Monday for Tea

by

Tea with Rebeka and Arik

“Rebeka.” Lord Arik called for his wife as he took the steps two at a time as he hurried into the tower room at Fayne Manor.

Rebeka, with her staff in hand, looked up from the small desk and papers. “I’m here.”

His sanctuary as a boy, he stared at the walls filled with runes and the cheval glass that stood at one end of a pentagram on the floor. She had placed it across from the hearth with its blazing fire as he had instructed.

“I’m looking forward to meeting Her Grace. Are you ready?” Rebeka asked.

Arik nodded his agreement and brought her to the center of the pentagram. The flames from the hearth danced and caressed their reflection in the mirror. He gave her a tender kiss, and then they turned toward the Eastern wall and began the ritual.

“Hail, Guardians of the East. I summon the power of air.” Arik’s voice echoed through the room.

“By the air in her breath, be with us now,” Rebeka replied and tapped her staff.

They turned to the South. “Hail, Guardians of the South. I summon the power of fire.”

“By the fire in her spirit, be with us now,” came Rebeka’s reply, along with a tap of her staff.

They faced the West. “Hail, Guardians of the West. I summon the power of water.”

“By the waters of her womb, be with us now.” Another tap from Rebeka’s staff.

They turned North toward the hearth. “Hail, Guardians of the North. I summon the power of the earth.”

“By the earth that is her body, be with us now,” Rebeka said with a strong final tap.

“As above, so below. As within, so without. Prepare Haverford’s door of time and present us to the duchess sublime. So mote it be.”

The air stirred, at first rustling Rebeka’s long hair then catching Arik’s loose-fitting shirt. Yet everything else in the room was still. They repeated the chant. Even though they were deep into the ritual, they sensed that the room changed.

The flames leaped high in the hearth when the last word was spoken. Soft sounds gathered into whispered words that grew more insistent until a voice called to them, “Lord Arik. Lady Rebeka.”

The smooth surface shifted and swirled. The image of a man materialized. They stepped to the mirror. “Berkeley Court?” Arik asked.

“Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford is expecting you, my lord.”

Arik took Rebeka’s hand, and together, they stepped into the mirror. Rebeka glanced behind her to see a partially draped cheval glass. The rest of the small tower room was empty. The hearth was cold.

“Good afternoon, my lord, my lady.” A footman stood before them, unshaken at watching two people walk through the mirror. “Welcome to Berkeley Court. If you will come this way I will show you to Her Crace.”

The footman took them down the tower stairs to the second floor. From there, he took them to the garden room where a mature lady, eleganty dressed, waited for them, a full service of tea at her side.

“Please do come and sit with me. Lady Rebeka would you like to pour tea?” asked Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford.

“Your Grace, I am honored at the request, but I’m afraid my skills at pouring tea would appall you. In the United—. In America, we put the tea leaves in small bags and then dunk them in boiling water. Lord Arik can pour tea better than I can.”

Arik placed his hand over his wife’s. “Rebeka underestimates her abilities. It’s her way of easing into the differences in time.” Before Arik could act, the duchess took command of the pot.

“I am certain there are many things you both had to reconcile, pouring tea only a minor one.” The duchess glanced at Rebeka. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Black, please.”

“Same for me, if you please,” Arik said.

The duchess handed the tea to her visitors. “A biscuit?” She motioned toward the plate. “Cook makes delicious treats.”

Arik dutifully put a biscuit on his plate. Rebeka declined.

“Traveling through time. I dare say I never gave it a thought. After all, time is what time is. Or so I thought.”

Rebeka noted the excitement in the duchess’ eyes. “I agree, Your Grace.” Rebeka put down her teacup.

“Please, call me Eleanor. No need to be so formal.” Eleanor sat back in her chair with her teacup in her hand and a large smile on her lips.

“By all means. We were surprised when we received your invitation. I will say we questioned it. Of course, the Haverford name is well known even in our time. And with your Somerset estate a day’s ride from ours, Arik sent his brother, Logan, for a visit. Your ancestors were quite cordial. Logan returned telling us what a lovely time he had. He also confirmed the tower room.” Rebeka looked at the biscuits on the plate.

Eleanor turned to Arik. “I found a notation in the estate journal about Fayne Manor and decided to meet you. Once I learned about Rebeka’s traveling through time, I had many questions. What was your first impression of Rebeka?”

“He thought I was a pain in the…” Rebeka glanced at Arik.

“Arse.” Arik smiled at her and then turned to Eleanor. “My wife is quite correct. She had this compulsion to interject herself and her opinions everywhere. She didn’t know her place.” He turned to his wife. “And you, madam? What did you think of me? An actor?”

Arik’s exasperated expression said it all. He returned his attention to Eleanor. “Can you believe it? The Druid Grand Master and Lord of Fayne Manor, and she thinks I’m some carnival performer.”

“What did you expect? I had no idea I had traveled four hundred years into the past.” Rebeka put down her teacup, her eyes on the biscuit. “When I arrived, I encountered Doward, the old tinker.”

“Tinker?” Her Grace asked.

“It was Beltane, and with the way Doward was dressed and riding on a horse-drawn wagon, I naturally assumed he was an actor going to some enactment. They are popular in the twenty-first century. Then we came upon Arik and his men, all on horseback and dressed like Doward; well, what should I have thought? Arik was marching through the woods all proud and self-important, playacting.” Rebeka took a biscuit from the plate.

Arik raised his eyebrow and controlled his temper. “I was patrolling my domain. We were under attack, as you soon found out.”

Rebeka nibbled on the biscuit.

The duchess put down her teacup. “Oh, no.” She leaned toward Rebeka. “And you thought it was all a charade. What happened?”

“We were traveling and came to the river at the crossing. The bridge was damaged, and Arik and his men had to repair it so we could get the Doward’s wagon across. There was no room for the wagon at the shore, so Doward, me, and Logan, Arik’s brother, made camp up the road. The thieves attacked the wagon. They must’ve thought with only one soldier, a woman, and an old man, we would be easy to subdue. This biscuit is delicious.”

Her Grace smiled and offered her the plate. “Please, have another.”

“Subdue?” Arik didn’t try to hide his anger. “They meant to kill you. All three of you.”

“What happened?” Eleanor was not fooled. This was a man who cared dearly about his people and more so about his wife. She had read it in the diary he left in his library.

“The attackers were as shocked as I was. You see, both camps were attacked at the same time. We quickly took care of the marauders who attacked us by the river and went to help the others upriver. I didn’t know what to expect.” Arik shook his head and chuckled. “Rebeka dispatched three attackers before I got there.” He faced the duchess. “She did well. No, she was excellent. She used her walking staff as a weapon in a way I’d never seen. I would have her at my side in any battle.”

“I have read about the ancient Amazonian women and thought that all a fantasy,” Eleanor said.

“I am not a warrior. In college, I studied the Japanese physical movements that help build your physical, mental, and spiritual development. I enjoyed the mind-body connection. I had no cause to use them in combat until I was back in time. At the river, I fought for my life.”

Arik took her hand. “And you did well. That was when I knew there was more to you than I thought. Doward led me to believe the King had sent Rebeka to do research in my library.”

“That’s not exactly what Doward told you.” She took another biscuit from the plate. “You see, Eleanor, by the time we reached Fayne Manor, Doward and I discovered that I was in the wrong time. We also thought that the information I needed to go back would most likely be in Arik’s vast library.”

“I see.” Eleanor nodded her agreement as she refreshed everyone’s tea.

“I’m not certain you do. It was a dangerous game we both played. Arik was certain I was sent by his enemy, Bran. I was certain Arik would think I was a witch and that he would kill me if he knew I traveled through time.

“I began to research his family journals and diaries. I had no idea where to look or what to look for.” How clearly she remembered going through the vast library. She learned so much about his family, about him.

“And everything she did made me suspicious. I was certain the King or the King’s men had sent her. I will say she did excellent work with her research. I read it several times without letting her know.”

“Be that as it may,” Rebeka interjected. “I came from a time when women spoke their minds. On that count alone, I didn’t endear myself to him. No, not at all. But emotions stewed underneath it all. We wanted each other. We just didn’t trust each other.”

“Rebeka, why didn’t you tell Arik your mission? Surely, he would have helped you.” Eleanor smiled.

“I am a proud woman. In my time, I am a renowned history professor. I thought I’d made quick work of it. Besides, it was 1605. No one, not even Lord Arik, would believe that I had traveled through time. And with King James I sharpening the English Witchcraft Act I dared not say anything. I feared for what they might do to me.”

“But, Rebeka—.”

Rebeka put up her hand. “Before you say anything, yes, Arik is the Druid Grand Master, but I didn’t know it then, and I didn’t believe in magic. At least not at that time.”

“Not believe in magic? Then how do you explain your time travel? Surely that was magic,” the duchess said.

“You’re correct, of course. It’s amazing how we hold on to our prejudices. But Arik taught me about magic—on many levels.”

“And I understand from Arik’s journal that together, you saved Fayne Manor. I can see it in your eyes. You are a strong and vibrant pair. I wish you both well.”

Arik put down his serviette. “Thank you for your invitation and tea. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Eleanor stood and walked her guests to the door. “The lesson I learned from your story is a very profound one. Love can transcend time, even four hundred years. Please, do visit again.”

How It All Began

In ancient times, druids and magic reigned supreme. Valor, courage, honesty, honor, and heart were their ingrained values. Destined for greatness, over the centuries this family rose above the others, but not without its own struggles.

This is the story of the druid Grand Master Lord Arik of Fayne Manor and his effort to protect all he holds dear from the Dark Magic that wants to destroy it all. Amid the spells and incantations, will he discover that the magic of the heart is the most potent force of all?

Knight of Runes

Rebeka Tyler, a distinguished expert in medieval and Renaissance studies and a casual martial arts enthusiast, never envisioned herself as a warrior. However, thrust into the 17th century, she finds herself caught in the conflict between two powerful druid masters. While deciphering ancient runes and unraveling a family secret to secure her return, Rebeka engages in battles for survival against in a society she knows well from her studies, as well as against the malevolent druid, Bran.

Amidst the struggle, emotional complexities arise with Lord Arik, the druid knight, as long-buried truths about their shared past come to light. The key to triumph lies not in individual efforts but in a partnership between Rebeka and Arik. Yet, this alliance comes at a steep price – her heart and, if fate favors her, her rightful future. For Rebeka, this journey isn’t a mere journey into the past but a return to where she truly belongs. In this riveting tale, the boundaries between love, destiny, and sacrifice blur as Rebeka navigates a world of ancient mysteries and profound connections.

Review: “Friends. FRIENDS. Oh my gosh, listen to me. If you only pick up one book this upcoming summer, it needs to be Knight of Runes. Imagine Game of Thrones and Outlander having a lovechild whose nanny was Jane Austen. Yes, I am serious. No, I am not kidding. It’s that good.” – Stacie T. 5 Star Review

Buy Link: https://amzn.to/2C73zRV
Ruth’s Website: https://ruthacasie.com/books.html

Excerpt:

Prologue

England – May 1605

I should not have stayed away so long.

Unable to shake the ominous feeling of being watched, Lord Arik kept the small group moving quickly. On high alert, his eyes continually swept the underbrush bordering the rain-slicked forest trail. He and his three riders escorted the wagon with the old tinker and the woman quickly through the forest. At length, he slowed the pace. The horses winded as they neared the Stone River.

“The forest is flooded,” he said. “I suspect the Stone will be as well. Willem, ride ahead and let me know what we face at the crossing.”

Willem did his lord’s bidding and quickly returned with his report. “The river ahead runs fast, m’lord. The bridge is in ruins and cannot be crossed.”

Arik raised his hand and brought the group to a halt. “We must make repairs, Doward,” he said to the old tinker, “there’s no room for the wagon at the river’s edge. You and the woman stay here and set up camp. Be ready to join us at the bridge when I send word.”

Logan, Arik’s brother, spoke up. “I’ll keep watch here and help Doward and Rebeka.”

Arik nodded and, with the others, continued the half mile to the bridge. “I am not pleased with this new delay.”

“It can’t be helped, m’lord,” Simon said. “We would make better time without the wagon.”

“We cannot leave Doward and the woman in the forest on their own, not with what we’ve heard lately. We’ll have to drive hard to make up the lost time,” Arik said as they came to the crossing.

The frame of the bridge stood solid, but the planks were scattered everywhere, clogging the banks and shallows. Arik leapt from his horse onto the frame to begin the repairs. “Hand me that planking.” Arik pointed to the nearest board.

Simon grabbed the nearest plank and examined it. “Sir, these boards have been deliberately removed.”

Arik reached for the board just as an arrow whooshed out of the trees and slammed into the plank’s edge. Willem pulled his ax from his belt. In a fluid, practiced movement, he spun and sent his ax flying. The archer fell into the river and was swept downstream, Willem’s ax lodged in his forehead.

A dozen or more attackers broke through the stand of trees. Poorly dressed fighters carrying clubs and knives moved toward them. There was only one sword among them, held by the leader—Arik’s target.

Arik tossed the board into the river and readied his sword. “They plan to pin us here at the river’s edge. Come, we’ll attack before they form up.”

Arik and his men surged forward, driving a wedge through the enemy’s ragged line, forcing what little formation they had to scatter and fight, each man for himself.

A man, club in hand, rushed at Arik. Before the attacker could bring his weapon into play, Arik pivoted around him. He raised his sword high and slammed the hilt’s steel pommel squarely on the man’s head and moved on before the man’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

Willem and Simon, on either side of Arik, advanced through the melee. Their swift swordplay moved smoothly from one stroke to the next, whipping through the air. They slashed on the down stroke and again on the backswing, sweeping their weapons into position to repeat the killing sequence as Arik and his soldiers steadily advanced, punishing any man who dared to come near them.

“For honor!” Logan’s war cry carried from the small camp to Arik’s ears.

Arik stiffened. Both camps were now under siege. He pulled his blade from an enemy’s chest. The body crumpled to the blood-soaked ground. Arik breathed deeply, the coppery taste of blood in the air.

“For honor!” he bellowed in answer. His men echoed his call, arms thrown wide, muscles quivering, the berserker’s rage overtaking them.

The remaining assailants fled headlong back into the forest.

Motioning to his men to follow, Arik raced toward Logan and the camp. He could hear shouts and cursed himself for not seeing the danger earlier. He crested the hill and came to an abrupt halt.

Logan’s sword ripped through the air as he protected Doward. The tinker drew his short blade and did as much damage as he could. But it was the woman Arik noticed. Her skirt hiked up, she twirled her walking stick like a weapon, with an expertise that left him slack-jawed. She dispatched the enemy, one by one, in a deadly well-practiced dance.

A man rushed toward her, knife in hand. The sneer on his face didn’t match the fear in his eyes.

She stepped out of his line of attack, extended her stick to her side and, holding it with both hands, swept the weapon forward, striking the intruder across the bridge of his nose. Blood exploded from his face in an arc of fine spray as his head snapped back. Droplets dusted her face, creating an illusion of bright red freckles. As he fell, she reversed her swing and caught him hard behind his knees. He went down on his back, spread-eagled. The woman swung her stick over her head and landed a precise blow to his forehead that knocked him unconscious.

As the woman spun to face the next threat, her glance captured Arik’s and held. In the space of an instant, time slowed to a crawl. Her hair slowly loosened from its pins and swirled out around her. His breath caught, and his heart quickened as a rapturous surge raced through his body. Something eternal and familiar, with a sense of longing, unsettled him.

In the next heartbeat, she tore her eyes away, leaving him empty. Time resumed its normal pace. Another fighter lay at her feet.

Arik joined the fight.

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Tea with Cordelia

The Duchess of Haverford had formed the habit of holding an afternoon tea early in the Season for the current year’s debutantes. It gave the girls an opportunity to meet one another away from the endless manoeuvring of the marriage mart and out from under the thumbs of their mothers and chaperones, who were having tea in another room down the hall.

It also allowed Eleanor, the duchess, to discover likely protégés and possible problems. Every year-group of debutantes had them. The girls who had the potential to join the ranks of the ladies whose work for diverse charities contributed so much to the wellbeing of the country their husbands governed. The girls whose sole focus was themselves, and who would tear others down in order to promote their own interests.

Eleanor circled the room, attempted to speak to each girl in turn. “Let me see,” she said to the latest, a very pretty young little lady with light brown curls. “You are Miss Cordelia Milton, are you not.”

The lady lifted her chin proudly and somewhat defensively. “I am, Your Grace. I am the daughter of Josiah Milton.”

Eleanor nodded. No shrinking violet this one. “I am acquainted with Mr Milton. We serve on some of the same committees.” Mr Milton was a self-made man, rising from humble beginning to become one of the richest men in the United Kingdom. Miss Milton was his only child.

Miss Milton’s face lit up with a lovely smile. “My father has mentioned you, Your Grace. He has nothing but praise for your influence as a trustee of the orphanages he also supports. Also the asylum for women.”

A safe haven for wayward women, facing the consequences of the lifestyle many had not adopted out of choice. The world they lived in was not kind to women who had children out of wedlock, no matter how they arrived at that unhappy state.

“Do you also have an interest in such causes, Miss Milton?” Eleanor asked.

The girl nodded with another of her delightful smiles. “My father says that we have been blessed with more than our share of riches, and that we ought to share what we can in a way that will do the most good.”

An excellent attitude, and one that was rare among the aristocracy. Mr Milton clearly intended his daughter educated to marry into the upper sort. She certainly had had the education, and was ladylike in appearance and manners. No one would sniff, either, at her dowry or her beauty.

But whether the young men currently on the market could get over the young lady’s working class connections was another matter. Perhaps someone from the gentry would be less likely to look down on Miss Miller for her antecedents.

Eleanor resolved to do what she could to smooth the girl’s path.

***

Cordelia is falls in love with the son and heir of a marquess, and their road to happiness is marred by the snobbishness that Eleanor derides.

 

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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.