Monday for Tea

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Tea with a would-be rescuer

November 1793

“Is it dangerous?” Eleanor asked her husband’s unacknowledged brother.

They had been friends for close to a decade, since he first rescued a drunken Haverford from footpads one evening, and dragged him home to Haverford House.

He had said, in exasperation, “I do not know why I bother. He never changes. I should have left him in the gutter to rot.”

She had replied, “I wish…” and then had caught the rest of the words back. They were not true, in any case. She wished her husband at the other end of the country. She wished him on a five year diplomatic mission to Asia. But she did not wish him dead. She had not descended to that level.

Tolliver had somehow understood all of that without her saying it, and after that often kept her informed about her husband’s activities. He had taught her how to use this information to manage the distance that she needed to keep from Haverford in order to stay sane.

She was mother to the duke’s two sons, his official hostess, the chatelaine of his houses, an asset to him in his political campaigning, but other than that, he largely left her alone. She owed much of that to Tolliver.

He was testing her gratitude now. Bad enough that he risked his own life in missions into the horror that France had become now that the Committee for Public Safety was sending dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people to the guillotine.

But he wanted to take David. The boy she had taken into her house and into her heart was twenty, barely a man. She would fear for him every day he was over the channel. He was eager to go, and Eleanor had no power to stop him.

“Is it dangerous?” Tolliver asked. “I will not lie to you, Eleanor. It is. We take every precaution, but there is always danger. I can promise you that I will watch over David. He is my nephew, after all.”

That was true. Tolliver, the base-born brother of Haverford, and David, Haverford’s base-born son. “He is very young…” she began, but David answered her from the doorway.

“Not so young. I am a man, Your Grace.” He stepped cautiously into the little parlour, as if he expected Haverford to emerge from a corner to berate him. Haverford had got it into his head that David was a danger to Aldridge, his eldest legitimate son. It was ridiculous, but Haverford had made the claim and would not back down.

Still, he had come to Haverford House at her request, bless the boy.

“The duke is away in Brighton with the Prince of Wales,” Eleanor assured him. “Yes, David, I know you are a man. I hope you will forgive me for worrying about you.”

“I shall be as careful as I can, Your Grace,” David assured her. “But this has to be done, and I am able to help do it. Wish me well, Your Grace, and let me go with your blessing.”

“You have my blessing, David, and I shall pray for you every day until you return to England,” said Eleanor.

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Tea with Lia and Percy

They met in the little park opposite the confectioners, The Pot and Pineapple. The Duchess of Haverford had brought her two sons, as promised. The Marquis of Aldridge, a boy of eleven, bowed in proper form and followed that with a brilliant smile.

He has his father’s–our father’s–charm in full measure, Lia thought. He looked like His Grace, too. Fair hair, hazel eyes, a figure that was still lean young boy but that bid fair to be as tall and well formed as his–as their father’s one day.

The duchess presented her younger son Lord Jonathan, a sturdy toddler who would look like his brother and father when he grew, and a youth of about her age with dark curls but the same hazel eyes. “And this is David, Lady Aurelia,” Her Grace said, when she introduced him. “Half-brother to my sons and to you.”

Lia had, she supposed, been fortunate to take after her mother, with her dark brown hair, but where the grey eyes came from, she did not know. Her father also had dark hair, and fair locks might have raised more than a few eyebrows.

The young marquess must have been thinking along the same lines. “I expected you to look like him,” he said. “We all do, except that David has black hair.”

“Lady Aurelia looks like her mother did at that age,” said the duchess, “or so I have been told.”

“Mama says that I cannot acknowledge you as my sister,” Aldridge announced. “Which is stupid, because everyone knows. But we can be friends, can we not?”

“Of course, we can,” Lia agreed.

“Good,” Aldridge agreed. “For your husband and I shall be dukes one day, and it is hard to have friends when you are going to be a duke, Lady Aurelia, Lord Thornstead.” He sighed, his eyes far too world-weary for an eleven year old. “Everyone wants something from a duke’s heir.”

“Friends then,” said Percy, holding out his hand. “I am Percy and my wife prefers family to call her Lia.”

The smile flashed again, even more brilliant. “Percy and Lia,” Aldridge repeated.

“Jonathan wants cake,” announced the toddler. Which, since The Pot and Pineapple was just across the road, Lord Jonathan was able to have. In fact, they all enjoyed some of the confections from the famous shop, and had a comfortable coze in the park.

Percy’s close relationship with his brothers and sisters had made Lia–not jealous, exactly, for they had welcomed her into their warm arms. Wistful was the right word. Her own family was broken–her mother and the man she had always thought to be her father at constant war, her brothers taught to regard her with suspicion and scorn. Now, perhaps, she had a family of her own. Brothers who wanted to be friends. It was a good day.

***

(Percy and Lia are hero and heroine of The Sincerest Flattery, coming in April 2024.)

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Tea with Rosa Gavenor

Rosa Gavenor waited for the butler to return and conduct her upstairs to the duchess who had commanded her presence. The double duchess, they called her in the ton, for she had been the wife of the Duke of Haverford for long enough that her son was a man entering his middle years when he inherited the title.

The duchess married again shortly after the end of her period of morning, becoming the Duchess of Winshire.

Rosa had been raised in isolation as the daughter of a gentleman who was librarian to a baron. She had never met even a single duchess, let alone a lady august enough to be chosen as wife by two dukes, one after the other.

This was without a doubt the most scary thing she had done during her visit to London.

She had been nervous about the visit, but determined to be a credit to her beloved husband. She had the wardrobe to look like a prosperous gentleman’s wife. She had purchased several afternoon gowns, two carriage ensembles, and a ball gown in Liverpool, at the same modiste who made her wedding gown and the other clothes that Hugh had ordered for her before they were married.

Hugh said what she had would be inadequate for a month in London, and appealed to the Countess of Ruthford, wife of Hugh’s beloved colonel, whom everyone except his wife called Lion.

Lady Ruthford agreed, and offered to take Rosa to her own modiste. Before the shopping trip was over, Rosa and Dorothea, the countess, were firm friends.

Then came the invitations. Hugh was far more popular, and have deeper connections into the upper reaches of the ton, than Rosa had realised. She had her own connection, of a sort, too. The Marquess of Raithby recognised her as a sort of a sister, since her aunt had been his father’s long-term mistress, much loved by both the marquess and his children.

Rosa very quickly found other married women she liked, and soon had invitations that did not depend on Hugh’s connections or those of the marquess. While much of the ton was as standoffish and smug as Hugh always said, he was correct, too, that people were people, no matter their status in life. She could ignore the self-centred and cruel, and enjoy those who were prepared to be friends.

What sort of a contact would the duchess prove to be? It didn’t matter. Hugh was doing business with the Duke of Haverford and with the Earl of Sutton, Winshire’s son and heir. As his wife, Rosa must make a good impression, or at the very least, not make a bad one.

Knowing how important this meeting was did not make the waiting any easier. It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an age before the butler returned, and invited Rosa to follow him.

The elegant and expensive decor was unusual for an English house, reminding Rosa that the duke had spent many years in the east. She did not have time to examine it, though, for the butler hurried up the staircase and along a wide hallway to an elegant parlour.

As soon as she saw the duchess’s smile, Rosa knew her worries were for nothing.

“My dear Rosa… may I call you Rosa? I feel that I know you, with what my god son, dear Raithby, has said. Come and sit down, my dear. Tell me all about yourself, and how I can help you and your dear husband.”

Rosa’s love story with Hugh (aka Bear) Gavenor is in Grasp the Thorn, free this month.

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Tea with Laurel

Or not tea, to be honest. This is another excerpt post. This one is from Hook, Lyon, and Sinker, my next Lyons’ Den book. My heroine and  her family attend a charity ball at the house of the Duchess of Winshire.

For the second evening in a row, Benjamin had offered himself as escort to Laurel and his stepmother. Tonight, Laurel had only the one event—a ball at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The host and hostess were the Earl and Countess of Sutton, the duke’s heir and his wife, and it was a fundraising event for one of the countess’s charity schools for young women.

Those present had paid an entry fee for the event, and fully expected to pay more for raffle tickets during the evening. “Lady Sutton will probably be looking for pledges, too, Benjamin,” she said as they waited for their carriage to take its place at the door, “so you should know I have already put my name down for fifty pounds from my pin money.”

Mama clicked her tongue. “Educating people like that. It is disgusting. Somerton, are you aware that your sister holds lessons for your servants? As if a kitchen maid needs to know her alphabet and her numbers!”

“A kitchen maid who can read can aspire to write shopping lists and learn new recipes from books, and therefore to one day be a cook,” Laurel pointed out. It was an old argument, and not one she expected to win with her mother.

Benjamin, though, said, “I think it is admirable. Indeed, I used to teach reading and writing to those of my soldiers who wanted to learn. Even just being able to scribble a few words to their loved ones back in England used to give them great joy.”

Mama snorted. “We are not responsible for their joy,” she insisted.

The carriage pulled up and the door opened, putting an end to the conversation.

Inside, Mama’s tune changed when greeted by the Duchess of Winshire, whose support for the cause was well-known. “So pleased to be here to support this important work,” she simpered. Nor was she backward about bustling straight to the long row of tables containing prizes for the raffles. All donated. Vases, paintings, jewelry, a couple of bolts of fine oriental silk, even the use of one of London’s most celebrated chefs for a dinner party, and access to one of the famed Winshire oriental stallions at the Sutton stud farm.

The last might not interest Mama, but Benjamin was one of a long line of men who wished to buy tickets in the chance at a Winshire foal. “The service fee is out of my reach at this year,” he told Laurel, “but this way, I can’t lose. If my ticket wins, I can breed my mare Lightfoot. And if it doesn’t, my money at least goes to a good cause.”

“Education for females? And servant females at that?” It was Lord Hoskings. “No good ever came of letting a female get above herself.” He swayed a little on his feet, and glared at Laurel as if she was such a female.

He confirmed the impression in his next words. “Your brother should lock you up, missie,” he grumbled. “Going to a gambling den for a husband, then choosing a crippled yokel and a country bumpkin over two respectable gentlemen.” The brandy fumes that cascaded over her as he spoke suggested the reason the man had broken the vow of secrecy that Mrs. Dove Lyons demanded from all who entered into one of her agreements.

“You are drunk, Hoskings, which is the only reason I do not call you out for your offensive remarks,” Benjamin said, his voice low and furious. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Hoskings puffed out his chest. “Invited guest,” he said. “Place to be seen. Got to find another bride.” His scowl at Laurel hinted that he blamed her entirely. “Someone biddable and grateful,” he added.

Laurel thought of suggesting the man sober up first, but he would not appreciate the advice. Instead, she inclined her head in polite farewell. “Mama has moved on, brother,” she said. “Shall we catch up?”

Benjamin offered his elbow and they hurried after Laurel’s mother. “May I leave you two ladies for a moment?” he asked. Laurel saw him stop one of Winshire’s younger sons and speak earnestly for a moment. Shortly after Benjamin returned to her side, Lord Hoskings was escorted out of the ballroom by that son and a couple of the Winshire retainers.

“I told Lord Andrew that Hoskings was drunk and offensive,” Benjamin admitted. He slid a glance at Mama, who had found a friend with whom to talk fashion, and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “We cannot have him talking about your arrangement with you-know-who. I’ll see him in the morning and remind him of his promise to that personage.”

Laurel breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she was doing anything wrong, but she knew that Society would look down their collective noses at her making a Dove Lyons match. Or at least at it being public knowledge. Laurel knew of several successful high-Society matches brokered by Mrs. Dove Lyons, but only because the ladies in questions were well known to her. She was certain there were many more who had kept their affairs out of public view. She counted on being one of them.

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Tea with a worried son

Eleanor knew the signs. Anthony was worried about something. (She was so pleased that he had agreed to allow her to call him by his first name. He had been Aldridge since he was a babe in the cradle, but it made her stomach ache to call him Haverford, which was the proper way to address him, now. Haverford — her son’s father and her husband for nearly forty years — had always insisted on the formal address, and to address the son she loved by the title of the man she ha… that she did not love would be unpleasant, to say the least.)

Fortunately, Anthony and Cherry, his wife, were not keen on such formality when family were alone, so she could save the hated title for formal occasions, and even then found ways to address her beloved son without naming him. No doubt, in time, the memories would fade. Should she be fortunate enough to live long enough, Haverford past would be forgotten, and Haverford present would own the name, even in the mind of his predecessor’s widow.

Which was not to the point, but she was doing her best not to question the dear man, and thinking about something else was helping. She offered him another cup of tea, but he shook his head. He did take another shortbread biscuit. Anthony was very fond of shortbread the way the Scots made it. “Mama,” he said, as soon as he had swallowed, “did you know the Earl of Beckworth and his younger brother, Benjamin Famberwold?

“Yes, my dear,” Eleanor was pleased to be able to reply. “An unconscionable pair of rakehells. Even worse than your father, who at least felt a sense of duty to his estates and his country. That pair of reprobates cared for nothing and no one except their own pleasure. There were a number of very unpleasant incidents with innocent girls. No one was safe from them. They were, if you can believe it, worse than Richport, for he at least leaves innocent ladies alone, mostly.”

She frowned, slightly. “Although, perhaps I am being unfair. As I remember it, the younger one had a religious conversion, and convinced his brother to give up his evil ways. They retired to the country to live godly lives, or so we have been told. Certainly, I have not heard a word from them since. Except…” she paused to catch the elusive thought she had glimpsed from, as it were, the corner of her mind’s eye. “That’s it. Beckworth took a wife to the country, and has remarried twice since. Country marriages, I believe. A baronet’s daughter, and the spinster daughter of a viscount.” She frowned, and then brought the rest of the thought to the surface. “A lady in her thirties who had had a single Season in Town, where she did not take. I have heard of no children. Does that help, dearest?”

“It is of interest, Mama. It seems that the religious conversion was not to anything resembling Christianity, and the earl’s lack of children has been countered by a multitude belonging to his brother, who had more than fifty wives, many of them at the same time. I’m telling you in the strictest confidence, of course. We are trying to untangle the legal and moral mess, which also includes depravities I have no intention discussing with my mother, up to and including wholesale murder. Beckworth was in it up to his eyeballs, but the new Beckworth, whomever he may be, does not deserve to have his father’s and uncle’s scandals hanging over his head, and nor does Beckworth’s widow.”

Eleanor nodded her agreement. “Both brothers are dead,” she deduced.

Anthony nodded. “the Famberwolds made the mistake of tangling with one of Lion’s Zoo,” he said.

The former Aldridge, now the Duke of Haverford, is on a Parliamentary committee making enquiries into the scandalous goings on at a village called Heaven, a month or two after the events covered in The Darkness Within, Book 4 in Lion’s Zoo, planned for publication in December 2023

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Tea with Mrs Moriarty

This was not the first time that Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, had sat down to afternoon tea with Mrs Moriarty. The young woman was the daughter of an excellent family, but had been ruined—by the rules of Society, at least—several times before she was out of her teens. 

She had hidden in the slums to escape from the murderers of her parents. That was the first count against her. Eleanor had heard the cats among her peers saying, “Of course one cannot blame the child, but she survived on the streets for two years. Heaven knows what she did to feed herself. Any proper young lady would have been dead in a week.” 

Eleanor, of course, admired Mrs Moriarty for her courage and her resilience.

The second mark on her copybook was her uncle, who had taken her from the slums and, instead of retrieving her reputation and seeing her reestablished in Society, had taken her to Spain to follow the army. Rumour had it she had been a spy and worse. Those who raked for scandal never worried about whether rumour was correct or an outright lie.

Then, when she turned up in London again this summer, she was somehow involved in a vast criminal enterprise. It did not matter to the gossips that she and her husband had been instrumental in bringing down said criminals. Ladies, they said, did not involve themselves with such things.

The final count to her demerit was that her husband was a commoner, a former street boy and current Supervisor with the Thames River Police. A wife took the status of her husband, and so Mrs Moriarty could safely be ignored.

Not by Eleanor, she could not. Eleanor found her to be an estimable young woman.

“Let me pour you a cup of tea, my dear,” she said to her guest, “and tell me more about your place for an agency of hired guards. Moriarty Protection, I think you said.”

Eleanor’s guest is the heroine of One Hour in Freedom, published yesterday.

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Tea with Her Grace

Readers, shortly we shall be joined by our hostess, Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. For those who have not yet met her grace, or have seen her only in passing in one of my books, let me tell you a little of her biography.

Her Grace Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford, once hoped to marry the third son of the Duke of Winshire, James Winderfield. The connection was not illustrious enough for her father, the Earl of Creydon, and one of his close friends had also expressed an interest in the girl.

When that friend, the Duke of Haverford, insulted Eleanor in the hearing of her beloved, James challenged the Duke to a duel. The Duke was wounded and James’s father forced him to flee England.

Eleanor held out against her father’s pressure for a long time, but when word came that James had been killed in Persia, she married the Duke of Haverford to get away from her father’s bullying. The Duke’s bullying was much worse.

However, over the years, and particularly since she gave him two sons, Eleanor has learned to manage her life with little interference from her husband. She takes pleasure in helping Haverford poor relations, taking an interest in her vast array of godchildren, supporting philanthropic causes (particularly the education of women) and being an active guardian of her dear wards, three half-sisters who are all base-born daughters of her husband the duke.

In 1812, to the surprise and wonder of the ton, and to Eleanor’s amazement, her supposedly dead first love returned to England. He had spent the intervening years in central Asia, but the death of his older brothers had made him heir, and his father’s impending death called him back to England. He had married in the far off land that he had made his own. Now a widower, he had brought back with him six of his ten children, four of them adults.

To much time had passed to reignite their romance, and besides, Eleanor’s husband still lived. They could, however, be friends.

Ah. But I must leave the story there, and announce our hostess. Dear readers, I give you Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford.

You’ll meet Eleanor in many of my books, but if you’d like to know more about her, her story is told in the series, The Return of the Mountain King.

 

 

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Tea at a most unusual farriery

“Would your grace care for a cup of tea while you wait for your horses to be shod?” asked the farrier’s husband. Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, smiled at the man. “Thank you. That would be very pleasant,” she said.

He ushered her and her companion around the corner of the farrier’s shed and to a spreading tree, whose shade would be much appreciated on this hot summer day. Apparently, he had anticipated her agreement, for a tea tray sat on a table flanked by several chairs. 

“Scones, Mr Hughes?” she asked. “You spoil us.”

“And raspberry jam, your grace. I hope it is to your liking.” He bowed, and made to walk away.

Eleanor was burning with curiosity about the couple. “Mr Worth, can you spare me a moment?” Eleanor asked.

“Certainly, your grace. Or I could return in a moment, after I have fetched ale for your men, if it pleases you.”

He was a conundrum, was Mr Hughes. The carriage of a soldier, the manners and language of a gentleman. One arm lashed to his body as if it was useless. He treated her with courtesy and respect, but without losing any of his own dignity. She was eager to know more about him. “Of course, Mr Hughes. Please carry on.”

She poured the tea, thinking about what had brought them here. One of the horses had cast a shoe, some five miles from this little town. They had proceeded at a slow walk, and stopped at the first farriery they passed. When the driver realised that the farrier was a woman, and an obviously pregnant woman at that, he had wanted to move on. However, Eleanor had insisted of giving her their custom. It was, after all, a single shoe and a few nails.

Were female farriers common? Eleanor would not have thought so.

The scone was delicious. Eleanor was preparing a second and her companion was eyeing a third when the farrier’s husband returned. This time, he had another man with him, an elderly gentleman who was even taller than Mr Hughes, but bent with age.

“Your grace, Miss Grenford, may I present Mr Evan Hughes, my wife’s father. Evan, the fine lady is the Duchess of Winshire, and this is Miss Grenford, her companion.”

The older man nodded, his vague eyes shifting from one of them to the other. He apparently did not find them to be of interest, for he strode past them and sat down on the ground, where he proceeded to stroke a cat that appeared from under the bushes to present itself for his caresses.

Mystery upon mystery. Was the farrier’s husband a cousin, perhaps, to have the same name?

“Evan does not mean any disrespect, your grace,” Mr Hughes explained. “He is in his second childhood, but quite harmless.”

“You are related?” Eleanor asked? 

“Only by marriage,” Mr Hughes said, cheerfully. “I took my wife’s name when we wed to keep the family name attached to the forge. With luck, one of our children will want to follow my wife into the business. By the way, my wife is checking all four horses, so that this doesn’t happen to you again. Your driver says you are bound for Liverpool.”

“Yes. My husband is expected to dock there within the next few days,” Eleanor explained. And she could not wait patiently at Windsgate, their country home, to see him again when a three or four days journey would reunite them so much more quickly.

“I am curious, Mr Hughes,” she admitted. “Please do not feel you have to indulge me, but I would love to know the story of how you came to settle in Cheshire, and how you met your wife.”

Mr Hughes’ smile was easy. “And I would love to tell you, your grace.”

To find out Mr Hughes’ story, read Love In Its Season, in Under the Harvest Moon, out on 10 October. 

Only 99c until 18 October.

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Tea with England’s Newest Duchess

Her Grace of Haverford watched her guest enter the room. What a stunning young lady.

England’s newest duchess was dressed in a peach-colored gown of the first stare. It fit her to perfection. She carried a reticule that matched the pattern of the dress, and wore short gloves in a slightly paler shade. Discreet diamonds sparkled at her ears and a delicate pearl and diamond pendant lay on her chest suspended by a chain of what looked to be white gold.

However, Eleanor was used to such displays. What caught her attention was the woman’s eyes. Dark, nearly ebon eyes possessed of a penetrating depth that could have frightened, had the expression they held not been so openly curious. She had raven wing hair, a cream and honey complexion, and deep rose-hued lips. A delicate slope of nose sat between two symmetrical and classically high cheeks. Her slim figure moved with a thoughtless grace that the most practiced diamond of the season would never be able to match. Stunning yes, but all paled beneath that depthless stare.

Eleanor knew next to nothing about the wife Margris had chosen, but she needed only to see the woman to know she was formidable.

“Welcome to Haverford House, Your Grace.”

An impish smile formed, lighting up those eyes. “I am not certain I will ever become accustomed to having a title, Your Grace.”

“I suspect you will do very well with it.” Smiling back, she gestured to a chair that faced her own. “Please sit. And please address me as Aunt Eleanor, as your husband and many of my younger friends do.”

“Thank you, Aunt Eleanor.” A very slight quaver in the lady’s voice revealed that she suffered some uneasiness. Possibly she’d been told the Duchess of Haverford was a powerful woman who could make or break a young woman’s hopes and dreams with a single word. “My full name is Celestine, but my intimates call me Celie. Of course, you may be more comfortable calling me niece.” The new Duchess of Margris settled herself. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

“As I am pleased to meet you. It is fortunate that we could both be available this afternoon. I understand from my son that between shopping and your husband you are being kept quite busy. How do you take your tea?”

“Just lemon, if you please.”

Eleanor filled a cup and handed it over.

Celie added two small biscuits to the edge of the saucer and placed the beverage and all on a tiny pie crust table beside her chair.

“Caleb—my husband—is occupied nearly all of every day with business at the home office. He says that even though Britain is now officially at peace with the United States there is much work to be done to ensure the treaty of Ghent remains strong.”

“Aldridge, too, is very occupied with what is happening in Europe. Too many lives have been lost or changed forever, and not usually for the better. We must pray that the next encounter with Napoleon will settle matters for once and for all.” Her Grace paused to sip her tea. “Do I understand correctly,” Eleanor continued. “That while you lived in New Orleans, you helped enslaved people escape to freedom.”

“I was one of many.”

“But you are here and others are not. You must have been in danger much of the time.”

Celie looked down at her tea. “Helping the enslaved to escape is against the law in New Orleans. Had I been caught; I could have been enslaved myself.”

“Oh heavens. Would that happen to anyone who helped escapees, or just…” Her Grace of Haverford let her words trail off. She blushed. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually make such gaffs.”

Celie laughed. “Yes, I have one quarter negro blood in my veins. However, I do not trade on it. I prefer to make my way by my merits. Just as I prefer people who ask questions instead of leaping to unwarranted conclusions.”

Eleanor accepted the reassurance that Her Grace of Magris had taken no offense. “You are wise for one so young.”

“Wisdom is not exclusive to the elderly” the younger woman chided gently. “It is the purview of any who learn from experience. I was fortunate to have not only my own experiences to learn from but also those of my mother.”

“Tell me about her.”

Celie seemed eager to do so. “She is what is known as a ‘free woman of color.’ Meaning she is not enslaved. She possesses documents that prevent her ever being enslaved. However, that did not make her life easy, just easier than most people of color. She was born and raised in St. Domingue where she met my father. Because laws and custom forbid the marriage of white and colored, she became his ménagère, and moved to New Orleans where he had his sugar plantation.”

“Ménagère? That is a contractual relationship between a man and woman much like a marriage but there is no marriage involved.”

“You are very well informed, Your Grace.”

“I’ve had cause to study marriage law and contracts and ran across the term in my research.”

Celie raised an enquiring brow, but Eleanor’s marriage and the other problems her family suffered because of that institution were not for discussion, even with women she’d known for years. Time for a change of subject.  “Being Duchess of Haverford affords me a number of advantages few women possess.” One must always focus on the positives. “One of the advantages is the ability to support a number of charities. Last February, when the Thames froze over, the merchants of London held a Frost Fair on the frozen river. My friends and I took advantage of the opportunity to host a ball with the intent of raising funds to help returning soldiers and their families also the families of our deceased heroes.”

“I would love to help if there are charitable organizations that assist the men returning from war.” Celie spoke with an enthusiasm Eleanor could not doubt.

Eleanor smiled, and set her tea aside. “In that case. Let me tell you about the Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans.”

Celie’s response to the ridiculous name was diplomatic. “That’s a very long name.”

“And we do some very difficult work. At last year’s ball and other events during the year, we raised several tens of thousands of pounds and have put it to very good use. However, treating the wounded in body and spirit, helping to support families, to house, feed, clothe and school orphans is a tremendous undertaking. We’ve almost exhausted the funds we raised last year.”

“We are, if I understand correctly, in the height of the London season,” Celie observed. “I’m sure I could persuade Caleb to allow me to hold a charitable ball or reception for your organization.”

“That is very kind of you my dear, but what if I, and the other committee members hold a reception to welcome you into the ton,” Eleanor suggested. “We could have a number of English artists create paintings and sculptures for auction during the reception.”

“I like that idea, Aunt Eleanor, “but only if we hold the reception for a large number of returning veterans. They deserve public recognition for the great work they’ve done. You could still introduce me to the ton, but I would not like to be the center of attention when those men need it so much more that I.”

“Your modesty does you credit. Since you are agreeable, let me ring for my secretary and we can start planning immediately. The Ladies Society will meet next week. I’d like you to attend the meeting so I may introduce you. Then you and I can present our plans and seek the aid of the other members of the Society.”

“That is an excellent idea. May I use one of your footmen to send a note round to my husband at the home office explaining that I am delayed. We had dinner plans that may need to change.”

“Certainly. I’ll instruct my secretary to bring pen and paper for you. Now here is what I think we should do first….”

Celie is the heroine of the third book in my Duchess series, here’s a little more information about the book.

About The Creole Duchess: A duke in disguise, a creole miss determined to get her own way, a curse, and two nations at war, is love even possible?

New Orleans Creole, Miss Celestine St. Cyr-Duval refuses to live under the thumb of some man chosen by her parents. Celie will do everything to keep freedom of choice for herself and others. But fate interferes in the form of a duke disguised as British businessman, Caleb Elmond. A relationship with Caleb would find approval with her mother, but both Celie and Caleb have secrets that put them on opposite sides of a great conflict and could destroy them both.

With the Battle of New Orleans looming, can these two strangers from warring countries compromise and protect each other, or will fear and betrayal end both their lives?

The Creole Duchess, Duchess Series Book Three is expected to launch in late 2023. The pre-order price of $0.99 for this long-awaited conclusion to the Duchess Series ends on release day.

Available for Pre-order at .99 cents until October 30, launch day. Amazon   Other Retailers.

About Rue Allyn: Author of historical and contemporary romances, Rue Allyn fell in love with happily ever after the day she heard her first story. (She claims she was a precocious little brat who read at the age of two but could hear much earlier than that.) She studied literature for far too many years before discovering that writing stories was much more fun than writing about them. One of her greatest pleasures as an author is being able to read the story before anyone else. Rue is happily married to her sweetheart of many, many years. Insatiably curious, an avid reader and traveler, she loves to hear from readers about their favorite books and real-life adventures. Crazy Cat stories are especially welcome. You can contact her at Rue@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

Find Rue OnLine: WEBSITE   FB    AMAZON    GOODREADS   BOOKBUB

 

by

Tea with Queen Guinevere

Gwen came through a dark swirling tunnel into what looked like the kind of historic townhouse that has public tours, except that it was polished to the nth degree and many of the items looked new. A man was waiting for her, and if he wasn’t a butler she was a marshmallow. He conducted her through a pair of double doors and onto a terrace where a woman of mature years was seated on a cane chair beside a table laden with cakes and tea. Tea – something she’d sorely missed in the Dark Ages.

“Queen Guinevere, I assume,” the lady said.

“The Duchess of Haverford,” Gwen replied, for that was the name on the invitation she had received.

“Please be seated, your majesty,” said the duchess. “Would you like some tea?” 

Taking the offered seat, Gwen looked at the offerings on the table. “Yes, please. I’ve often longed for a nice cup of tea back in the 5th century. Sadly impossible. It’s all watered beer and some rather rough wine. We do get some Falernian imported from the Mediterranean from time to time though, and that’s worth having.”

“I have coffee, too, if you prefer it,” the duchess offered. “Or hot chocolate, though I personally find that a little bitter.”

“Definitely tea—hot and strong as I’ve so often longed for. And some of those fancy cakes.” Another thing that didn’t really exist in the Dark Ages, and which Gwen had often found herself daydreaming about.

“Please, your majesty,” the duchess said, as she passed over a cup of hot strong tea and a plate of little iced cakes, “tell me a little bit about yourself.”

“I’m very happy to be here with you, Duchess. Is that the right way to address a duchess? I’m not used to the gentility of this period, and there were no duchesses back in the Dark Ages. In fact, the term ‘your majesty’ didn’t exist then so I’m more at home with being just called my Lady by my subjects, or Gwen by my friends. I’m more used to a thatched Great Hall and a roaring fire with the carcass of an ox roasting over it. What would you like to know about me?

“Do call me Eleanor,” the duchess said with a smile. “And I’ll call you Gwen, if I may. The note that said you were coming commented you were from the twenty-first and the fifth centuries. How did that come about?”

Gwen nodded. “I consider you a new friend so Gwen will be fine. And as to my origins – I suppose you’d say they were a little unusual. I was born at the end of the 20th century and married in the 5th, about 1500 years before I was born.  But I’m afraid I can’t give you an exact date, as back then no one used the same way of dating as we do nowadays, or in your time. That didn’t come in until later. I tried guessing but it was all ‘the twentieth year of the reign of High King Uthyr’ or such like.”

Gwen took another sip of her tea and continued. “I arrived in the 5th century quite by chance, or so I thought, but it turned out I was expected by at least one person.” She smiled. “I’d gone with my boyfriend to scatter my father’s ashes. My dad was an Arthurian scholar, convinced the legendary king was real. I went up Glastonbury Tor first thing in the morning and found a gold ring inside the ruined tower on the top. I picked it up and whoosh, I was back in the 5th century. Of course, time travel was furthest from my mind. I just thought I was lost to start with, and then that I’d stumbled upon a reenactment group. Some might say I was stupid not to realise from the start what had happened, but think about it – if it happened to you, you just would be looking for a rational explanation and time travel would not be it.” She gave a wry smile. “And Merlin was the one expecting me.”

“So there really is a Merlin?”

Gwen nodded. “There is. A lot of characters from the oldest legends really existed. But there’s no Lancelot or Galahad – they were later medieval additions, and Lancelot was French! Not a sign of him in the Dark Ages. It was quite fascinating seeing which of the legends turned out to have been based on fact.” She smiled. “As I’ve said, my dad was an Arthurian scholar, convinced the legendary king was real. I can’t help thinking he’d be impressed to discover his only daughter ended up being Queen Guinevere! After all, he named me and my twin brother after the king and queen. It’s rather surreal being named after yourself.”

“You met Arthur in the fifth century and married him. Or is that just a legend?”

Gwen said, “No, that much is true. I married in the last year of the reign of King Uthyr Pendragon. Actually, right before he died—it was his last command to his son Arthur before his death. And I had no way of refusing. If I had, I’d have risked ending up being married to his older son, Arthur’s not at all attractive half-brother. Not a fate I relished. I found Arthur attractive, but I wasn’t in love with him at that point. It was just the safest thing to do. So I agreed to marry him.”

Eleanor nodded thoughtfully. “In my own time, women often have little choice about whom they marry, as I know to my cost. Please, do have another cake and continue. I am fascinated.”

“Back then Glastonbury Tor was an island in a lot of low lying wetlands and the monks at the abbey escorted me along their secret causeway to the local lord’s stronghold. I was silly enough to ask Merlin, who I met there, if it was Camelot. He’d never heard that name before. I should have guessed that, as it’s really based on the Roman name for Colchester—Camulodunum. Camelot never existed – it was added in about the same time the Lancelot stories were created. Where I found myself was a place called Din Cadan, which back where I come from was known as South Cadbury Castle—not a stone castle, you understand, but a refortified Iron Age hillfort. Not much in the way of mod cons. I don’t know about you, but I was used to flushing toilets. What I got there was a leather bucket in a corner. A rather smelly leather bucket.”

“It must have been a shock,” Eleanor commented.

Gwen nodded her agreement. “It took me quite a while to accustom myself to life in the 5th century. At first, all I wanted to do was get back to my old world, but there was no chance of that. Firstly, it was a good ten miles back to Glastonbury across marshlands I could drown in, and secondly, I couldn’t get out of the fortress. Guards on all the gates. So I just had to put up and shut up. And then Arthur came back. He’d been away fighting somewhere on the south coast – against Saxon raiders. And, well, wow. Quite wow.”

Eleanor sighed. “I have felt that wow,” she confided. “We have stories about your husband in our day, of course, but stories don’t always represent the man.”

Gwen chuckled. “Talk about unreconstructed and totally out of touch with his feminine side (as we’d say back in my old world but probably not in yours). Do you know what the first thing (not quite but pretty nearly) he said to me was? You have good childbearing hips. Not the way to a girl’s heart. I nearly gave him a slap, only I thought it might get me into trouble.”

“Good childbearing hips are an asset,” Eleanor replied, seriously. “I take it, though, that he won you around?”

“He did,” Gwen confirmed. “It helped a lot that he wasn’t hard on the eye. Tall, muscled but not huge, a real horseman. Dark hair and dark eyes, bit of stubble going on. And quite sharp and witty when he wants to be. But whatever I do, I can’t undo his first 23 years of being a Dark Age lordling used to women knowing their places. He has his moments. Moments when I’ve thought a few angry words about his attitude.”

“Stubborn arrogant men can be difficult to live with,” Eleanor said, with feeling.

“And then I discovered I was pregnant,” Gwen said. “Normally, this would make a young newly wed wife happy, but I wasn’t, and the reason I wasn’t was that I was terrified. I knew all about how women died in childbirth back then and I didn’t want that happening to me. I wrestled with my conscience about this for a while, and in the end I asked Merlin what he could see of my future. And he was his typical self—non-commital. What he said was ‘I see you with him to the end, if there is one’. As if that was any help. But I did feel a bit better about the pregnancy after that.”

“Tell me, what aspects of the legend have you found to be true?” Eleanor asked.

“Well… I found out straight away that Arthur really existed, and Merlin, but as I said, there was no sign of a Lancelot or Galahad. I was pleased about that as this vindicated my father’s research.” She bit her lip. “The sword in the stone turned out to be all my fault, and at the risk of giving away some spoilers, so did Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake. And my father had told me about a list of battles written in a ninth century book by a monk called Nennius—they turned out to be true as well. Lots of the people from legend appeared and became my friends.”

Gwen frowned. “At first, I thought my only friend was Merlin, but I made a few mistakes with him. He’s pretty manipulative. And he insisted I was the one who’d make Arthur the king of legend. So I told him no, it was him, and that he’d set a sword in a stone which only the true High King could pull out. Big mistake. That one came back to bite me on the bum. If you don’t mind me saying that. Possibly not a saying you’d use as a duchess. In fact, Merlin has turned out also not to be the sort of person you play chess with. That would be my advice—never play chess with a man who can see the future, at least some of the time. And that was my fault too because they didn’t have chess back then so I introduced it.” She grinned. “I also introduced stirrups which made riding a lot more comfortable. And thank goodness there were no sidesaddles back then – I got to ride astride as I was used to doing.”

Eleanor shuddered. “A manipulative man is a dangerous thing. I can only imagine what it is like to have one with magic.”

Gwen nodded. “He’s had his moments. Luckily for me he’s never really got angry with me, nor I with him, but I know exactly what he’s capable of because I’ve seen it. I can’t tell you, as that would be a huge spoiler for book six.”

“But I can divulge something else. Something not a lot of people know. Arthur had children. I expect you guessed that as I said I became pregnant. I can’t tell you anything else about that though, as that would also be to spoil the story. The children are very important to the story and have major roles to play. And of course, there’s Medraut, called Mordred in later legends. Not a nice fellow at all, but again I can’t give too much away about him. All I’ll say is watch this space as he grows up.”

Eleanor poured more tea. “What would you most like to have been able to share with your father?”

Gwen smiled. “The first time Arthur and I went to bed together after we were married, I decided that was NOT something I wanted to share with my father! I’d been wanting to share some of the other stuff but not that. Little did he know he’d end up being grandfather to his hero’s children. That’s one thing I’ve often wished I could tell him.” She shook her head. “And something a little weird – before one of the battles, Arthur and I were in a location both of us had visited as children but fifteen hundred years apart. We’d both been there with our fathers and stood virtually on the same spot. I wish my father could have known that. I believe my biographer has also stood there. Odd, but rather poignant, don’t you think?”

“And what about the end of the legend?” Eleanor asked. “Is that true? Does Arthur lie sleeping still, waiting for the moment when Britain needs him? Did he go to Avalon?”

Gwen smiled a secretive smile. “Now that would be a spoiler, wouldn’t it? You’ll have to read the last book, The Road to Avalon, to find that one out. I’ll just say this – I think you’ll like the ending.”

Look here to read The Dream of Macsen Wledig, an article on the Welsh story of Emperor Maximus, whose sword comes to Fil’s Arthur.

Meet Fil Reid

Fil Reid, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, writes historical fiction with romance from a canal boat in the South of England. She won the Dragonblade New Writers’ Competition in its inaugural year with book one of her six book Guinevere series. Next year she has a four book regency series coming out – The Cornish Ladies. She has ridden for most of her life and worked with horses in many fields, as well as a spell as a rent collector – a job that involved a lot of cups of tea and cake with old ladies who didn’t believe in paying with Direct Debits. In what little spare time she gets from writing, she likes to knit and sew and has made clothes and toys for her grandchildren.
The Guinevere series:
  • The Dragon Ring
  • The Bear’s Heart
  • The Sword
  • Warrior Queen
  • The Quest for Excalibur
  • The Road to Avalon (to come)

Buy from series page on Amazon, or read from KU.

Fil’s links: