Monday for Tea

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Tea with Ella and Alex from A Raging Madness

Her new set of carriage horses were everything the Duchess of Haverford could wish. A perfectly matched set of handsome bay geldings, gentle of nature and trained not only as a team of four, but to work in pairs or even alone.

Aldridge had brought them for her for a birthday present, and the breeder and his wife had delivered them in person, bringing them down from their estate in Suffolk by gentle stages. Lord and Lady Renshaw specialised in providing riding and carriage horses, and were gaining a stirling reputation among the ton. Lord Renshaw, or Alex, was an ex cavalry officer whose courage had been rewarded with the title of viscount and a rundown estate, which they were rapidly building into a prosperous going concern.

Aldridge knew them personally, of course. Alex was a Redepenning, a cousin of Stephen, Lord Chirbury, who was Eleanor’s nephew and therefore also Aldridge’s cousin. His wife was a less well known quantity. Ella had followed the drum as a child, had been married to a baronet, and there had been accusations of insanity around the time of her second marriage. All nonsense, as it turned out. A ghastly plot by her cousins in league with a villain whom Alex had killed in self defence.

As she poured tea for them all, Eleanor questioned them about the bloodlines of the horses and their training. “They will also take a saddle, Your Grace,” Ella said. “A gentleman’s saddle or a sidesaddle. We like our  horses to be ready for any eventuality.

So it was true. Ella was as involved in the stud farm as her husband. Indeed, one of their two most successful studs had been her dowry. “Do you drive, Lady Renshaw?” Eleanor asked, on a sudden whim. At Ella’s nod, she suggested, “Let us have two of my fine new fellows harnessed to the tilbury. We will leave your husband and my son to the brandy they would much prefer to have to their tea, and you shall drive me around the grounds and tell me all about your children.”

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Tea with Anne and her sons

“No, Stephen,” the Countess of Chirbury said, moving a delicate vase away from the questing hands of her eldest son.

“But Mama,” the little boy protested, “I need a place to hide my soldier. He is an exploring officer, like Papa’s friend, Mr Bear. And if John’s soldiers see him, they will shoot him.”

“Yes, they will,” his twin shouted. Then bit his lip at his mother’s frown. He stood and bowed to the Duchess of Haverford, his hostess. “I am sorry for shouting, Aunt Eleanor.”

“We do not shout in a lady’s parlour,” Anne reminded her son, who sent his impish grin her way and plopped back down on the carpet to turn some of the row of lead soldiers around, presumably so they could better hunt Stephen’s little exploring officer.

“Hide your man behind the cushion, Stephen,” Eleanor suggested. Cushions were much more robust than vases. When she had invited her niece-in-law and sons to tea, she had expected the children would come with attendants to keep them entertained. But apparently Hannah, their nurse, was on her afternoon off, and the nursemaid was a substitute, the usual nursery maid having eaten something that disagreed with her.

The inexperienced girl was out of her depth with the twins. She was sitting in a chair by the window showing a picture book to little Joseph, who at eight months old was regarding the illustrations with dark intense eyes. His father already called the boy ‘the Professor’, and he certainly showed no sign of becoming like his older brothers. At four years of age, they had more mischief apiece than a barrel of monkeys, though Anne would insist, and Eleanor agreed, that they had not an ounce of malice between them. Just boundless energy, creative imaginations, dauntless courage, an inborn need to each outdo the other, and a restless curiosity that led them from near catastrophe to close disaster, so that their father swore he was growing grey before his time.

A voice spoke from her doorway. “Good day, Mama, Cousin Anne, boys. We have a freshly waxed floor in the picture gallery, Cousin Anne. If I promise to keep them away from stairs and anything breakable, may I take my little cousins to test how well it works?”

Anne smiled beatifically at the Marquis of Aldridge, Eleanor’s son. “Would you?”

Aldridge winked at her and addressed her twins. “Boys, put your armies away in their boxes. Your Mama says you may come and play with me.”

“Can we go for a ride in your phaeton, Lord Aldridge?” John asked, as he obeyed the command with more haste than delicacy, throwing the toys into the little leather box they had arrived in.

“I have another plan,” Aldridge said. “You will like it.”

“Is it going to the kitchen to eat plums?” Stephen wondered, his own soldiers–even the precious exploring officer–being tossed carelessly into his own box.

“Something different,” Aldridge told them, holding out his hands. “Something fun.”

With a boy attached to each hand, he nodded to the ladies. “Send a footman when you want to retrieve your savages, Cousin,” he said, and led them away.

“He is very good with them,” Anne told Aldridge’s mother. “He will make a good father one day.”

 

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Tea with a new granddaughter

Outside of the nursery they may be the Duchess of Winshire and the Duchess of Haverford, but leaning over the ornate and much befrilled cot, Eleanor and her daughter-in-law were merely Grandmama and Mama.

“She is so beautiful, Cherry,” Eleanor exclaimed. “Look at the little darling.” Her voice slipped into the higher register that is natural to even the most dignified of ladies when speaking to a tiny infant. “Are you smiling? Are you smiling at your Grandmama? You are, Sally. Yes, you are.”

The baby, highly amused at the faces Eleanor was pulling, chortled.

“She is so precious,” Eleanor added.

The child’s mother was wearing a frown. “Anthony says that he does not mind that she is a girl,” she said.

“No more he should,” Eleanor replied, stoutly. The next words were cooed to the baby. “She is a little blessing, and he adores her from the tip of her sweet little toes to the dear little curls on her head.”

“He does.” Cherry sounded uncertain, and Eleanor dragged her attention from the dear little angel to focus on the mother.

“Cherry, he will has five nephews to be duke after him. He married you because he loves you, knowing the pair of you may never have children, and has never regretted his choice. He did not expect a child, and is over the moon with this one. Believe me. He is my son.He adores this little miracle, and would not change anything about her.”

Once, long ago, Eleanor had tried to talk Cherry out of accepting Haverford’s offer of marriage, knowing that Cherry had been told a disease had made her unlikely to carry to term, and being convinced her son would resent a barren wife.

She had been wrong. She had castigated herself many times for putting doubts in her beloved daughter-in-law’s mind, since they surfaced to torment Cherry every time a pregnancy failed.

“Come, darling,” she suggested, “let us send for a pot of tea and sit and talk. You shall tell me what is worrying you, and I shall rattle on about how happy we all are that Sally is a beautiful, healthy, little girl.”

She picked the baby up and cradled her in her arms. “You darling, darling child. You are going to be a heartbreaker, I can tell. Your father’s eyes and the curls your father cuts off lest anyone call him pretty! You shall be wooed by every nobleman in Great Britain. Yes, and Europe, too!”

That made Cherry laugh. “Her father swears that he will turn Catholic, just so that he can lock her up in a convent when she turns fifteen.”

Eleanor dropped a kiss on the little girl’s petal soft skin. “Do not you worry, Sally. Mama and Grandmama will make Papa behave.”

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Tea with Arial

 

This is an excerpt post from Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, now on preorder on Amazon, and out on 16 February. My heroine Arial has been the victim of a scurrilous caricature campaign. Then our Duchess throws the weight of her approval behind Arial and her husband. (This is not a scene in which they have tea, but I like to imagine that she invited Arial to visit shortly after.) The scene begins with Peter showing Arial the caricatures.

Arial raised her eyebrows at the pictures and blushed at the indecent ones. She was inclined, though, to be optimistic about their likely impact. “They have gone too far, Peter.” She raised one of the worst and put it down again. “Our friends will be as indignant as you are, but even those who are mere acquaintances will recognize these as outrageous rubbish. The viciousness of the lies may work in our favor by garnering us the sympathy of Society’s leaders. After all, if people can be made outcasts on the basis of provable fictions, nobody is safe.”

Peter shook his head, doubtful. However, on the drive through Hyde Park and at the theater that evening, many people approached with invitations, compliments on Arial’s gown or her mask, and even outright statements of support. Even one of the patronesses of hallowed Almack’s sought them out to assure Arial that she would be sent tickets.

Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theater box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theater, chatting for several minutes.

When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”

She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”

Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”

“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”

 

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Tea with Simon

Simon Marshall was nervous. He had drawn several designs to show the Duke and Duchess of Winshire, and now he was to present them. They were ordering a signet ring to mark the sixteenth birthday of the duke’s nephew, and Simon had made hundreds, perhaps thousands, or rings, many of them signets. The status of the clients, however, made this one of his most important jobs ever.

Not as important as the locket the duke’s dearest friend had commissioned for another sixteenth birthday some eight years ago. That locket, rescued from a thief, had reunited him with Zara, his darling wife of just a few months.

Zara stood somewhat in the relation of a godchild to the duke, and had assured him that the august couple were very nice. He knew that. He had met them at his wedding and again when they summoned him to Winshire House to commission the ring.

She also said his designs were magnificent. She was prejudiced in his favour, and thought everything he made to be beautiful. They were acceptable. Any one of them would work to make both an attractive ring and a clear and identifiable impression in wax—a mark that signified Elias, Lord Bentham, the youth who would receive the ring.

He held the courtesy title of viscount, as heir to the Earl of Lechton, would one day succeed to his father’s title and wear the ring that now graced the earl’s finger. “Long may that day be in coming,” the duchess had said. “In the meanwhile, my husband’s family has formed the habit of gifting their sons a signet ring when they turn sixteen.”

“A tradition,” the duke added, giving his wife a look full of affection, “that we will in future extend to daughters, at my duchess’s behest.”

Simon had asked a few questions about the Lechton coat of arms and the young recipient’s interests.

Dozens of drawings had been narrowed down to three designs. One contained the elements of the Lechton heraldic symbols that came from the Bentham title: a sword and a stylised fish. One was a representation of a star cluster, since Bentham had a passion for astrology. And one combined the two: a star crossed by a sword.

As the butler announced him, he took a deep breath and stepped into a pretty parlour, tastefully furnished, where the duke and duchess greeted him with warm smiles.

The duchess invited him to sit. The duke asked after his wife. The duchess poured him a cup of tea. Simon found himself relaxing.

Then the duke gestured to the folder Simon had put on the table before him. “Your designs?” His Grace asked. “Would you like to explain them to us, Mr Marshall?”

“No, Your Grace,” Simon said, then blushed at the look of surprise on the duke’s face and explained. “I believe, Your Grace, that if they need to be explained, they are not good enough.”

The duke nodded, and the duchess smiled. “That makes perfect sense, Mr Marshall. My husband and I shall look at what you have brought us, then, while you serve yourself one of Fournier’s little cakes and enjoy it with your tea.”

Simon Marshall is the hero of Zara’s Locket, my story in the new Bluestocking Belles collection, Belles & Beaux. Belles & Beaux is on preorder at the sale price of 99c, and is published next week. Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles website.

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Tea with Seraphina

The Duchess of Winshire’s personal butler ushered the pretty young woman into Her Grace’s presence. “Lady Lancelot Versey, Your Grace,” he announced. “Also Miss Frogmore, Miss Helena Frogmore, and Lord Frogmore.”

Lord Frogmore was carried by his nursemaid, and the two little girls each held a hand of their governess, though Eleanor had seen Lady Lance out walking with the children and her new husband with him carrying the little heir to her first husband, and her hand in hand with the children. Today, clearly, they were all on their best behaviour. All of them curtseyed, the little girls very prettily.

“You are all very welcome,” Eleanor told them. “Girls, I have had a table set for you in the window. There is a chair for little Harry, and a tea party just for the three of you and your attendants. Lady Lance, do take a seat and tell me how my godson fares. I do not need to ask if he makes you happy. You shine with it.”

The duchess had had little to do with Lady Lance’s vindication in the eyes of Society, beyond giving her own approval, but her son and daughter-in-law had been involved, and Eleanor had certainly approved of the poor young lady’s reinstatement and the downfall of the villains who had maligned her. “Tea, my dear?” she asked.

What follows is an excerpt from The Talons of a Lyon, finished today with THE END on the last scene, and being published in April by Dragonblade.

“Lance shall be waiting for us at the ball,” Elaine said. “I daresay he shall be most impressed with how lovely you are in that color, Seraphina.”

Sure enough, Lord Lancelot was waiting on the steps of the grand house when their carriage drove in. Seraphina guessed that Elaine was right, given that his jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he saw her.

He recovered quickly, and hurried down the steps to offer her one arm and Mrs Worthington the other. “I shall be the envy of every man here,” he declared. “Two such lovely ladies on my arms! I shall probably be cashiered from my club for greed.”

Mrs Worthington rapped his arm with her fan and told him he was a cheeky boy.

They passed through the receiving line, being greeted by the duchess herself and several other ladies who were on the board of the charity for whom the ball was raising funds. The duchess greeted Mrs Worthington and the Barkers as friends, and Lord Barker introduced Seraphina.

Around them, other conversations stopped. While the Verseys’ support had won Seraphina a conditional acceptance in Society, the influence of the Duchess of Winshire was enormous. What she said next could mean total success or abject failure.

“Lady Frogmore, I am charmed to meet you at last. I have been hearing about your sufferings, and I am so sorry I was not aware earlier. You may be certain of my support, my dear. Indeed, we are all agreed, ladies, are we not?”

The other ladies on the board nodded, and all had something pleasant to say to Seraphina as her party passed along the line.

The ballroom was enormous, magnificent, and very full. “Anyone who can afford the price of a ticket can come,” Elaine told Seraphina. “Despite that, even people who generally prefer more exclusive entertainments still want to be seen here, for the duchess is much admired. Though there are people like Percy and Aurelia who would rather give her a donation for her cause and stay home.”

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Tea with a pair of adventurers

The Duchess of Haverford had given instructions that she was not at home to guests, had retreated from the private sitting room in which she entertained favoured guests to the even more private boudoir off her bedroom, where few were ever invited.

The tray she had ordered had been served, and the maid and footman who brought it had left the room.

The box that was the cause of this seclusion sat on a table, its string cut, but the paper still not unwrapped.

To draw out the anticipation, Eleanor made her tea, carefully measuring the leaves into the pot, filling it with the water that boiled over the spirit lamp, and leaving it to brew. Next to her share, within reach of her hands once she was sitting, she placed the pot, the jug of milk, and a plate with a selection of tasty treats made especially for her by Marcel Fournier, who had once been her chef and was now married to a sort of a cousin of Eleanor’s.

Now. It was time. She approached the box, her heart beating with pleasurable anticipation. She removed the paper, taking time to fold it neatly. The box within was made of heavy card. The lid lifted easily, and she set it aside. And there it was at last, her companion for the afternoon and for many pleasurable stolen moments thereafter. Given how thick it was, it might keep her satisfied for weeks.

She lifted it out of the box and held it to her nostrils. Aahh! The smell of a new book. There was nothing like it.

Eleanor sat in her chair and put her feet up on the footstool. She put the book in her lap and traced the letters on the cover with one finger. “Adventures Around the World,” by Two Gentlemen.

This was volume four, dealing with travels in India and Ceylon. Eleanor had read the previous three. It was an open secret that the two gentlemen were the Duke of Dellborough’s fourth and youngest son, Lord Arthur Versey, and his travelling companion and secretary, Mr. Elijah Ashby, who was some sort of connection of the Earl of Werebridge. A great grandson of the sixth earl, if she remembered correctly.

Whoever they were, they were marvellous writers. Their books were full of the most wonderful descriptions, with clever ink sketches. Eleanor poured her cup of tea, sat back in her chair, and opened the covers. She was spending the afternoon with two gentlemen in India.

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Acts of Daring on WIP Wednesday

In my current work-in-progress, my heroine is fighting a court battle to get back custody of her children from the brother of her late husband. Discovering that the brother’s wife intends to hide them away in the country, my hero hatches a plan.

Thank goodness they were in time. The drivers were not yet in their seats. Men in Frogmore livery lounged against a nearby wall. Lance had been afraid that the detour to his bank might delay them too long, but money was essential to the plan.

“Take the rig a few doors down,” Lance told the groom as he dismounted. “We don’t want Mrs Frogmore coming out and seeing it.”

“You won’t leave me out, though, my lord?” the groom asked, and drove along with Lance’s reassurance.

The other three men approached the loungers. “How would some of you like the rest of the day off and all of you like a month’s pay for keeping your mouth shut?” Lance asked.

It took a bit of negotiation, and more money than he had initially offered, but in the end Lance and his men were dressed in Frogmore livery and one of the grooms relieved of duty for the day was on his way to Lance’s stable with Lance’s cattle and phaeton.

They were just in time. The word came from the house that they were to drive to the front steps to pick up their passengers.

Lance’s groom, with Lance alongside, drove the second carriage after the first. Hal and the valet took the footmen’s seat at the rear. As his informants had predicted, Mrs Frogmore and her dresser climbed aboard the first carriage, and it trundled away.

The nursery party waited for the second. They pulled up the steps. Hal and the valet leapt down to assist the passengers to board: first the nursemaid with the baby, then the sour governess, and then the two little girls.

They took off after the first carriage, their driver using every opportunity to let the other carriage get ahead—stopping to give way to people, other vehicles, and horses, and keeping their team into a slow walk.

Thankfully, the first carriage took the Windsor Road. It was the logical direction, given that young Baron Frogmore owned a secondary estate just out of Swindon. Lance had hoped Mrs Frogmore wouldn’t risk taking the children north to the principal Frogmore estate, not just because it was obvious, but because a journey of several days would give pursuers time to catch up.

This road would suit Lance’s plans very well. He had been thinking about where to hide the children until after the custody hearing made it safe to put them in their mother’s hands. Not with any of the Verseys or their closest friends. Percy certainly had the power to refuse to release them, but Lance didn’t know how his theft of the children would influence the custody hearing.

It was best if Percy, Lady Frogmore, and Mr Forsythe knew nothing about it. Then they could swear on oath that they had not been involved. It was possible that Mrs Frogmore would not know they were missing until she arrived at her destination this evening. That would be even better, for it would take at least ten hours to get the message back to London. The custody case could be over before anyone heard that the coach with the children had been hijacked.

However, just in case, Lance planned to take them to someone whose independence would not be questioned.

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Tea with Jude

Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford appears in my dream. Or do I appear in hers? Do fictional characters dream? However it is, I am on the terrace on the sheltered side of Haverford Castle, and Eleanor is pouring me a cup of tea.

Calling my duchess by her first name is a privilege afforded to me, commoner though I am, because I am her author.

“I know how you love Marcel’s cakes,” she tells me, putting two of them on a plate. “I had a box of them delivered to help us celebrate your latest book. Short stories, is it not?”

“Yes,” I agree. I take a sip of my tea, which is just the way I like it. “Chasing the Tale: Volume II. Ten short stories and novelettes, just long enough to enjoy before bed or with a cup of coffee or tea at any time of the day. I brought you a copy.” It appears in my hand as I speak, which is confirmation that I am dreaming, for it is a print copy, and print copies only came available to order, when the book went live, which should have happened a few minutes ago.

“Next month,” I say, “I have a story in Belles & Beaux, a Bluestocking Belles collection. Your husband appears in it.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Haverford?”

Oh. So this is prior to 1815, which is when Haverford died. “Your next husband, I tell her.” It’s a bit of a spoiler alert, but I won’t tell her anything more.

“You are not planning to inflict another husband on me, I hope,” she scolded. “Was the first one not enough?”

Perhaps a little bit more. “The second one is more in the way of a reward,” I assure her. To prevent her from asking any more, I take a bite from one of Marcel Fournier’s lovely little cakes. One of the benefits of meeting my characters inside my fictional world is that I’m not allergic to anything. It is delicious.

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Tea with a knight on a quest

Lord Lancelot Versey was one of the Duchess of Winshire’s godchildren. That didn’t make him special. While the rumour she was godmother to half the ton was probably an exaggeration, she certainly had a vast army of godsons and goddaughters, each of whom she favoured with a personal note and a small gift on the anniversary of their christening.

Still, the relationship was close enough that Lance felt comfortable asking her for a favour. He would have approached her anyway, he hoped. He was on a quest to reestablish the reputation of a fair lady–not a damsel in distress, exactly, but a widow, and certainly in distress. Lance wanted the duchess’s help for his lady, and also an introduction to David Wakefield, the enquiry agent who was the duchess’s protege, and also the base-born son of her first husband, the Duke of Haverford.

He would, he decided, as he bowed over the duchess’s hand, took the seat she waved him to, and answered his comments about the weather, have to introduce the subject carefully. After all, the brother-in-law of his lady fair had spread dreadful rumours about her. If the duchess had heard them, she might dismiss him out of hand.

He would describe her situation without naming her. “Your Grace, I wondered if I might bring a lady I know to meet you. She has been woefully mistreated, and she needs your help.” That was a good start. Her Grace was known to be sympathetic to women in dreadful circumstances.

The duchess smiled and nodded. “Yes, Lancelot. You may certainly bring Lady Frogmore to me, and I will help however I can. I am very distressed that I did not seek her out when that dreadful man first started spreading his lies.”

Lance’s jaw dropped. There was only one explanation. Percy, his brother the Duke of Dellborough, had always claimed that the duchess was a witch, and he must be right. How else could she know exactly what he wanted?