Monday for Tea

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Tea with Claudia

 

The room was beyond belief. Claudia had seen pictures of parlours and drawing rooms in stately homes in England, and this surely qualified. The drapes. The furniture. The paintings on the wall. The ornaments and vases. Presumably her subconscious mind had collected various details she had never been consciously aware of and put them together in this dream.

“My mother will be with you shortly, Miss Westerson,” said the tall gorgeous man who had found her wandering in the sumptuous halls and escorted her to this room. He made her feel even more out of place than the room, all plummy vowels and elegantly tailored clothes from an era long gone. His pants hugged his legs tighter than any jeans, and his coat and waistcoat were cut away to show that they were moulded to his — his hips. Lace foamed at his wrists, and his neck was encased in a snowy cravat from the folds of which winked a sapphire that matched his eyes.

Even the maid he had been talking to was better dressed than Claudia. More appropriately, anyway, in an ankle-length frock of blue gingham with apron and cap in crisp white. Claudia’s shorts and tee-shirt were perfectly modest wear for shopping and visiting in her everyday life, but here they were just shy of the dream she used to have when she was competing, where she’d finish a perfect floor exercise and turn to the judges to find them all staring in horror because she was stark naked.

At least the man — Aldridge, he called himself, though whether that was a surname or a first name, she had no idea — at least he wasn’t staring in horror. After one long glance at her legs, more appreciative than insulting, he had looked only at her face. Still, her discomfort must have shown, for he smiled reassuringly as he said, “Do not be concerned, Miss Westerson. Her Grace has visitors from many different places and times, and the household is accustomed.”

“Her Grace?” That was a duchess, wasn’t it? Claudia wasn’t much for historical novels, but she was pretty sure that dukes and duchesses were the only English nobility referred to as graces.

“I am the Duchess of Haverford,” said the woman who entered at that moment. “And you must be Miss Claudia Westerson. I am so pleased to meet you, my dear. I trust my son has made you comfortable?”

Claudia is the heroine of Abbie’s Wish, my novella in Christmas Wishes on Main Street.

Three men. One’s a monster. Can Claudia figure out who before it’s too late?

After too many horrifying experiences, Claudia Westerson has given up on men. She’s done everything possible to exorcise the men in her life, short of changing her name and appearance. They’re unpredictable, controlling and, worst of all, dangerous. Besides, all her energies are devoted to therapy for her daughter, Abbie, who is recovering from a brain injury.

But after Abbie is photographed making a wish for Christmas, Claudia begins receiving anonymous threats, proving her quiet refuge is not nearly hidden enough.

Who can she trust? Three men hope to make her theirs:

  • Jack, the driver from her daughter’s accident
  • Ethan, her daughter’s biological father
  • Rhys, a local school teacher and widower.

They all sound sincere, but which one isn’t?

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Tea with Bear and Lion

 

Lord Ruthford’s friend had little to say for himself, letting Ruthford carry the conversation with Eleanor while he listened with every evidence of interest. Ruthford was answering Eleanor’s questions about the health of Lady Ruthford, who was soon to deliver her second child. “We must be boring Mr Gavenor,” Eleanor said, when she was satisfied with Ruthford’s responses. “What brings you to London, Mr Gavenor?”

Gavenor examined her face while he considered his answer. Eleanor could see how he got his nickname ‘Bear’. He was unquestionably a large man, both broad and tall, but he handled her delicate little china cups with elegant ease, his speech was that of an educated gentleman, and his clothing — though tailored for ease of movement — was of the highest quality.

“I have a matter of business, Your Grace,” he said at last.

“And then he must be home to his wife.” Ruthford grinned as he spoke. “Bear has recently married, duchess, and should really be back in Cheshire with his Rosa, not here in London traipsing around dusty old houses with me.”

Gavenor took the teasing in good part, his smile genuine. “And Lion should be home making sure Lady Ruthford takes a sleep in the afternoon and a gentle walk after supper,” he responded, proving that he had been listening when Eleanor instructed his friend. Lion was the name by which most of his friends knew Ruthford — most of England, now, since the team of daring soldiers Ruthford had led behind enemy lines during the war was now known far and wide as Lion’s Zoo. Lion, Bear, Centaur, Fox. They all had fanciful animal names, and Eleanor was pleased to see that at least some of them remained friends even two years after they were disbanded.

“Tell me more about your wife, Mr Gavenor,” she said. “What is her name?”

Bear and Rosa are the hero and heroine of House of Thorns, currently on pre-release and to be published this Friday.

***

Bear explains his marriage to Lion in the following excerpt.

“Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story came easily. “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.

“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 married four years longer than you, 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 took a sip of coffee. “Not that my experience is vast, but I don’t believe it to be an inevitable rule. 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.”

“I see.”

He probably did, too. The ability to pick up small clues and draw correct conclusions was one of his great assets as a commander, and he knew Bear better than anyone else in the world.

“You believed the rumors about her and you still married her?”

“No! At least, I thought they were mostly malicious lies. They started only after her father was no longer able to protect her, and the people most assiduous in pushing them all had an axe to grind.”

“This Pelman wanted to coerce her into bed and used the family feud with her respectable cousins.”

“In a nutshell. Dammit, Lion, it’s obvious to me now. She kissed like an innocent. I thought she was just shy, or nervous about being interrupted by the servants.”

“Ah well. Women are told their first time will be painful, though it is not necessarily so.” He smiled as if at a fond memory, then recalled himself and continued. “You made sure she enjoyed her second time, I assume.” He raised his brows again. “No. You rushed off to London, instead. Bear, tell me you didn’t let the poor lady know you thought she had had previous lovers.” Bear grimaced.

“You did.” Lion wagged his head from side to side. “Bear, Bear, what are we going to do with you? So, there she is miserable in Cheshire because her husband insulted then abandoned her. Here you are miserable in London because you have made a mess of things and don’t know how to put it right. Go home, Bear. Talk to your wife.”

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Tea with the Fishingham ladies

 

Mrs Fishingham could not stop exclaiming about the beauty of Haverford House, her own good fortune, and the duchess’s condescension in inviting her and her daughters for tea. The daughters giggled nervously every time the duchess addressed a comment to them, and spent the rest of the time gazing about them.

Her Grace had met the eldest child, Charis, and found her delightful. A pity she was married, and not included in the invitation. The duchess’s good manners and her sense of her position required her to treat them better than they deserved, for silliness and vulgarity were not crimes. If Her Grace snubbed them or even cut this afternoon tea short, word would percolate out through the walls in the mysterious way gossip had, with none of the servants in the least to blame for spreading it. They were not to the duchess’s taste, but nor did they deserve to become social outcasts.

The girls were probably not nearly as foolish as they appeared. The mother certainly was, and it was a wonder that she had managed to raise Charis as a kind, courteous, gracious, and intelligent woman.

Fortunately, the regulation half hour was nearly at an end. Her smile became more genuine as she waited for the torment to be over.

The Fishingham ladies appear in the story I am writing for the Belles 2019 Valentine box set. More news to come in the next three months. In the excerpt below, they are travelling home after an assembly.

As always, Mama used the trip home to compliment or castigate each of her daughters for their performance. Matilda had danced twice with the same man; one, furthermore without a fortune to commend him. On the other hand, she did not miss a single turn on the floor, and went into supper with a marquis, so could be forgiven much. Eugenie had missed several dances, giggling in a corner with the Lacey sisters. “It will not answer,” Mama pronounced, “for their brother is too young, and is heir to a dukedom, besides. You are pretty, Eugenie, and of good birth, but a duke is above your touch.”

However, though her supper escort was not titled, he had the redeeming feature of an enormous fortune, so Eugenie, too, was forgiven.

Charis’s turn began with the usual complaint about hiding in corners, but Mama’s scold was perfunctory. “For the second part of the night, you did very well, my dear,” she said. “I knew you could if you only tried. You are the most aggravating… But there. I was so pleased to see you dancing with Lord Chadbourn; amusing him, too, for everyone could see the pair of you chatting away as if you were old friends. Whatever could he have been saying that entertained the pair of you so well?”

“He was explaining the new method of crop rotation, Mama,” Charis said.

Mama’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “Truly? How peculiar.” She frowned but then her face cleared and she shook her head as if to clear it. “No matter. He looked to be enjoying himself, so of course other young men wanted to follow his example. You did not miss a dance from the one with Chadbourn until Lady Wayford engaged you in conversation.

“Interrogation,” Matilda muttered to Eugenie, but not quietly enough for Mama to miss the remark.

“ You will refer to Lady Wayford with respect, young lady. Her interest in Charis was most gratifying. Word is that she seeks a husband for her disreputable son — imagine if she were to choose Charis!”

“Mama!” Charis protested. “Why would I want a disreputable man for a husband?”

“His shocking reputation is the reason for our opportunity, Charis,” Mama explained. “We are not wealthy and normally I would not look as high for one of you, but those considering the Wayford title and lands must consider the reputation of this earl and his predecessors. Both his older brother and his father were wild, and if you were to be fortunate enough to marry the earl, you could not expect him to be attentive or faithful.”

“He is scarred, too, Mama,” Eugenie said. “Lady Eleanor and Lady Alice met him in London, and they say he looks very fearsome. He is haughty, too, they say. Almost as haughty as Lady Wayford.”

“Go on,” Mama encouraged. “I normally abhor gossip, as you all know.” She sighed, heavily. “But I will make an exception for the sake of my dear girls.”

Charis exchanged glances with her sisters. Far from abhorring gossip, Mama was addicted to it, and had a biweekly subscription to the Teatime Tattler, despite the cost of having it delivered from London.

Eugenie frowned as she reported, “He frowned the whole time, and they tell me that he acquired the scars duelling. Are you sure, Mama?”

Mama gave a dismissive wave. “A title, Charis, and more pin money than you can dream of. I daresay he will leave you to live with his mother, and only visit to get an heir on you, so you will hardly need to spend any time with him. Just think! Perhaps he will let you remain at home!”

“Hardly, Mama,” Matilda said. “What would Society say about that?”

“Impertinence,” Mama scolded, but confirmed the justice of Matilda’s observation by adding, “a long visit would be perfectly acceptable. My Charis, a countess.”

Charis saw no point in arguing that such a marriage would be hell on earth. Lady Wayford was just being polite, and there was nothing in the encounter to encourage the castle Mama was building from pure air. Another day and evening at Bath was over, and they were nearly home.

Surely, this close to Christmas, the fine weather could not hold much longer?

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Tea with Lord Overton

 

Today, a couple of excerpts from A Baron for Becky. The first is when the Duchess of Haverford arrives in response to Hugh’s letter, asking her son for help.

Aldridge must have been closer than Hugh expected. Three days after he sent his letters, a train of elegant sleighs coasted up the drive. Carriages, really, but with skids rather than wheels, each pulled by a pair of sturdy horses. The children, taking advantage of a break in the weather to play in the snow, stopped in their tracks and watched.

From the study window, Hugh could see three of the ornately carved and painted sleighs turn away towards the stable yard, and the remaining two continue to the front steps. He was not surprised all five sported the Haverford crest.

He excused himself to Becky, who didn’t look up from the fire she was examining so intently, and sent a maid to sit with her while he went down to greet his guest. He pasted on a smile. Hugh had sent for the arrogant, self-centred, wife-stealing son-of-a-bitch. And if Becky wanted to go with him, then that was the price Hugh would pay for Becky to be well again. Even if it meant losing Belle.

Smile. He needed to smile.

One carriage was disgorging an enormous number of retainers. How had they all fit? Sitting on one another’s knees? Aldridge stood at the door of the other, handing down a lady. Surely even Aldridge wouldn’t bring one of his paramours here!

Then the lady lifted her head. The face under the bonnet brought his smile out in truth.

He hurried down the steps to greet her. “Your Grace. I am so glad you have come.”

And in the second excerpt, she carts Hugh off to his study and proceeds to instruct him in how to bring his wife back to health.

He could be hopeful, but shouldn’t expect the current rally to last, the Duchess of Haverford instructed him. She had sent her son to play cards with her companion, and demanded that Hugh escort her into his study, where she asked him incisive questions about Becky’s illness and her treatment.

“The doctor said her humours were out of balance, and he bled her, but…”

“Stupid,” Her Grace said. “Very stupid. She had just had a baby and lost who knows how much blood, and the man bled her?”

“He bled her for the fever, too,” Hugh admitted. “But the second time, she was so weak. I was afraid she was dying. I wouldn’t let him do it again.”

“Good.” The duchess nodded. “You have some sense, then. I had my doubts. Very well, Overton. You shall place yourself in my hands, and I shall tell you what you must do.”

“I will not put her away,” Hugh said, firmly. “Even if her mind is weak…”

“Put her away? Why would you put her away? She will recover fully, and I will help. I have seen this before, Overton. Women, after giving birth to a child, often suffer a disorder of the humours. It passes. Your wife has had a worse time of it than many, perhaps because she also had childbed fever. I sometimes think that we gentry are more prone than cottagers, because others will do our tasks if we turn our faces to the wall.

“Several of my goddaughters have had this melancholy, and I, myself, after the birth of my dear Jonathan. Also, Overton, I think there has been some cause for estrangement between you. You will tell me whether I am right, for I do not suggest it to be a busybody, but because you need to mend it for your wife’s sake. A misunderstanding, of course, because she cannot bear to be parted from you. And you, it seems, love her dearly, about which I am delighted, since I hold myself in some sort responsible for the marriage.

“Whatever the cause, she has roused now, and we shall keep her with us, but be prepared to work hard and be patient.”

And so they began a strict regimen designed to build up Becky’s body. “Her mind will heal itself, Overton,” the duchess lectured, “but she needs good food, exercise, and sleep. And you must reassure her often. You will do that, will you not?”

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Tea with a purpose

 

Her Grace looked around her living room with a smile of satisfaction. Her protégées, many of them her goddaughters, made a formidable fighting force, and a fight was exactly what they had on their hands.

In one corner, the Countess of Sutton (formerly Sophia Belvoir until she married the heir to the Duke of Winshire) was writing a series of letters to other Society ladies, with the help of her sister Lady Felicity and her sisters-in law, Ladies Ruth and Rosemary Winderfield. On the settee by the fire, the Countess of Chirbury and Selby, wife to the duchess’s nephew, was dictating a letter to the editor of the Teatime Tattler, penned by her cousin-in-law, Mrs Julius Redepenning. All around the room, those the duchess had summoned had sharpened their nibs and flown into the battle of words over the forthcoming box set by the Bluestocking Belles.

Every woman in this room, and the fictional worlds they inhabited, owed their lives, their loves, their very existence, to one or more of those mysterious women. And the attempts to close down their next set of Christmas stories could not be tolerated.

It began with a letter from one styling herself ‘A Concerned Society Matron’. Salacious scenes of seduction? The woman must have a mind like a pig pen.

Lady Hultinford of St Brendan’s Priory responded with a strong attack on the forces of censorship, and there it should have rested.

But no. The next shot was fired by a cleric on a campaign to signing himself The Right Honorable the Reverend Claudius Blowworthey, although in Her Grace’s opinion, he was not Honorable, not to be Revered, and certainly not Right.

Mrs Maud Goodbody, who described herself as a Christian and modestly well-educated, brought a cheer to the duchess’s lips with her sound rebuttal of Blowworthy’s opinion. Her Grace had immediately sent a donation to the Chapel of the Faithful, which Mrs Goodbody attended.

But just today, the ‘Concerned Society Matron’ burst into print again. While Mr Clemens was quite correct in allowing both sides to have their say, the duchess did think the latest letter was a waste of paper and ink.

Enough was enough. The Duchess of Haverford and her troops were going to war.

To find out what all the fuss is about, see the Bluestocking Belles’ latest joint project, Follow Your Star Home.

To join in the debate, comment on any of the Teatime Tattler posts in the links above, and watch for more to come.

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Tea with Grace and Georgie

The two ladies having tea with Eleanor clearly had something on their minds. They kept exchanging glances, and frowning at the servants who bustled in and out. Eleanor was entertaining two dear friends on this lovely day in 1794; Lady Sutton, daughter-in-law to the Duke of Winshire, and Lady Georgiana Winderfield, his daughter.

As the servants wheeled in the refreshments Eleanor had ordered, and made sure that the ladies had everything they required, the three friends spoke of the fashions of the current season, the worrying events in France, the reopening of the Drury Theatre, and the children: Grace’s little Lord Elfingham and Eleanor’s Jonathan, both five; Eleanor’s Aldridge, a schoolboy of 13; Grace’s twin daughters, whose first birthday celebrations had just passed.

As the last of the servants left, Eleanor spoke to her companion-secretary, a poor relation of her husband whom she was enjoying more than she expected. Largely because she had decided to find the girl a match, and was gaining great entertainment from the exercise. Eleanor could hit two birds with a single stone if she sent dear Margaret to her husband’s office, where his secretaries currently beavered away over the endless paperwork of the duchy. “Margaret, Lady Sutton and Lady Georgiana have a wish to be private with me. I trust you do not mind, my dear, if I send you on an errand? Would you please asked that nice Mr Hammond to find the accounts for Holystone Hall? I wish to go over the coal bills.” Margaret blushed at the mention of Theseus Hammond, and left eagerly. Very good.

Grace was diverted. “Matchmaking, Eleanor?”

“A little. He is as poor as a church mouse, of course. We shall have to see if we can find a position in which he could support a wife. But what is it you wanted to tell me?”

Grace and Georgie exchanged glances, then Georgie leaned forward and took Eleanor’s hand between two of hers. “We thought you should hear it from us, first. Word will undoubtedly be all over Town in no time.”

Georgie’s unexpected touch alarmed Eleanor. Embracing — even touching — was Not Done. A kiss in the air beside a perfumed cheek, but nothing more. Except for her son Jonathan, who was fond of cuddles, no one had held Eleanor’s hand since Aldridge crept from the schoolroom to sit all night with her after her last miscarriage. “What can possibly be wrong? Not something Haverford has done?” But what could such a powerful duke do to give rise to the concern she saw in the eyes of her friends.

“Not Haverford.” Georgie again exchanged glances with her sister-in-law. “His Grace our father received a letter of condolence on the death of my brother Edward.” Another of those glances.

“Out with it, Georgie,” Eleanor commanded. “I am not a frail ninny who faints at nothing. Tell me what you think I need to know.”

Georgie sighed, and firmed her grip on Eleanor’s hand. “Eleanor, the letter was from James.”

Who was James? Not Georgie’s brother, the one love of Eleanor’s life. James was dead, killed by bandits nearly fifteen years ago. They got the letter. The Duke of Winshire himself told her. She was shaking her head, shifting herself backwards on the sofa away from Georgie, whose warm compassionate eyes were so much like those of her missing brother. Missing?

“Not dead?” Her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak, as emotions flooded her. Joy. Anger. A desperate sadness for so many years lost to grieving.

“Alive,” Georgie said. “James is alive, Eleanor.”

The room spun and turned grey, and Eleanor knew no more.

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 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.

by

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.