea pot, a long full-bellied coffee pot, two cups, and plates of small delicacies.

The lady gave a brief huff of amusement. “The dream reminds me of my manners. Please be seated, duchess. Your Grace, is it not? I am Mahzad.”

Now it was Eleanor’s turn to wipe all expression from her face as she inclined her head. “Your majesty. Is that the correct form of address? Cecily McInnes spoke of you when she returned to England.”

“Please call me Mahzad. After all, we have a lot in common, you and I. Tea? Or coffee?”

“Coffee, and please call me Eleanor. Cecily said he was well, and very much in love with his wife.” And Eleanor was happy for the man she had once loved with a maiden’s ardent passion. Of course she was.

Mahzad smiled and placed a protective hand over her belly, where a slight rounding indicated yet another child on the way to join the already large family. “You have a generous heart, Eleanor. You have not been as fortunate as James and I, I think.”

Eleanor waved away the sympathy. “I have my children and my work. I am content. But tell me about your family. Who knows how long the dream might last, and I wish to know all about them.”

In her youth, Eleanor loved James Winderfield, who was exiled for his temerity in aspiring to her hand. This year, the Bluestocking Belle’s box set includes Paradise Regained, a story from me about James and his Persian wife, Mahzad. For more about the box set, keep an eye on the Belles’ website. We’ll be putting the details of the book up on the Joint Projects part of the site as soon as we reveal the name and cover. Or come to our cover release party, on Facebook on the 8th September 2pm to 9pm Eastern Daylight Time. And I’ll put Paradise Regained up on my book page once the cover is released and we have the buy links.

Oh, and for those who remember The Bluestocking and the Barbarian from nearly two years ago, Mahzad is the mother of the hero of that novella, which is soon to be rewritten as a novel. (It is still available as part of Holly and Hopeful Hearts, the Bluestocking Belles 2016 collection.

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Tea with granddaughter’s mother

 

Her Grace has a mission, as explained in the following passage. I’ve changed a couple of names to keep the secret of who has Aldridge’s baby, which is revealed part way through the novel where this excerpt appears.

The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Maud was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.

Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.

Maud took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and George said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.

It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.

“Miss Kenyon? Her Grace will see you now.”

Maud gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.

The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Maud curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?

“Miss Kenyon takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?

“Miss Kenyon, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Kenyon has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”

Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.

“I was not expecting you, Miss Kenyon, was I? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”

“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.

“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”

The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Maud’s face carefully.

When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Kenyon. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”

Maud shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”

As Miss Grant left the room, Maud was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.

“You knew about my daughter. You have known all along.” Maud shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”

Maud did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Kenyon? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”

She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”

Maud knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”

Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”

“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”

“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Kenyon. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”

Maud felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take my daughter. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did George and Tolliver.”

The duchess leaned forward to pat Maud’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”

She had kept Maud’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Kenyon, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”

She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Maud found herself telling the duchess about the attack .

A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Maud to the door, and folded her in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Maud had seen the glistening eyes.

Maud curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to my daughter’s advantage.”

David was the first by-blow saved by the Duchess of Haverford. The story of his journey to his new sponsor, with a brief introduction to Her Grace’s confederate, is told here.

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Tea with a stern moralist hiding a shady past

Today’s guest had presumed on old acquaintance to ask for an interview. The Duchess of Haverford was surprised and intrigued. They had barely known one another when Her Grace was a girl, just out in Society. Marabella Clouston had been the cousin and companion of one of her friends, but was already garnering the reputation that soon saw her exiled. Or, rather, run off to the Continent with one of her lovers.

Since her reappearance in England six years ago as the stalwart moralist Mrs Whitehead, she and the duchess had not met. Mrs Whitehead, a teacher of manners to the offspring of newly rich merchants, did not mix in the same circles as the Duchess of Haverford.

So what did she want today? Perhaps she had heard that Her Grace, who believed in second chances, had squelched the resurrections of the old rumours. Mrs Whitehead should be allowed to earn an honest living without being contaminated by decades’ old stories of a foolish youth.

The lady was announced. Time had not been kind to Marabella, who looked old enough to be the duchess’s mother if not older. The black garments, relieved here and there by touches of white, gave the impression of deep mourning, though if Mr Whitehead had died, if there ever was a Mr Whitehead, it had surely been at least six years ago.

Mrs Whitehead curtseyed, a low reverence belied by the sneer she did not quite hide as she looked around Eleanor’s comfortable sitting room.

“Please be seated, Mrs Whitehead. May I offer you tea?”

They spoke about Mrs Whitehead’s preferences for her beverage while the lady took the indicated seat and settled her skirts around her. The duchess moved the conversation smoothly on to the weather, and the activities currently curtailed by the persistent rain. Mrs Whitehead complained about the inconvenience of her dwelling, too far from Hyde Park to walk without risk of being splattered along the way by coaches, carriages and carts “driven far too fast for the conditions, and without considering those who are obliged to walk.”

Eleanor passed Mrs Whitehead a cup of tea (strong with a slice of lemon) and began to make another for her companion, who sat quietly in the background. “Indeed,” she replied, vaguely.

Mrs Whitehead made an abrupt turn in the conversation. “You will be wondering why I asked to see you, Your Grace. After all, it has been a long time since we were girls together.”

Hardly that. Marabella must have been in her late twenties when Eleanor was seventeen. Eleanor inclined her head. “I assumed you had reason, Mrs Whitehead.”

Mrs Whitehead put her cup and saucer down and leant forward, her eyes glittering. “Nothing less important than the moral wellbeing of Society, Your Grace, which is under such threat you cannot imagine.”

Her Grace was far too well trained to cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and her straight back allowed for no more stiffening in preparation for yet another diatribe from someone who wanted her to rein in her husband, or her sons, or the current fashion for low necklines, or some other outrage. What Mrs Whitehead said next, she did not expect.

“I understand you to be in some sort a sponsor of a group of dreadful women. Authors, they call themselves, as if any lady would publish a work of literature. Not that it can be called literature. Gossip and scandal, I call it. They say it is fiction. Hah! We all know they must be drawing from life, and what lives they must have led! Why, they write about… But I get ahead of my theme.”

She drew a breath before continuing her diatribe, and the duchess took the opportunity to say, “I take it you speak of the Bluestocking Belles?”

“I do. You cannot possibly be pleased with the book they published about your house party, and the way they portrayed your sons. And the next book strongly promoted the idea of second chances in love, love itself being a pernicious doctrine that undermines the very fabric of society. But this next one! Your Grace, I have come to know it goes even further beyond good taste and morality. Even the cover! Your Grace, you must help me to prevent the publication of the cover!”

Eleanor was born and raised to be a lady of high estate, and had been a duchess for more than thirty years. She froze the silly woman with a raised eyebrow and a pointed look.

“You are much mistaken, Mrs Whitehead, if you think I will join you in such an enterprise. I am sure the Belles will produce another volume of stories that celebrate the healing power of love, and I look forward to reading it. Please allow me to express my deepest regrets that you have not known such love in your own life, for if you had, you would not be so disdainful of the concept.”

Mrs Whitehead surged to her feet. “Then I will take no more of your time. You were a silly fribbet as a girl, even if you did manage to trap a duke, and you are clearly an even sillier woman now you are old. Good day, Your Grace.”

Eleanor watched the woman leave, then turned to her companion. “Fenella, we have an invitation to the Bluestocking Belle’s cover release party, do we not? Send an acceptance, please, and be sure to order the new book as soon as orders are being accepted.

Watch The Teatime Tattler for more about Mrs Whitehead’s campaign closer to the date of the cover reveal party.

And come to the party! It’s on Facebook in September. Check out the details.

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Tea with Sophia and others

An excerpt post from The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. Her Grace is having a celebratory lunch with guests when she is interrupted by a new arrival. I’m in the early stages of considering the extra scenes and plot threads to turn this novella into a novel.

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After dinner, Sophia joined several of the other women in Esther’s room, to help her decide what to wear the following day when she and her Mr. Halévy gave their formal consent to marry.

“Your betrothal,” Felicity said, prompting a whole discussion about how a consent to marry differed from a betrothal, and the differences and similarities between betrothals and weddings in the Church of England, and those in Jewish tradition. Sophia found herself wondering how the Assyrian Christians managed such things.

The consent to marry ceremony the following morning was held in the gold drawing room, with everyone in attendance.

The duchess had offered her own lap desk and quill for the signing and watched all with a benign smile.

Sophia envied Esther and her Adam, who lit the room with their smiles, eyes only for one another, and wished devoutly that she had gone with James.

Before they could sit down to the celebratory lunch that the duchess had ordered and Cedrica had organized, another commotion in the hall disturbed the assembly.

“See who is making such a fuss, Jonathan, please,” the duchess said. “Poor Saunders sounds out of his depth.”

A moment later, the shouting in the hall rose still louder, and Gren was shouting back, though both the visitor and Gren were speaking a language Sophia did not understand. Lord Aldridge hurried out without waiting for his mother’s signal, and his own voice sounded sharply. Silence fell. The guests exchanged glances, and the duchess hurried to fill the void.

“There. Aldridge is handling the matter, whatever it is. Now, Miss Baumann, explain to me what you and the chef have managed to produce for us.”

Esther began awkwardly and then with increasing enthusiasm to describe the dishes on offer, and one by one, the guests began to serve themselves. Sophia, though, caught the duchess sneaking glances towards the door until eventually Aldridge reentered the room and hurried to his mother’s side.

The duchess excused herself and left, to return after a few moments. “A messenger has come to fetch my son Jonathan. If you will excuse me, my friends, I will go and help him prepare for his trip. Please. Continue the celebrations. I will join you again as soon as I can.”

Sophia followed her into the hall in time to hear Aldridge say, “If you must go, use my yacht. It stands off Margate, but we can be there in two days, and she is faster than anything you’ll pick up in London. You will not have to wait for the Thames tide, either.”

“What you propose is not safe, my darling boy. The Grand Army is in your way. You could be shot as a spy,” the duchess said. “Why, this friend of yours cannot even give you assurance that the grand duchess will not behead you on sight. It is possible that…”

“Mama, all things are possible.” Gren was lit from within, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if his joy were too big to contain. “All things but one. I have tried living without the woman I love, Mama, and that, that is impossible. Anything else, I can do. Wait and see.”

“I have sent a message to the stables,” Aldridge said, “and another to my valet telling him to pack for us both. Mama, we shall rest overnight in London then leave at first light for Margate. If you have any messages, write them now.”

“Take me.” Sophia did not know she was going to speak until the words were from her mouth.

“Lady Sophia?” Lord Aldridge was frowning.

“You are right,” Sophia told Gren. “Only one thing is impossible, and that is living without the man I love. I should have said yes. I will say yes. Take me to London, Gren, and to James.”

Gren looked at his brother and then back at Sophia. “We shall be travelling fast,” he warned.

“All the better.”

“What shall Hythe say?” the duchess asked.

“I hope he shall wish me well, but I am going, Aunt Eleanor. If Lord Aldridge will not take me, then I shall catch a mail coach.” The decision made, she would not let anything stand in her way.

Lord Aldridge spread his hands in surrender. “Say your farewells, then, Lady Sophia. We leave in thirty minutes.”

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Tea with Charles

 

How in God’s name does this woman know everything?

Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane glanced down at the missive in his hand, a rather personal one coming from a duchess, and shook his head.

Charles

Do come to tea before you leave for China.  Shall we say Tuesday next?

Eleanor Winshire

He knew the answer to his own question. The duchess spoke to Uncle Richard, of course.  The Duke of Sudbury wouldn’t have confided such a secret in many people, but he would be frank with the Duchess of Haverford who could be trusted with both the political and the personal aspects of Charles’s mission.  Which part does she wish to pummel me about? Charles wondered.

He suspected the personal. The last time she summoned him to tea, she urged him to divorce his wife.  “This time I may listen to her,” he mumbled to the empty carriage. But no. He had no more desire to drag his wretched marriage through the mud than he did three years ago. He liked Eleanor, he truly did, but his life was his own.

The duchess surprised him. After tea had been poured, he accepted her condolences on the death of his son. She wisely chose not to linger over them, and they quickly moved on to the sort of exchange demanded by good manners. Yes, Uncle Will has recovered from the bronchitis he contracted at the funeral. Yes, Fred and Clare were thriving at Songbird Cottage, but he’d had no world from Rand recently. Charles suspected his cousin was too busy building his timber empire. The duchess, in her turn, referred lightly to the doings of her vast tribe of grandchildren: the children of her sons and foster-daughters, and the step-grandchildren from her second marriage. “They are all growing up, Charles. Even Haverford’s daughter is about to make her debut, and my son made a late start, as you know.”

Charles reached over to pick up a second lemon cake, always his favorite, when she struck.

“You will of course want to get into Canton itself.”

He sat upright, and blinked at her.

“There is no point in you going all the way to Macao just to listen to Charles Eliot’s views on the matter, much less those of Jarrett and those wretched smugglers unleashing drugs on those people.”

He put the remains of the cake down and cleared his throat. “You are correct. I had planned to haunt the docks of both cities and Madras as well.”

“And shed your title and position to do it.”

“How else can I entice people into speaking plainly?” He grinned at her, enjoying himself now. “Besides, I may as well enjoy a bit of freedom while I can.”

“Quite so,” Eleanor replied. “It is a pity you don’t speak Cantonese. You will need a translator.”

That problem had bothered him, but he assumed it could be solved. “There are people—“

“Not many. Lily would be perfect, but of course she has much too much dignity at her age to go racketing about with you.”

He choked on his tea. Lilias Hayden, the Duchess of Sudbury, might be a gifted linguist, but she wielded her skills over diplomatic dinners, not on the docks. “I should say not,” he croaked.

“I wonder if her daughter has inherited her skills?” Eleanor murmured innocently. Too innocently. Sudbury had obviously told her that his hoydenish daughter had absconded to China after refusing to accept the attentions of no fewer than six suitors during the previous Season.

“I wouldn’t have any idea,” Charles answered carefully.

“You might ask her when you see her,” Eleanor replied over her teacup. She put it down and turned the subject to tea and the opium that supported its import into London. Her extensive understanding of the laws, the economics, and the ethics didn’t surprise him.

“Be cautious what you report to Victoria, however. She may think she wants to know the truth, but she won’t upset any apple carts, and she certainly won’t cross Melbourne. Still, it can’t hurt to have the sovereign well informed. I applaud the mission.”

He rose to leave sometime later and bowed over her hand. He was half way to the door when she spoke again.

“Don’t forget what I said about Lily’s daughter. She might be just the thing you need.”

He turned and gave her a slight bow.

“And Charles, do something about your marriage. Enough is enough.”

 

About the Book: The Unexpected Wife

Children of Empire Book 3

Crushed with grief after the death of his son, Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane, throws himself into the new Queen’s service in 1838. When the government sends him on an unofficial fact finding mission to the East India Company’s enclave in Canton, China, he anticipates intrigue, international tensions, and an outlet for his frustration. He isn’t entirely surprised when he also encounters a pair of troublesome young people that need his help. However, the appearance of his estranged wife throws the entire enterprise into conflict. He didn’t expect to face his troubled marriage in such an exotic locale, much less to encounter profound love at last in the person of a determined young woman. Tensions boil over, and his wife’s scheming—and the beginnings of the First Opium War—force him to act to rescue the one he loves and perhaps save himself in the process.

Zambak Hayden seethes with frustration. A woman her age has occupied the throne for over a year, yet the Duke of Sudbury’s line of succession still passes over her—his eldest—to land on a son with neither spine nor character. She follows her brother, the East India Company’s newest and least competent clerk, to protect him and to safeguard the family honor. If she also escapes the gossip and intrigues of London and the marriage mart, so much the better. She has no intention of being forced into some sort of dynastic marriage. She may just refuse to marry at all. When an old family friend arrives she assumes her father sent him. She isn’t about to bend to his dictates nor give up her quest. Her traitorous heart, however, can’t stop yearning for a man she can’t have.

Neither expects the epic historical drama that unfolds around them.

The Unexpected Wife, will be released on July 25 and can be preordered from Amazon internationally as well as here:

https://www.amazon.com/Unexpected-Wife-Children-Empire-Book-ebook/dp/B07FGGC918/

Here’s a short video about it:

https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7/videos/924791187669849/

About the Author

Traveler, would-be adventurer, former tech writer and library technology professional, Caroline Warfield has now retired to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, and divides her time between writing and seeking adventures with her grandbuddy. In her newest series, Children of Empire, three cousins torn apart by lies find their way home from the far corners of the British Empire, finding love along the way.

She has works published by Soul Mate Publishing and also independently published works. In addition she has participated in five group anthologies, one not yet published.

For more about the series and all of Caroline’s books, look here:

https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

 

 

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Tea with Mia and Kitty

The two girls were discussing their suitors. Catherine Stocke had a sharp wit and a wicked gift for describing each man’s least charming characteristics. At least her suitors intended marriage. Euronyme Redepenning, as a married woman with a husband on the other side of the world, attracted less permanent offers, which she had no hesitation in refusing. Her stories of the rakes’ reactions had the girls in giggles.

The duchess should probably squash the conversation, which had become a rather racy for two maidens, for Mia was still untouched despite the wedding that took place in this very castle over two years ago. She would not, though. Both young ladies had experienced rather more of life than the sternest arbiters would consider desirable, and being able to laugh about the stupidities of men was a healthy reaction, Eleanor thought.

The mystery surrounding Kitty whereabouts these last seven years, and her sister’s recent marriage to Eleanor’s nephew the Earl of Chirbury, had made her a sensation since the day she walked into a London ballroom earlier in the year. Her own beauty and charm won her an immediate following. Her disinterest in any of her court had the paradoxical effect of increasing it event by event, despite her tactic of insisting that she would not dance more than once with anyone, and that the men surrounding her must take themselves off and dance with other ladies.

Mia’s tale was old news by this time. In the weeks surrounding her fifteenth birthday, she had been trapped by smugglers, forced to marry by the damage to her reputation, and abandoned by her husband on their wedding day (for his duty to the Far East fleet, said some; for his mistress in India, said others). Eleanor, who was rather fond of young Jules, thought the assessment harsh. Faced with conflicted duties, the boy had done his best. He had married an orphaned schoolgirl twelve years his junior in order to save her reputation and give her a home with his family. Then he’d returned to the east in obedience to his orders. Her in-laws had taken the bride into their hearts and been stalwart defenders these past two years.

Both girls had accepted her invitation to spend several weeks at Haverford Castle so they could spend more time together, away from the men who pestered them, and Eleanor was enjoying their company. No. She would not interrupt them. Let them have their fun. “More tea?” she asked.

Kitty and Mia are introduced in Farewell to Kindness the first book in The Golden Redepennings series.  In the Epilogue to that book, we are told that the two friends are staying with the Duchess of Haverford, so the scene above belongs to that visit.

My next newsletter subscriber story, going out this week, is of Mia’s encounter with the smugglers and her wedding. The novel I’m working on at the moment, Unkept Promises, tells what happens seven years later when she heads to the Cape Colony at the foot of Africa to retrieve her husband’s daughters by his mistress.

Kitty will have her own story told in the fifth book of the series.

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Tea with Lion

The Earl of Ruthford waited while his godmother exchanged a hug and a kiss with his lovely countess, and then saluted Her Grace with his own kiss.

“It is always lovely to see you, Godmama,” he said, his blue eyes alight with humour.

Dorothy, who had not yet regained her full strength since the birth of Lion’s heir, sank into the chair the duchess indicated and immediately betrayed her hovering spouse. “Lion has been speculating about your intentions ever since your invitation arrived, Your Grace.”

The duchess laughed. “Dorothy, my dear, please call me Aunt Eleanor, as your husband does when he is not determined to be provocative. And Lion, must I have an ulterior motive for inviting you?”

“Must is a strong word, Aunt Eleanor,” Lion agreed. “Let us just say that I have reason to believe you may be taking an interest in a friend of mine. Bear, is it not?”

The duchess showed her surprise by the merest twitch of her eyebrows, then smiled. “Well done, Lion. Let me pour your wife a cup of tea, and you shall tell me all about Bear Gavenor, his spontaneous marriage, and his unlikely bride.”

Lion is a secondary character in House of Thorns, currently with the editors at Scarsdale Press and with a tentative publication month of September.

Here’s a short excerpt, in which my hero, Bear, tries to explain his marriage to Lion, his former colonel.

He turned from the tray to find his former officer sitting straight behind his desk, his hands folded together on his blotter, his eyes steady on Bear’s face, a small smile playing around his mouth. “Confession time, my son. Tell Father Lion everything. Whom have you married, when, and why?”

Bear said nothing while he brought his coffee over to the desk and seated himself on one of the robust pieces of furniture that Lion’s wife had bought for her husband’s sanctuary. “For you are mostly giants,” she had informed his friends, “and I want you all to be comfortable.”

Lion raised an eyebrow at Bear’s continued silence. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just… complicated.” Where to begin?

“Not one of the London debutantes you were so scathing about this past Season, poor little girls.”

“Poor little feather-wits and rapacious harpies.”

“So you said in April, to my wife’s despair, for she had introduced you to the nicest girls she knew.”

“Not her fault. I was too old for them, Lion, as you said at the time.”

“And too nice for a widow. Have you married a widow?”

“I wasn’t against marrying a widow. Just not one who was having such a good time kicking up her heels in London that I feared spending my remaining days waiting for her to bump me off so she could do it again, with my money.”

“Avoiding the question, Bear? How bad is it? Sorry. How complicated.”

“She’s not too young. Not too old, either. Thirty-six.”

Lion said nothing, but his eyebrows lifted in the questions he was not speaking.

How to explain Rosa. Bear was barely conscious of the helpless wave of his hand as he considered and rejected several sentences. “She suits me, Lion.”

“A pertinent fact, but not a history. I can see an interrogation is required. What is the name of this not-old lady, and where did you meet?”

“Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story was easy to tell, and Lion had always been an excellent listener.

“Then a few days after the wedding I got your message and came to London. So I hope you’re in a hurry to get back to Lady Ruthford, for I do not mean to linger here one day more than I need to.”

“I beg your pardon? A few days after the wedding? You married this paragon then abandoned her a few days after the wedding? Why on earth didn’t you write back and tell me to go soak my head?”

Bear’s guilty wince didn’t go unnoticed, because Lion’s eyes sharpened.

“You and the lady have had a falling out.”

“Not precisely. Rosa doesn’t… That is to say, I thought some distance might help, but Rosa is not one to nurse a grudge. She writes charming letters, and I write back. When I get home, we will put it behind us.”

“If you will take advice from a man who has been married four years longer than you, Bear, when you get back to Mrs. Gavenor, discuss whatever it was and clear up any misunderstandings. She is very likely blaming herself for whatever came between you. Women do.”

“Surely not! It was my fault entirely. At least… Lion, I thought virgins bled.” Lord. I did not say that out loud, did I?

Lion didn’t turn a hair, but just took a sip of his coffee. “Not that my experience is vast, but I don’t believe it to be an inevitable rule, no. It depends on the age of the woman, on what kinds of physical activities she has done — my own wife rode astride as a girl and… Well. Let’s leave it at that. And the man’s patience is important.”

Bear groaned. “I should probably be hanged.”

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Tea with the bride and groom

(An excerpt post from about half way through my novel A Baron for Becky, the story of a courtesan and her escape from the life into which she had been forced when little more than a child. (Blurb and buy links if you click on the book name.)

Hugh had been in the heir’s wing many times, and at Haverford, the family seat, when he was a boy. He had never entered Haverford House by the main door. Designed to impress, the approach sat back from the road, admittance through a gatekeeper.

They were paraded through the paved courtyard by another liveried servant to the stairs between pillars that stretched three stories to the pediment above.

Inside, the ducal glory continued; a marbled entrance chamber the height of the house that would make a ballroom in any lesser mansion, with majestic flights of stairs rising on either side and curving to meet, only to split again in a symphony of wood and stone. Grenford ancestors were everywhere, twice as large as life, painted on canvas and moulded from stone, cold eyes examining petitioners and finding them all unworthy.

Aldridge met them in the entrance chamber, and led them up the first flight of stairs and down a sumptuously carpeted hall that was elegantly papered above richly carved panels. Four men could have walked arm-in-arm down the middle, never touching the furniture and art lining both walls,between highly-polished doors.

Busts on marble pedestals alternated with delicate gilded tables and seats upholstered in the Haverford green, scarlet and gold, many embroidered with the unicorn and phoenix from the Haverford coat of arms. The art in gilded frames that hung both walls showed more Grenford ancestors, interspersed with favourite animals, scenes from the Bible, and retellings of Greek legends. The ornately painted ceiling boasted flowers, leaves, and decorative swirls, the many colours highlighted in gilding.

Here and there, an open door gave them a view into one large chamber after another, each room richer than the last. At intervals, curtained arches led to more halls, more stairs.

Hugh was openly gawping, and Becky drew closer to him, as if for protection.

“A bit over the top, don’t you think?” he whispered to her, and was rewarded with a quick, nervous, smile.

The duchess received them in a sitting room that, if rich and elegant, was at least more human in scale.

She offered a cheek to Aldridge for a kiss, and a hand to Hugh. Becky held back.

“Come, my dear,” she coaxed. “Mrs Winstanley, is it not? Soon to be Baroness Overton. You shall kiss me, my dear, and I shall be godmother to your child, since I cannot claim the closer title.”

Hugh relaxed, then. Her Grace would champion them for her grandchild’s sake. He took the offered chair, and Aldridge leant against the mantelpiece. The duchess ignored them both to focus on Becky.

She insisted on Becky sitting beside her. “Are you keeping well, my dear? Are you eating?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Becky’s voice was so quiet Hugh had to lean forward to hear.

“You must eat several times a day, dear. More as the baby takes up more room…” she trailed off as Becky blushed scarlet. “And when do you expect the little one to arrive?”

“At Yuletide, Ma’am. Or perhaps early January.”

“What of sleep, Mrs Winstanley? Are you able to rest in the afternoons?” She turned to Hugh. “ An afternoon rest is most efficacious for women who are increasing, Lord Overton. I will expect you to keep her in bed in the afternoon.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hugh replied, blushing in his turn.

The Duchess silenced her sniggering son with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose you have a plan, Aldridge, for convincing the ton that Mrs Winstanley and Lady Overton are two different people?” Aldridge explained about the woman from Astley’s.

“Will she keep her silence if the gossip rags guess she had a part in it? They pay, I am told. And is she willing to continue playing the part?”

“We intend a tragic accident, Mama. The horse will bolt, The Rose of Frampton will fall, and the Marquis of Aldridge will attend her funeral and wear a black armband for a full year.”

Aldridge’s mother pursed her lips. “Six months for a mistress, I think, my love. One would not wish to be thought excessive. And promise the girl a yearly payment if she is silent.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Hugh ventured, “but might that not encourage her to seek an increase?”

“Blackmail, you mean?” Her Grace raised an elegant eyebrow. “Aldridge, you will make it clear that any attempt to seek an increase will be met with… considerable ducal displeasure. My godchild’ s mother is not to be inconvenienced or embarrassed.”

She patted Becky’s hand. “Now, my dear, what do you have to wear for your wedding? And may I ask… would you allow me to stand witness, Mrs Winstanley? I would be so delighted.”

After that, things moved with blinding speed, although not as fast as the Duchess first suggested. Becky demurred at marrying immediately, without Sarah present, so Aldridge was dispatched to collect her. Becky was swept off into the Duchess’s chambers, and Hugh was sent to the heir’s wing, where Aldridge’s valet waited to dress him for his wedding.

Two hours later, Hugh joined a cleric and a resplendent Aldridge in the Haverford House Chapel. Hugh had chosen formal court dress and had been pleased with his coat of cream silk velvet, grey breeches and a dark blue waistcoat, richly embroidered in powder blue and silver. Until he stood next to Aldridge.

Aldridge had also found time to change into formal attire. His coat and breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of embroidery on each side and on the cuffs—fitted him as if sewn to his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver clocking. His waistcoat put Hugh’s in the shade, near-painted in a riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the roses in the coat’s embroidery.

Hugh glared at the roses, suspecting that particular sartorial choice was another poke at him. He would ignore it. In a very short time, Becky would be Lady Overton, and within a week, the whole of London would know the Rose of Frampton was dead and gone.

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Tea with the duchess – will the Canadian recluse refuse?

 

This is a bit of a prequel to a confrontation over tea…

The Duchess of Winshire studied the missive in her hand carefully, although there was no doubt about the message. The bold hand of the Earl of Chadbourn scrawled a message as succinct as it was unwelcome.

He will not come.

Randolph Wheatly, the earl’s brother-in-law had stormed into town sporting spectacular purple bruises and calling down the wrath of the Almighty on certain abusive and dishonorable members of His Majesty’s forces the day before. That he sought the assistance of his sister’s husband and the rest of his family spoke volumes about his desperation.

Rand Wheatly left London six years ago announcing to all and sundry that he would never return. Shattered by what he saw as betrayal by his cousin—the man who had been his closest childhood friend—he refused all attempts at reason and sailed for Canada on the first available ship. That the woman was, in Eleanor’s opinion, not worth the pain didn’t make the pain any less.

He spent the intervening years obtaining land—heavily timbered land. Now he was back, choking on his pride, and asking for help. Yet…

He will not come.

He sought the earl’s help, accepted his sister’s support, and even allowed the Duke of Sudbury, Chadbourn’s crony, to stick his ever-managing oar in the water, but the insufferable puppy wouldn’t take the advice or assistance of the Grenfords.

The one he needs is that cousin of his, she mused. She folded the note and tapped it on the arm of her chair, lost in thought. There had been another message, that one from Catherine, Rand’s sister and the earl’s intrepid wife. Eleanor had never heard Catherine so desperate. Six years of worry and the man turns up dirty, beaten, and breathing fire—no wonder the countess was frantic. He needed to gain control before he did something spectacularly stupid. Perhaps she could help. Perhaps she could give him a push in the direction of the cousin; if the two of them would simply talk to one another it might resolve any number of problems.

First I have to get him here.

“Bring my writing desk, please. Isadore,” she said to her companion, so lost in thought she failed to smile. If the stubborn man insists on acting like a child I may have to treat him like one. She took pen and began to write.

The Duchess of Winshire summons you…

_________________

Rand accepted the duchess’s summons, of course. How could he not? You can read the results here:

https://judeknightauthor.com/2018/03/13/tea-with-rand/

About the Book, The Renegade Wife

Reclusive businessman Rand Wheatly finds his solitude disrupted by a desperate woman running with her children from an ugly past. But even his remote cabin in Upper Canada isn’t safe enough. Meggy Blair may have lied to him, but she and her children have breached the walls of his betrayed heart. Now she’s on the run again. To save them he must return to face his demons and the family he vowed to never see again.

It is available in Kindle format free with Kindle Unlimited or for purchase as ebook or in print:

Amazon.      

Barnes and Noble

BooksAMillion

The Renegade Wife is Book 1 in Caroline Warfield’s Children of Empire Series.

Three cousins, who grew up together in the English countryside, have been driven apart by deceit and lies. (You may guess a woman was involved!) Though they all escape to the outposts of The British Empire, they all make their way home to England, facing their demons and finding love and the support of women of character and backbone. They are:

  • Randolph Baldwin Wheatly who has become a recluse, and lives in isolation in frontier Canada intent on becoming a timber baron, until a desperate woman invades his peace. (The Renegade Wife)
  • Captain Frederick Arthur Wheatly, an officer in the Bengal army, who enjoys his comfortable life on the fringes until his mistress dies, and he’s forced to choose between honor and the army. (The Reluctant Wife)
  • Charles, Duke of Murnane, tied to a miserable marriage, throws himself into government work to escape bad memories. He accepts a commission from the Queen that takes him to Canton and Macau, only to face his past there. (The Unexpected Wife)

Who are their ladies?

  • Meggy Campeau, the daughter of a French trapper and Ojibwe mother who has made mistakes, but is fierce in protecting her children. (The Renegade Wife)
  • Clare Armbruster, fiercely independent woman of means, who is determined to make her own way in life, but can’t resist helping a foolish captain sort out his responsibilities. (The Reluctant Wife)
  • Zambak Hayden, eldest child of the Duke of Sudbury, knows she’d make a better heir than her feckless younger brother, but can’t help protecting the boy to the point of following him to China. She may just try to sort out the Empire’s entangled tea trade–and its ugly underpinning, opium, while she’s there. (The Unexpected Wife)

Book 3, The Unexpected Wife, will be released on July 25.

Here’s a short video about it:

https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7/videos/924791187669849/

For more about the series and all of Caroline’s books, look here:

https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

About the Author

Caroline Warfield grew up in a peripatetic army family and had a varied career (largely around libraries and technology) before retiring to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, where divides her time between writing Regency and Victorian Romance, and seeking adventures with her grandson and the prince among men she married.