Monday for Tea

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Tea with Lady Ransome

The young Lady Ransome would do very well indeed, Eleanor thought. She had taken a social liability–the terrible burn scars from the fire that had nearly taken her life when she was a child–and turned it into an intriguing asset.

The half mask that covered one side of her face from the mouth up could have been merely a reminder that, under it, she was disfigured. Indeed, if Eleanor’s information was correct, she had until recently worn plain white masks that had precisely that effect.

However, she had taken to matching her masks to her gowns, with startling effect. Painted in matching or complementary colours and trimmed with ribbons, jewels, and lace, her masked no longer looked like one side of a skull. Instead, they were glamorous accessories that drew attention, not so much to the mask, as to the lady herself. The side of her face that showed was not traditionally pretty, but it was beautiful. Full of character and charm. Her figure was more lush than currently fashionable, but fashion was foolish at best. Her generous curves, audaciously enhanced the gowns she wore, suited her and clearly pleased her husband, if one could judge from his stern eye on the gentlemen who now flocked to compliment her.

She also had excellent manners, neither too forward nor too reserved. During their half hour visit, their conversation had been wide ranging, and she had shown herself well able to hold her own in the group of young ladies Eleanor had gathered to meet her.

“Another cup, Lady Ransome?” Eleanor asked.

“No thank you, your grace,” the younger woman replied. “It has been very pleasant, but it is time for me to take my leave. Thank you so much for inviting me here today.” She cast a smile around the group, who chorused their farewells.

“I am leaving, too, Aunt Eleanor,” said Sarah, Lady Lechton, one of Eleanor’s goddaughters and niece to Eleanor’s husband. “I shall walk you out, Lady Ransome, and ask you a million questions about this salve you mentioned. I am certain my husband shall be interested.”

Eleanor was delighted. Lady Ransome needed friends in Society, and Sarah had the contacts to make sure she found them.

***

In Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, which will be out early next year, I have a scene in which Eleanor, now the Duchess of Winshire, throws her social weight behind my heroine, Arial, Viscountess Ransome. I imagine the following scene from that story came before the afternoon tea I envisage above.

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’ theatre 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 theatre, 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 an assassin (retired)

Mrs Moriarty, Prue Wakefield’s guest, was not Irish, as her name suggested. Mediterranean, if Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire,  had to make a guess. Perhaps Greek, with that classical nose and heavy eyebrows.

They had enjoyed a cup of tea each and some of Fournier’s lovely little cakes, but Eleanor still did not know why Prudence had asked for the meeting, though the conversation had been pleasant. Mrs Moriarty was not only a beautiful woman, but a very intelligent one, able to hold her own in a wide-ranging conversation.

She also had the same alert way of moving through her surroundings that Eleanor had seen before, in those who worked in the shadows. It came as no surprise when Prue said, “Mrs Moriarty’s husband was one of Lord Ruthford’s exploratory officers, and Mrs Moriarty also worked with him from time to time.”

“I was an assassin,” Mrs Moriarty said, the words all the more startling in her soft voice. Perfect English diction. She had learned the language well, and probably as a child. “Was. I do not like taking life, your grace,” she added.

Eleanor was seldom lost for words, but what did one say to such a statement? I am so glad? That is nice, dear?

“Lord Ruthford and the Moriartys have set up a new agency. Mrs Moriarty will head it, as the gentlemen are both occupied, Ruthford as an earl and Moriarty as a Senior Supervisor with the Thames River Police.”

This, Eleanor assumed, was the business end of the meeting. “Does the agency need something from me?” she asked. “I will need to know its purpose.”

Mrs Moriarty gave a pleased nod. “Prue told me that your grace is an unusual woman. You are correct. Moriarty Protection would like your endorsement. We seek to offer, as the name implies, discreet guard services for those in need of protection. Our guards will be experts in all kinds of weapons and in unarmed combat, and will have the highest level of screening to ensure they cannot be bought. Our women guards, as well as the men. They will be well enough spoken and educated to join a household in any guise, as servants, guests, friends, even family members.”

“Women guards?” Eleanor asked, intrigued by that one fact. She could see the benefit! “Unexpected, and able to follow a woman they are protecting into places a man cannot go,” she said.

That fetched another approving nod from Mrs Moriarty. “Precisely,” she said.

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Tea with Kitty

“It is always lovely to see you, Kitty dear,” said the Duchess of Haverford as she sipped her tea, “but I did not realise that you had come to town with Chirbury and your sister.” It was more of an opening than a statement. Kitty’s sister Anne, another of her goddaughters and wife to her nephew, the Earl of Chirbury, had visited just two days ago, to see whether Kitty had come to the duchess for help. “She has taken flight with our gamekeeper and his son, Aunt Eleanor, after hearing two people plot to kill him. We hoped she might come to you.”

Well, here she was. It remained to be seen what for.

“I did not, Aunt Eleanor. Indeed, I came to London hoping to find them, but they have already left for Longford Court.”

Eleanor inclined her head.

“I need your help, Aunt Eleanor. Or, rather, Lucas Mogg needs your help. You remember him? He  helped to save Dan last year from the man who wanted to take him.”

Yes, Eleanor well remembered the attempt on the son of young Jules’ Redepenning, and Mr Mogg’s role in it. “A good man,” she agreed. “A pity he is not of your class, my dear, for I know you have a tendre for him.” Although Eleanor supposed it was too late for such considerations, if they had been travelling together. She hoped they had not been travelling together.

“We have been travelling together,” said Kitty.

***

In The Flavour of Our Deeds, which I am currently writing, Kitty and Luke, with Luke’s son Paul, are on their way to London, having failed to find Kitty’s sister Anne and her husband at their Essex estate. Once in London, they will seek help from the Duchess of Haverford and her son Aldridge.

 

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Tea with a worried mother

This excerpt is from Revealed in Mist.

Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.

Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

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

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

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

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

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”

Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”

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

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

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Tea with the boys

Another excerpt post. This is one of the memories that Eleanor takes out of her memory box in Paradise Lost, which you’ll find in the collection Paradise Triptych.

Haverford Castle, East Kent July 1806

The Duchess of Haverford examined her two sons as they waited for her to pour them a cup of tea each. To an outsider, they would seem totally at ease — Aldridge relaxed on the sofa, an amused twist to his lips and his cynical eyes fond as he teased his brother about the horse the boy had bought on a jaunt into Somerset; Jon laughing as he defended his purchase, suggesting warmly that the marquis’s eye for a filly blinded him to the virtues of a colt.

To their fond Mama, they appeared worried. Eleanor saw strain around the younger man’s eyes, and quick darting glances at her and then at his brother when Jon thought she wasn’t watching. Aldridge had that almost imperceptible air of being ready to leap to Jon’s defence in an instant; a watchfulness, a vague tension.

Aldridge’s cup was prepared as he liked it, and he came to fetch it from her hands, thanking her with a smile.

She would let them raise the subject, if that was their plan, but she did not intend to let them leave this room without knowing about the new addition to her nursery: a nervous withdrawn little girl of three or four years old. “If she was a bumptious little lordling and not a poor trembling mouse,” Nanny said, “she could be one of my lads come again. Same shaped face and eyes. Same colour hair with the curls that won’t brush out. Their lordships have your eyes, Your Grace, and this wee sprite doesn’t, but I’ll tell you who has eyes just that colour: so close to green as never so.” Not that Nanny did tell the duchess. She did not need to. Those eyes were more familiar to Eleanor than her own.

She handed a cup to the younger son of the man with those eyes.

The child came from Somerset. Jon had brought her home in his curricle, leaving his groom to ride Jon’s horse and manage the colt. On finding out about the little girl, and learning that Jon had deposited her in the nursery and then gone straight out to search town for his older brother, Eleanor had been tempted to question the groom.

However, she wanted Jon to tell her the story.  Or Aldridge, perhaps. It was more likely to be his story than Jon’s, given the age of the child. Jon was only 19. Furthermore, it was in Somerset that a certain outrageous scandal blew up five years ago, resulting in the exile of the sons of two dukes: Aldridge to a remote Haverford estate in northern Scotland, and his accomplice overseas.

Nanny didn’t think the little girl was old enough to be a souvenir of Aldridge’s visit to the Somerset town, but her size might be a result of neglect. She had been half-starved, poor little mite. The bruises might be from falls or other childhood accidents. Nanny suspected beatings, which made Eleanor feel ill to think about.

She sat back with her own cup, and took a sip. As if it were a signal, Jon gave Aldridge another of those darting glances and spoke.

“Mama, I expect you’ve heard about Frances.”

Ah. Good. She was to be told the story. “Is that her name, Jon? Nanny didn’t know it, and little Frances isn’t talking.”

Jon nodded, and smiled. There was a sweetness to the boy that the elder never had, perhaps because he was a ducal heir from the moment of his birth. “She is a little shy, Mama.” His smile vanished and he frowned. “She has been badly used, and for no fault of her own. I could not leave her there, Mama. You must see that.”

Eleanor arched one brow, amusement colouring her voice as she answered. “If you tell me her story, my son, we will find out.”

It was much as Eleanor already suspected, though the villain in the piece was neither of her sons. Lord Jonathan Grenford, arriving in Fickleton Wells to inspect and pay for the offspring of a horse pairing that he coveted, found that the whole town, except for the owner of the horse, gave him a cold shoulder, and no one would tell him or his groom why.

Only on the last night of his stay did he hear the story. He came back to his hotel room to find a woman waiting for him. “A gentlewoman, Mama, but with a ring on her finger, and quite old — maybe 30. I thought… well, never mind that.”

Aldridge gave a snort of laughter, either at Jon’s perspective on the woman’s age or at his assumption about her purpose.

Jon ignored him. “Anyway, I soon realised I was wrong, for there on the bed was a little girl, fast asleep. The woman said she belonged to Haverford, and I could take her. I argued, Mama, but I could see for myself she was one of us, and that was the problem. The woman’s husband had accepted Frances when she was born, but as she grew, she looked more and more like His Grace.”

“He resented being cuckolded, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “Men do, my sons, and I trust you will remember it.”

Both boys flushed, the younger one nodding, the older inclining his head in acknowledgement, the glitter in his eyes hinting he did not at all appreciate the gentle rebuke.

“He took his frustrations out on Mrs Meecham, which she surely didn’t deserve after all this time when I daresay he has sins of his own, and on little Frances too, which was entirely unfair. Mrs Meecham said that if Frances remained as a reminder, the Meechams could never repair their marriage, and that she feared one day he would go too far and seriously hurt or even kill the baby. So, I brought her home. Can we keep her, Mama?”

Eleanor looked at Aldridge, considering.

“She is not mine, if that is what you are thinking, Mama,” her eldest son told her. “She might have been, I must admit, but she was born fifteen months after I was last in Fickleton Wells. I’d been in Scotland for six months when Mrs Meecham strayed outside of her pastures again.”

Six months after the scandal, His Grace the duke had travelled back to Somerset, to pay damages to the gentlemen of Fickleton Wells who claimed that their females had been debauched. He had greatly resented being made a message-boy by the Prince of Wales, and had been angry with his son and the females he had shamed for their indiscretions and beyond furious at the cuckolded gentlemen of the town for imposing on his ducal magnificence with their indignation. The mystery of Frances’s patrimony was solved.

“She is so sweet, Mama, and has been through so much. She needs tenderness and love. Don’t tell me I must give her to foster parents or an orphan asylum. I know His Grace will not be pleased, but…”

Eleanor smiled. “The problem with Fickleton Wells, Jon, as I’m sure Aldridge is aware, is that it is a Royal estate. Wales was mightily annoyed at what he saw as an offence against his dignity. He insisted on Haverford making all right.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He clearly thought this presaged a refusal.

Aldridge was seven years more sophisticated and had been more devious from his cradle. His eyes lit again with that wicked glint of amusement. Eleanor nodded to him. “Yes, Aldridge, precisely.”

Aldridge put down his cup. “Wales is not best pleased with His Grace at the moment. A matter of a loss at cards.”

Eleanor and her elder son grinned at one another, and her younger son perked up, looking from one to the other.

“Should one be grieved by the loss of a fosterling,” Eleanor mused, “and take one’s sorrows to, let us say, a Royal princess who might be depended on to scold her brother for the behaviour of one of his favourites…” Eleanor stopped at that. Jonathan did not need the entire picture painted for him. He gazed at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“His Grace will not dare make a fuss. If His Royal Highness finds out that the very man he sent to save him from the offended citizens left a cuckoo chick in the nest of an esteemed leader of the community…”

“Precisely,” Aldridge agreed. “Mama, you are brilliant, as always.”

The duchess stood, leaving her cup on the table, and both boys. “Let us, then, go up to the nursery, and make sure all is well with your new baby sister.”

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Monday for Tea

Another excerpt post, this one from A Baron for Becky

When Aldridge sought her out the following afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop: writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

“May I have a moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

“Not at all, Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son. Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery? Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

“Now, my dear, tell me how Mama can help.”

Aldridge waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak in private.

“Mama, Overton has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies before the girls are grown and married.”

Her Grace nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by then.”

Aldridge ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would marry when he must and not before.

“Of course I have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be done.”

The Duchess tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes distant.

“Something more might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

Aldridge watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a barony.”

His mother blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and contemplative.

“Only the old ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

“Letters Patent can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

“Over a century ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

She fell silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our little Belle cannot be a baroness.”

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Tea with Snowy White

An excerpt from my current work-in-progress.

On Monday, ten minutes before the appointed time, dressed in his finest, Snowy presented himself at the London home of the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. It took most of that time to be passed from the footman who opened the door to the butler who sent a message for yet another footman who conducted him up the opulent stairs and along elegant passages to Her Grace’s private sitting room.

“I do appreciate punctuality,” said the duchess. “Come in, my dear.” The room was like the lady herself, elegant and beautifully presented, but with a warmth about it that drew a person in.

Snowy took the chair she indicated, on the other side of a low table from the duchess herself. She busied herself with the tea makings and then dismissed all the servants, leaving the two of them alone.

“Being alone with a young man without facing untoward accusations is one of the benefits of advancing age and high social position, Lord Snowden,” she said. “They are fewer than you might think.” She handed him his cup of tea.

“Your Grace is a beautiful woman,” Snowy told her, ignoring the way she had addressed him. He had a feeling she used the title to unsettle him, and was determined not to show how well it was working.

“For an old lady.” The duchess’s eyes twinkled. “I have grandchildren, Snowden.You wince. If you plan to take the title, you had better get used to it.” With the precision of a needle, she added, “Do not think of it as your step-father’s name, my dear. Think of it as your father’s, God rest his soul.”

The woman read his mind like a witch. Or Lily. How his foster mother would laugh at being compared to a duchess!

“I will try, my lady.”

“Good. I knew your mother.” She took a sip of her own tea. “I owe you a debt, Snowden. When your mother disappeared from Society, I took your grandfather’s word that her mind was turned by your death and she was living retired while she recovered. I obeyed my husband’s command to stay out of your family’s private business. I should have insisted on visiting. Perhaps there is something I could have done.” She shook her head, sadly.

The duchess had previously been married to the Duke of Haverford, of whom Snowy had heard nothing good. “You could not have helped her, Your Grace.”

“I can help you, Snowden,” the duchess retorted. “What is it that you need?”

“I appreciate the thought, ma’am. I am not sure that anyone can give me what I really need.”

The duchess tipped her head to one side. “Tell me what that is, and we shall see.”

“Information, mostly. I believe we’ll find most of it. Lord Andrew has put me on to an enquiry agent. A man called Wakefield. He is apparently very good.”

“I can vouch for him,” her grace agreed. “He and his wife are connections of my family, and very good at their work. But tell me what information you are looking for, my dear. I have sources of my own.”

“I want the whole truth, Your Grace. I want to know if Snowden was behind my kidnapping. Whether it was attempted murder, as my mother and my foster mother believed. I want to know whether my father was murdered, what happened to my mother, everything about my past I should have grown up knowing. I will settle for evidence of two things. That the boy Aunt Lily found in that alley is the same boy that was stolen from a garden in Mayfair two days earlier. And that my mother’s second husband was responsible for my disappearance.”

“I see.” The duchess proved that she did see by adding, “The first will make it easier for you to claim the viscountcy. The second will allow you to seek justice.”

In truth, Snowy would settle for the first. He could leave seeking justice until Snowden tried to kill him again.

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Tea with the daughters

While Parliament was sitting, Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire brought all her female brood together for tea once a week, or at least those who were in London. Her daughters of the heart, though she’d birthed none of them.

She looked around the room at them all chattering, sharing family news and discussing the issues facing their world and the charities to which each devoted time and attention.

Cherry, Duchess of Haverford, had her head close together with Matilda, Sophia, and Prue. Cherry was the beloved wife of Eleanor’s eldest son, and the lady responsible for the happiness that lit Haverford’s eyes and curved his lips into a smile whenever she was near, or even when they were briefly parted and he thought of her. She was also Eleanor’s niece by marriage, being the daughter of Eleanor’s husband’s deceased brother.

Matilda, Countess of Hamner, her eldest foster daughter, was once known to all the ton as the Ice Maiden, though no one would think it to see her now. Matilda had entered Eleanor’s nursery as a baby, and captivated the Duchess of Haverford, as she was then, with one fathomless gaze from those blue eyes.

Sophia, Countess of Sutton, wife to her husband’s eldest son, was a lady who coupled great dignity with enormous warmth. Sophia was another Eleanor had loved all her life, since her friend the Countess of Hythe had asked Eleanor to be godmother to the newborn babe. After Sophia’s marriage to Jamie and Eleanor’s marriage to his father Winshire, Sophia was now her daughter in law, as well as religion and affection.

Prudence Wakefield was the mother of a number of Eleanor’s grandchildren. It was true that the younger ones who were acknowledged as grandchildren were so only by courtesy, since Prue’s husband David was a by-blow of Eleanor’s first husband and no blood relation. The eldest could not be acknowledged as a blood relation, for she was the daughter of Prue and Eleanor’s eldest son, conceived in a long ago youthful folly that the family had no intention of sharing with the world. Those who noticed her resemblance to the Haverfords assumed David was her father, as he was in every way except biological. To make the relationship even more complicated, she and David had taken Tony into their family. He was a slum brat, rescued by Cherry, and discovered to be the offspring of Eleanor’s younger son, Jonathan.

Ruth, Sarah and Becky were also deep in conversation. Ruth was the Countess of Ashbury and the Duke of Winshire’s daughter, and Sarah was Countess of Lechton and twin sister to Cherry. From the serious looks on the two faces, Eleanor would guess that they were talking about the medical clinic that Ruth had founded and where Sarah’s husband Nate worked.

Like Prue’s, Becky’s relationship with the Haverfords had elements that most of the world did not know. She was Baroness Overton, wife to the current Duke of Haverford’s closest friend. But under another name, she had once been Haverford’s mistress. Bella, the youngest Overton daughter, was another unacknowledged grandchild.

Rosemary was laughing with Jessica and Frances. They were probably talking about Frances’s debut ball, which had been a grand success.  Lady Rosemary Winderfield was Winshire’s youngest daughter, and the only one yet unmarried. Perhaps she would choose a husband this year. Certainly, she would need one to chase away the wistful look Eleanor had caught from time to time when Ruth watched the other ladies with their children.

Jessica’s laugh was good to hear. Eleanor’s middle foster daughter, the Countess of Colyford, still wore black for her husband, though Eleanor wondered how she could mourn him after what he’d done to her, and tried to do. She was laughing again, though, and would perhaps put off her blacks soon.

Frances’s laugher was unforced. The sweetest of Eleanor’s three foster daughters was also the smartest. She had quickly summed up the majority of her suitors as fribbles without serious intention and had picked out the fortune-tellers with unerring accuracy. Eleanor, Winshire, and even her brother Haverford told her to marry for love, and Eleanor hoped that she would.

by

Tea with Ulrick

Sir Ulrick de Mohan made his way from the training field and took the steps two at a time to reach the door leading into the keep of Berwyck Castle. The day had been fulfilling and he was eager to change out of his chainmail and enjoy a good cup of ale after a hard day’s work. The door opened before him and as he went through the portal, he skidded to a halt. He pulled his sword from his scabbard and held it before him. This was not Berwyck!

A man in uniform held out his arm as if Ulrick had been expected. “This way, sir.”

Ulrick took in his surroundings from the costly items in the foyer to the images of paintings hanging on walls that were surely not of his time. God’s Blood! Had he somehow found himself in the future where some of the women who came to Berwyck were from?

He had no answers other than his confusion when he was taken down the corridor into the interior of the castle. Mayhap the woman to whom he was taken would know. She sat in a room of such magnificence he pondered if mayhap he was sitting before a future Queen of England.

“Oh dear,” the woman murmured, once she saw him standing in her doorway. “I haven’t had one of your kind in quite a while. Come in, dear boy, and stop your gawking.”

He scoffed at the dear boy remark, came to stand before her, and bowed. “My lady.”

Her brow rose as she looked him over. “And you are?” she asked lifting a dainty cup to her lips.

He straightened. “Sir Ulrick de Mohan.”

“Welcome to my home, Sir Ulrick. I am the Duchess of Haverford,” she replied. “Tea?”

A sound escaped him. What was this tea? “Where am I?’ he asked instead, whilst his gaze continued to look around the room in disbelief.

“Maybe something stronger would be fitting to calm your nerves,” she replied, waving to what he assumed was another servant standing near the door. A clear glass with an amber liquid was pressed into his hands and he sniffed the contents.

The Duchess said, “I understand time traveling can take a bit out of you.”

He was about to take a sip, when her words penetrated his head. “Is that what I have done? Traveled through time like one of those future women who find themselves at Berwyck’s gates?”

“Well, you’re obviously still not in… the twelfth century was it?  Are you?”

He pondered her words, took a sip of the contents of his cup, and then unstuck the words from his throat in order to answer her. “Aye. I suppose I am not. Whatever am I doing here with you then?”

The duchess sat back in her chair. “What is it you need in your life, good sir, to make you content?”

“Need? I have everything I want in life. There is nothing I need,” he said, setting the cup down after downing its contents.

“It has been my experience that, when a knight happens to cross time and come before me, it is generally because he is missing something in his life. Usually that something is a woman… or a wife. In either case, a lady may just fall into your life whether you are ready for her or not,” she answered, and Ulrick could swear he saw her eyes twinkling mischievously. “The question remains… what will you do with her once she is in your arms?”

“Not one of those future women!” he fumed picking up his glass and then remembering he had already drunk the contents. The duchess saw his dilemma and nodded to the servant, who refilled the glass.

“Who is to say? You are the master of your own happily-ever-after. I am but a slight diversion in your life to give you something to think about when you return to your own time.”

“And will I return? To my own time, that is?” She nodded instead of answering him. Ulrick once more downed his drink and began to feel the pull of the twelfth century calling to him to return.

“Remember my words, Sir Ulrick. What is it you really need in your life to make you happy and complete? You may not be looking for a wife, but do not easily dismiss the gift you will be given.”

One moment he was sitting with the duchess in a world not his own and the next he was back entering the keep at Berwyck Castle. He could only ponder if what had just happened to him really occurred or if he had imagined the whole damn thing!

 

Promises Made At Midnight:

The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time (Book Six)

By Sherry Ewing

Sometimes all it takes to find your heart’s desire is to make a wish…

After a series of failed relationships, Bridgette Harris would like a fresh start. If only she could escape her ex-boyfriend since they participate in the same renaissance fairs. While gazing at a granite statue of a handsome knight—her dream man—at one such fair, a mysterious elderly Scottish woman offers her a coin to toss into the fountain and make a wish. Bridgette can’t resist, but nothing prepares her to suddenly slip through time.

Sir Ulrick de Mohan does not have time for love. He is charged with training possible recruits to become worthy guardsmen for the Devil’s Dragon. The woman who magically appears out of thin air and falls into his arms must be one of those future ladies who continue to show up at Berwyck’s gate. But she can’t be for him.

Fate has brought two people together despite the centuries that should be keeping them apart. Will the growing love between them be enough to keep Bridgette in the past or will Time return her to where she should belong?

Buy Links:

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Books2Read: https://books2read.com/u/4Ap6xd

 

 

by

Tea with Delia

Delia Fitzwallace watched the sumptuous traveling carriage, accompanied by liveried footmen and outriders and festooned with a ducal crest, pull up to Seascape, her brother’s elegant manor. She stood in one of the landward windows. Hurrying to the hall she informed Clifford, Jeffrey’s butler, that she would receive her guest in the Shoreward Room. “And tea outside, please.” The room opened onto a terrace that commanded spectacular views of the Bristol Channel as it opened to the sea.

Delia peered into a massive mirror, one with an ornate bronze frame that her father had brought from India on one of his voyages. Her gown, lavender silk from the Graham warehouses softened by touches of grey lace, didn’t particularly flatter her coloring, but it was attractive enough and perfectly appropriate for the end stages of mourning. Still, her nerves were frayed. The visitor was expected, but Delia had not quite recovered from the surprise that shook her when word came that the duchess would call.

What is the woman doing in Bristol?

Approaching footsteps paused by the door and Delia heard hushed conversation taking place, the duchess no doubt requesting courtesy to her entourage. The door opened on silent hinges and Clifford intoned, “The Duchess of Winshire.”

Delia dropped to a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, how kind of you to call.”

“A condolence call is simple courtesy my dear, and mine, I’m afraid, is tardy. Unless I’m mistaken, your formal mourning is almost over.” Her Grace took Delia’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “How are you bearing up?”

“Well, Your Grace. You are so kind to check in on me,” Delia said.

“Lady Fitzwallace, your Vincent called me ‘Aunt Eleanor.’ Can’t you do the same?”

Delia couldn’t resist the woman’s genuine warmth. “It would be an honor. Could you call me Delia as well? Shall we visit on the terrace?”

“I would be disappointed if we didn’t. Seascape is famous for its panoramic views,” The duchess said linking arms and letting Delia lead her out.

Soon enough tea arrived and they sipped while her visitor exclaimed over the view of shipping in the channel and the hills of Wales across the way. This house is a wonder!”

“It is indeed. My brother likes to use this room to entertain Graham Shipping business partners. It never fails to impress,” Delia said.

“Why, then, do you plan to leave?” Aunt Eleanor raise an enquiring eyebrow.

It was almost an ambush. How on earth did she know? Vincent, Delia’s late husband, always said the Duchess of Haverford—now Winshire—was a witch or at very least that she had the sight.

“As magnificent as this place is, it is a museum and not a home for children,” Delia replied.

“Does it not have a nursery?” The duchess appeared puzzled.

“Of course! But they aren’t able to roam freely. The house is meant to impress, not to entertain busy boys and a curious girl. There is no real garden, and, perched as it is on a cliff, it isn’t safe to let them wander on their own. As beautiful as it is, it just isn’t a comfortable family home.”

“What happened to your townhouse in London?” the duchess asked. Delia paused to formulate a diplomatic reply, and the duchess eyed her shrewdly. “Let me guess. It belongs to Awbury.”

The Duke of Awbury was Delia’s father-in-law. Vincent, Delia’s late husband, and been Awbury’s fourth son. She bit her lip and nodded. “He… That is, he has been quite generous about urging us to stay there but—”

“On his terms and under his watchful eye, am I correct?”

Delia nodded. “The truth is, I long for a place of my own. I have the funds. My personal fortune is substantial, and I plan to get what I want.” She raised a stubborn chin. Let the woman make of that what she wished.

If the duchess wondered how Delia’s fortune had been protected from that scapegrace Lord Vincent Fitzwallace, she was too polite to ask. She could probably guess that a shrewd merchant like Peter Graham would protect his daughter’s funds in the marriage settlements. Her next words surprised Delia. Surprised and pleased.

“Good for you, my dear!” she said. “I applaud your decision. Where do you plan to go?”

“I have an agent looking for a place. Somewhere quiet. In the country, where children are free to ramble. With flowers. I particularly want flowers,” Delia sighed. “A cottage of my own, is it too much to ask?”

“I may know of one. It isn’t a thatched cottage, mind. It is a dower house on a large estate—solid, substantial, and I’ve been given to understand, surrounded by flowers. The last I heard they were looking to rent it not sell it.”

Delia’s heart sped up. It sounded ideal, but rent? “I suppose renting first might be wise. It would give me a chance to find my way.”

“It would indeed.” The duchess pulled a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. “Contact this man,” she said. “Eli Benson. He is the land steward for the Earl of Clarion.”

Delia stared at the name. “I will write to him today. Where is this house located?”

“On the coaching road from Nottingham to Shrewsbury. It is called Ashmead.”

Soon enough the time for a polite condolence call passed the Aunt Eleanor took her leave. Delia glanced at the name and the man’s direction and sat down to write.

About The Upright Son

Book 4 of The Ashmead Heirs

A notorious will left David, the very proper Earl of Clarion, with a crippled estate and dependents. He’s the one left to pick up the pieces while caring for others—his children, his tenants, and the people of Ashmead. He cares for England, too. Now that the estate has been put to right, he is free to pursue his political ambitions. His family even encourages him to host a house party. But loneliness weighs him down. Then he meets his new neighbor.

Her uninhibited behavior shocks him. Why can’t he get her out of his mind?

Happily widowed Lady Delia Fitzwallace revels in her newly rented cottage, surrounded by flowers and the wonder of nature, thrilled to free her three rambunctious children from the city of Bristol and let them enjoy the countryside to the fullest. If only she can avoid offending her very proper neighbor, the earl, when their children keep pulling her into scrapes.

She has none of the qualities he needs in a countess. Is she exactly what he needs as a man?

Released 28 June: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B4FCXDX2/

An excerpt

“Stop it, Percy! You’re roiling up the water and chasing away the frogs,” Alf said.

Delia reached for Percy. She managed to grab one arm when Penny piped up. “There are riders coming, Mama.”

Delia glanced back over her shoulder to see a man and a boy approach. She and the children rented the Clarion dower house. In the four months since they took up residence, she had never seen the earl, having been told he preferred London, particularly when Parliament was in session. The rider’s haughty expression, distinguished bearing, and thick auburn hair left her in little doubt that she saw him now.

Caught at her least dignified, embarrassment distracted her. She wasn’t prepared when Percival yanked on her arm and overturned her balance. Flail her arms though she did, she could do nothing to prevent her tumble into the water.

“Hogswallop!” she grumbled and immediately prayed the earl didn’t hear her. She rose, striving for as much grace as she could muster, with weeds clinging to her sodden gown and a squirming toddler pulling on her arm.

Man and boy pulled to a stop. “Good afternoon,” she chirped before they could speak.

Clarion—for it must be he—blinked. The boy looked up at his father as if to ask how to behave.

“I don’t believe I know you,” the earl said, staring at her muddy hems.

“Do you know everyone?” she asked intrigued. She stepped up onto the bank and pulled Percy with her.

“Everyone who would freely do whatever it is you’re doing on the Clarion estate.” He waved a hand as if to encompass the entire scene. “May I ask your identity and your purpose here?”

“Of course. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Lady Delia Fitzwallace. We have the privilege of renting the Clarion dower house. We have a five-year lease.” She wasn’t sure why she added that last, except perhaps a fear this stern man might turn them out.

He appeared startled by her title, and Delia suspected he may have taken her for a tavern trollop of some sort, though the children might have given him a clue if he cared to consider it. As it was, she had failed to use her proper form of address as Lady Vincent Fitzwallace, stubbornly refusing to go by her late husband’s name.

He didn’t dismount. “I am Clarion,” he pronounced with a slight inclination of his head. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He didn’t look pleased. Delia gave a proper curtsy, somewhat hindered by the state of her gown.

Does one introduce children by name to an earl? She couldn’t remember and rather thought not. “Children, make your obeisance to the earl, if you please.” They did. Alf and Penny had fine manners under normal circumstances. They managed. Even Percy produced a damp and rather dramatic bow. He returned to staring gape mouthed at the horses.

Clarion cleared his throat. “This is my son, Viscount Ashmead.”

The unsmiling boy, his expression uncannily like his father’s, inclined his head with all the hauteur of a prince of the realm. He looked to be Alf’s age, and yet he had the mien of an old man.

The silence stretched until Delia broke it. “As to what we are about, we are hunting frogs’ eggs. We thought to observe the transition from egg to tadpole to frog.”

“It is a scientific endeavor,” Alf added.

That broke through the little viscount’s stern expression. He gazed at Alf with interest.

The earl’s silence unleashed an imp in Delia. She made her eyes wide with faux innocence. “Oh dear. I hope the harvesting of frogs’ eggs isn’t some sort of poaching. I would hate to run afoul of the law so soon in our tenancy.”

“Of course, it isn’t!” the earl snapped. “The Clarion estate can spare a few frogs. I— I’ll leave you to it.” He moved his reins as if to turn, but thought better of it and looked back at her. “Do you generally allow your children to run free across the estate?” he asked.

“Do they appear to be unsupervised?” she retorted. Given her appearance she wouldn’t have blamed him if he said yes, but she was prepared to defend her mothering if she needed to.

His bewildered expression rewarded her. “Of course not,” he said.

“They have been instructed to stay clear of the main house. Their greater temptations are your stables and vicinity, but they have accepted the need to respect that area as well. They know not to touch the property of others. They know better than to ramble through plowed fields or growing crops. They—”

“Enough! I take your point. Good day, madam.” With an inclination of his head, he and his son turned, and Delia’s children watched them ride away.

“He’s not a happy man,” Penny said.

Understatement, that. One of her father’s dictates gave Delia a twinge of regret. He always said, “You never have a second chance to make a good first impression.”

You’ll never live this one down, Delia, and more’s the pity. For all his stern reserve the earl was an attractive man, and one who appeared to care for his son. She admired that in a man.

With a sigh she locked this regret away with the others she’d endured. She refused to let life’s disappointments weigh her down.

“Alf, there! I see an egg mass,” Penny crowed behind her. And so she had. Delia turned to share her children’s delight.

She put her stern landlord out of her thoughts.