WIP Wednesdays

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Peril in WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is one of the murder attempts in my current novel, which is book 3 in A Twist in a Regency Tale. Working title is Snowy and the Seven Blossoms.

His valet must have arrived while he was in the bath, for the man had set up clean clothes and Snowy’s shaving tackle in the room where he had slept.

“I will not finish getting dressed until I have seen to washing my brother and helping him dress,” Snowy said. “But let’s start with my shave.”

“If you will allow me to do it, sir,” the valet said. “I see you have been missing some bits.”

Snowy leaned close to the mirror to check his reflection, and sure enough, the usual morning stubble was thicker in a couple of places he must’ve missed during yesterday’s shave. Even so, he’d never allowed anyone else to get near him with a cutthroat razor, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Thank you. I will do it but I will take more care. You just take the clothes I want to wear through to my brother’s room next door and let him know I will be there shortly.”

The man’s sour expression deepened but he did as he was told. Snowy was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was going to be a viscount. If a valet went with the position he was going to have to find one who suited him better.

Someone who could manage a bit of cheer. Someone who could serve without looking down his long nose at the very man who paid his wages.

Satisfied he was as smooth as he was going to get, he went through to Ned, who was sitting up in the bed. “How are you this morning, brother?”

“Weak as a kitten,” Ned responded, cheerfully.

“Ready to get cleaned up for a bit of an outing?” Snowy asked.

“Perhaps sir would like to change into a shirt first?” said the valet. “It is less bulky than the banyan, and one can roll up the sleeves, thereby suffering less damage.”

Snowy decided to ignore the sneer, since the advice was good. He shrugged out of the banyan and bent to allow the valet to fit the shirt over his head. As he felt it settle over his shoulders, the valet suddenly yanked it down so it trapped his arms at his sides. He tried to turn even as he felt a cord tighten around his neck.

Even as he struggled, he heard a thud and the constriction was gone. He turned, stumbling a little as he did, for the valet lay at his feet, the marble paperweight that had felled him a yard or so away.

“Are you all right, Hal?” Ned asked. He was sitting upright, his face white around the bruises.

“Good shot,” Snowy said. He bent to check the valet’s pulse. The man was still alive, but out cold, with a rising lump on the back of his head.

“Good thing I didn’t break my bowling arm,” Ned responded. “Hal, he was going to kill you, with me right here in the room.”

“He failed,” Snowy reminded his brother. “Thanks to you.”

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Fun and games on WIP Wednesday

In my story for the coming collection The Wedding Wager, my heroine plays a game of pall mall.

Rilla found lunch surprisingly delightful, thanks to Lord Hythe. Useful, too. Two of the men who had shown her some attention during the morning had drifted away when the discussion turned serious, one after expressing doubt that ladies were capable of intelligence.

The day continued fine enough to return outdoors, though clouds suggested that they would not be as fortunate the next day. Lady Osbourne suggested Rilla might like to take part in a game of pall mall. She had never played before, but the rules seemed straightforward enough.

One played in a pall mall alley, with walls either side and an iron ring set in the ground around one hundred yards distant from where the players started. One used a mallet to hit a ball towards the ring, repeating the strokes until close. Then an implement with a spoon-like end was used to hit the ball through the ring.

It was harder than it looked to achieve the right direction and force. One of the other ladies playing, Miss Thompson, also claimed to be a novice, but Rilla soon guessed that the lady was pretending helplessness, presumably to impress the gentlemen.

Rilla came last in the first four contests, trailing one of the gentlemen, a Captain Hudson. “No room for a pall mall alley on a ship, Miss Fernhill,” he said, cheerfully.

“I imagine that waves would also inhibit play, Captain Hudson,” she replied, much to his amusement.

In the fifth contest, the others had once again finished before she and the captain were halfway down the alley. “I picked the game up quickly, did I not?” crowed Miss Thompson, whose combined scores made her third overall.

“I bet she is her village champion,” muttered Captain Hudson. Rilla agreed, but pretended she hadn’t heard.

Miss Thompson marched off on the arm of the overall winner, and the remaining couple came to let Rilla and Captain Hudson know they were going in out of the cold.

“Go ahead without us,” Captain Hudson said. “Miss Fernhill and I have to find out who wins last place.”

“It is a fight to the finish,” Rilla agreed.

The other couple stayed to cheer each stroke, cheering when a wild stroke of Rilla’s bounced off the alley walls and groaning when the captain’s ball shot past the edge of the ring.

In the end, the captain finished first, but Rilla was only one stroke behind him. The other couple clapped, Rilla curtseyed, the captain bowed, and they all laughed.

A few spots of rain hurried their steps, and they left the alley behind in favour of a warm fire and a hot drink.

Captain Hudson, Rilla concluded, was a pleasant gentleman. He could laugh at himself, and he saw right through Miss Thompson. Rilla had no objection to a half-pay officer, though there was always the risk—presumably Captain Hudson would say the hope—he would be called back into service.

Did she want a husband in the armed forces, who was away more than he was at home?

This is only the first day of the house party, she reminded herself. She had plenty of time to consider that question. Which would not even be a question if he was simply being polite to the lady he had inadvertently been stuck with at the end of the pall mall alley.

However, when she came back downstairs after taking off her outer garments, he waved to catch her attention as she entered the drawing room. He had hot chocolate and cake waiting for her on a low table next to the chair he had been holding ready for her.

Surely that meant he was interested in pursuing the acquaintance?

He seems to be a nice man. He is a possibility. Then her eyes drifted to the man who had just come through the door. Lord Hythe. Her heart gave a bound. Stupid heart. Lord Hythe was not for the likes of her.

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Mirror, mirror on WIP Wednesday

Here’s my first Mirror Mirror scene in my Snow White reinterpretation.

A candle either side of the mirror lit Richard’s face and upper body without relieving the gloom behind him. The black of his evening wear merged with the darkness, leaving the planes of his face and the folds of his white cravat to swim against the shadows.

“It cannot be him,” he told his reflection. “He’s dead. He died nearly two decades ago. A boy of that age? A soft spoiled brat like that? And a pretty one? He could never have survived.”

The dark eyes of the reflection stared back. He thought he saw an ironic twitch of the eyebrow.

“Curse Matt. He was meant to kill the little horror and throw the body somewhere it would be found.”

Richard scowled and the reflection scowled back. The plan should have succeeded. With a body to grieve over, Madeline would have recovered. Richard could have charmed her into believing in him again. Instead, she insisted that the boy was still alive.

“She was meant to be mine.” He nodded his head once, decisively, and his reflection nodded back, agreeing with him. He had seen the pretty girl first, begun to court her. Then she met cursed Edward. The man with everything. His grandfather’s favourite. The heir. The golden boy.

Tonight’s imposter looked just like him. “It cannot be the boy. He’s a by-blow; that must be it. Perfect Edward’s base born brat.”

How he would like to tell Madeline that Edward had been diddling someone else. His teeth flashed white in the candle light at the thought of her likely reaction. His own pain, though, was greater. He had won her for such a short time, and then lost her. She blamed him for the boy’s disappearance, and in the end, he had to put her away where she could do no harm.

It wasn’t fair. Matt had ruined everything. The boy had ruined everything by biting his abductor’s hand, wriggling from his grasp, and running away to die anonymously in the mean streets.

Matt was dead and could not pay for his mistake. The boy, too, was dead. He must be.

The reflection raised an eyebrow. Of course. It was right. He must take his revenge on the imposter.

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First Kiss on WIP Wednesday

Just over half way through Snowy and the Seven Blossoms, and my hero and heroine have had their first kiss.

Mr Snowden, exhausted, had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and hardly stirred when a messenger arrived back from the House of Blossoms with clean linen and blankets to make the bed. A bag of clothing for Snowy, too, from which he produced a nightshirt for Mr Snowden.

Ash and Peter helped to move the patient from one side of the bed to the other so that Snowy and Margaret could make it, and then said their farewells.

“I’ll have my cook’s assistant sent over with breakfast makings tomorrow morning,” Peter said. “She’s competent to take over your kitchen until you can hire servants. I’ll send some maids, too, Snowy.”

“And I shall send a couple of maids, too, Snowy, and some footmen,” Ash added. “Are you ready to leave, Margaret?”

“Not yet, Ash. Have my carriage take you home and come back for me.”

Peter protested. “We cannot leave you alone with to two unmarried men, Margaret.”

“I won’t tell anyone if you will not,” Margaret retorted.

The two men exchanged glances and then inclined their heads in acceptance. When Snowy returned from seeing them out, he protested, too. “You cannot stay alone with me during the night, my lady. Tell me what I must watch for.”

“I am staying with my patient, Snowy. It is likely that it will take both of us to care for him tonight. If you have paper and ink, I shall write a note for my household and send it with the carriage when it returns.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but must have seen the determination in her eyes, for what he said was, “Whatever fate did I offend that independent-minded women beleaguer me at every turn?” But his eyes were warm when he said it.

It was a long night. Several times, Margaret and Snowy sponged Mr Snowden—Ned, as Snowy called him—to bring down his temperature. Snowy sang to him when he was restless, and Margaret soon learned the words and took her turn with the lullaby.

Every few minutes she dribbled water into his throat, and from time to time fed him willow-bark tea from a spoon.

Towards morning, the fever broke and he woke with sense in his eyes for the first time. “Hal! You came!” He looked around. “Lady Charmain! You are here, too? Where are we?”

“In a house of my own, Ned,” Snowy replied. “One I have only just purchased, so it is bit bare at the moment. But it has the advantage that no one will know where we are.”

“Ah.” It was a sigh of satisfaction as Ned’s eyes closed again. This time, his sleep was more settled.

“A natural sleep,” Margaret said, pleased.

Snowy took her hand. “You’ve done it, Lady Charmain. I am forever in your debt.”

As he bent forward, she turned her head and the kiss he perhaps intended for her cheek landed on her mouth, tentative and gentle. Margaret closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss. It had been a long time, and never like this—a leisurely exploration that beckoned and enticed.

It went on forever, and was over too soon.

A knock on the front door downstairs broke through the pleasant haze that absorbed Margaret, and Snowy, too, drew back. Margaret was pleased to see he looked as dazed as she felt, and, as he shuddered as he took a deep breath. “I’ll see to that,” he said.

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The plot thickens on WIP Wednesday

In this week’s WIP  extract, I tangle several different plot threads just a little more.

Margaret sat with her friends in the shade, sipping fruit juice and watching Peter, Ash, Deerhaven and Snowy on the lake with half a dozen other men, rowing two to a boat in heat after heat. The ladies had been out on the water, but when the men challenged one another to a race, they had asked to be set ashore on the island, where refreshments were set out in the temple-like folly.

“You like him, don’t you?” Regina asked Margaret.

“Which him?” Margaret asked, though she knew perfectly well that Regina was referring to Snowy.

“I do,” Arial said. “Peter does, too. He is not what we expected when you told us about allowing him to escort you, Margaret.”

Margaret dropped the pretence to pursue this more interesting topic.

“What did you think he would be like?”

Arial thought about it. “A lot rougher. Less concerned about your safety and your reputation.”

“After all,” Cordelia pointed out, “you did meet him in a slum alley just behind the brothel where he works. It was not a recommendation.”

Regina agreed. “We were concerned, but not now that we have met him.”

“He has been raised as a gentleman,” Margaret said. “In my experience, he is more of a gentleman than many you meet in Society.”

The other ladies nodded. “Lord Snowden for one,” Regina agreed. Snowden was watching them from the far shore. His son and young Deffew, his ward, were out on the lake, racing, but Snowden did not turn his stare away from the four ladies.

“The rumours say Snowden is not the viscount, that there is a lost heir. Is it Snowy, do you think? Is that what this display of Snowy’s is about?” Ariel asked.

“He hasn’t said,” Margaret told them. “But the way these rumours have appeared just when he chooses to go into Society—it is too unlikely a coincidence. I think he must be behind them. Lord Snowden must be rattled. He sent his son to tell me that Snowy was a charlatan, a fraud, and that I must cease seeing him immediately.”

Regina’s reaction was the same as Margaret’s. “The cheek!”

“Interesting, though,” Cordelia mused. “Have you told Snowy?”

A face on the other shore caught Margaret’s eye. It could not be… At this distance, it was impossible to be sure, but somehow, she was.

“Margaret?” Arial asked.

“Hmmm?” What had they been talking about? “No, I haven’t had the opportunity, yet.”

Her friends were looking at her with concern. “You have gone pale, darling.” Arial said. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” she assured them. “I thought I saw someone I knew long ago. But I am sure I was wrong. He was some distance away, and I could not see the face clearly. Just the hair colour and the uniform.”

“Not the odious officer!” Arial exclaimed.

“The odious officer?” asked Cordelia.

Arial was the only one who knew quite how odious Martin had been, but the rest was not a secret. “A man who trifled with my heart during my first Season. I was too young to realise that his compliments were lies and his promises so much empty air. I am sure it cannot be him. As far as I know, his regiment is still posted overseas.” For years she had been checking the listings in the newspapers, hoping that he never sold out.

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A girl’s first ball on WIP Wednesday

The book I have just finished has two distinct parts and a bridging section. In the first part, my heroine is turning 17, and one of the scenes is set at her birthday ball, which is also her debut to Society.  The section follow her from the planning for the ball to the end of her first Season. The second part picks up the story sixteen years ago, when she is a widow and the boy she wanted to dance with at her ball returns from many years overseas. Today’s piece is set at the ball.

Regina had thought that the dinner party would drag, given how excited she was about the ball, and how eager for the dancing to begin. Mr. Paddimore, however, proved to be an entertaining dinner companion. He told Regina several stories about funny things that happened at balls he attended, and assured her he was happy to fight off any suitors she would prefer not to entertain.

Before she knew it, dinner was over and Mama was saying it was time to form the receiving line. That, too, was exciting. All of these people had come to celebrate Regina!

She received many compliments. Mama and Papa, too, for having such a beautiful and charming daughter. Even so, she was glad when the stream of new arrivals dwindled to a trickle, and Mama announced it was time for the first dance.

Her one disappointment was that Elijah had not arrived. She had gone to such trouble, too. Yesterday afternoon, at the dancing class that one of Mama’s friends had got up for young ladies and young gentlemen who were new to the Season, Regina had managed to speak to several of the young men to whom mother had given one of her dances.

One of them—a youth she had known from the cradle—was more than happy to forego his dance with her in return for an introduction to another of the debutantes who had caught his eye.

If Elijah arrived, she would be able to dance with him. She had always wanted to, since she had seen him dancing with his mother at a village festival more than six years ago.

However, if he could not be bothered to come to her ball, she was certainly not going to spare him another thought. She smiled at Mr. Paddimore and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor. He was a very graceful dancer. She supposed that, at his age, he had had a lot of practice.

She enjoyed every minute of the next two hours. She did not enjoy some of her partners. The clumsy ones who trod on her feet or tried to lead her the wrong way. The ones who talked the entire time, and never had a single interesting thing to say. The ones who served ridiculous and overblown flattery with a helping of questions about how rich her father really was.

But Regina loved to dance, and was happy to imagine the clumsy, boring, or calculating partner of the moment replaced with the perfect gentleman of her imagination. The perfect gentleman who would partner her in one perfect dance.

It was for that imaginary person she danced gracefully to the music, smiling and glowing with pleasure.

At supper, her partner was tongue-tied, so she carried on with her daydream, imagining that her perfect gentleman had selected morsels to tempt her appetite from the best of the dishes set out for the guests.

Her escort managed to break his silence long enough to stammer, “Are you enjoying the evening, Miss Kingsley?”

Regina heard the question in her perfect gentleman’s thrilling tones, and it was to him that she answered, “I am having such a wonderful time. Everything is so exciting, so beautiful, and the people have been so kind.”

The enthusiastic response loosened her escort’s tongue a little. “It is very easy to be kind to one as lovely as you, Miss Kingsley.”

He might not be her perfect gentleman, but he was a very nice person.

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Friends on WIP Wednesday

Coffee houses were popular meeting places

Friends are useful to a novelist–someone for a character to talk to about everything that’s bothering him or her. Or, if they’re not the talking sort, someone to prompt thoughts of what they’d like to talk about. In my current work in progress, Snowy and the Seven Blossoms, my hero has two close friends, both of them members of a group of investors that he founded.

Here they are, discussing railways. And then more.

The discussion continued even after the meeting was over and the other investors had left, the decision still on the table.

“Locomotives are unreliable,” Gary declared. Gaheris Fullerton was the first real friend Snowy had ever had, another scholarship student and one of the smartest men Snowy knew. The second son of a poor working family in the Midlands, he’d read law at Oxford and had overcome the disadvantages of his origins to complete his four years at an Inn of Court and be accepted to the Bar.

“If Murray and his ilk can overcome the difficulties with the steam locomotive, the canals are not going to be able to compete,” Drew countered. The fourth son of a duke, Lord Andrew Winderfield had been brought into the group by another investor because of his family owned a prosperous shipping company, but he’d soon become another friend. He was one of the few aristocrats Snowy trusted.

Gary scoffed. “A big if. Those machines are dangerous and unreliable. And too heavy. I’ve heard about the problem they’re having with the rails.”

Drew was adamant. “They’ll find solutions. And when they do, rail paths will be cheaper to build and much much faster than the canals. We should reject any canal project that will take more than ten years to recover costs.”

Gary was not convinced. “You think the collieries and others will prefer wagon rails to canals in less than ten years?”

“Some of the collieries do now,” Drew retorted. “Wales and Scotland are making great strides. My brother predicts that we’ll have them hauling passengers within a decade.”

Gary shook his head. “And who will want to ride in a carriage pulled by a locomotive? Not me, that is for certain.”

“What do you think, Snow?” Drew asked.

Snowy had been thinking about his own problem while the friends argued. “I’ll consider it between now and the next meeting,” he said.

His friends exchanged glances. “I don’t think he asked us to stay on after the meeting to debate the merits of locomotives,” Drew surmised.

“Out with it then,” Gary commanded. “The witness at the bar will present his testimony.”

Where to start? “I have learned something… unsettling.” Which was a hell of an understatement. Snowy’s world had been rocked on its axis. He focused on Drew. “You know a bit about where I came from, and what the Blossoms mean to me.”

Drew nodded. “Your foster mothers,” he said.

It was as good a description as any. “They gave me a present for my birthday. The true story of my origins. If it is true. The thing is, they would never lie to me, so they believe it. But it is just too fantastic.” He batted one hand at the air, as if he could knock away his own confusion.

“Go on,” Drew said, when he remained silent.

“No,” Gary protested. “Elucidate. If you are not Moses White, brothel bookkeeper and investor extraordinaire, who are you?”

Snowy’s huff of amusement was genuine. “I am, of course. But apparently, I started out as Henry Snowden, elder son of Edward Snowden, who was the third son of Richard, Viscount Snowden.”

His friend looked startled, though not as flabbergasted as Snowy himself.

“Lily and her sister Iris found me in an alley when I was six years old. I’d been stripped and beaten. They figured out who I was, and tried to return me, but my mother asked them to keep me, and to keep me hidden.”

Gary lifted his eyebrows. “Mrs Snowden suspected someone of trying to do away with you?”

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Different worlds meet in WIP Wednesday

My latest hero resides in a slum. Here’s the first part of the first scene of his book.

Seven Dials, London, April, 1819

“That there countess is back again,” Tommy reported. Pestiferous woman. Snowy had told her repeatedly that she risked her reputation as well as her life by venturing into the slums to visit the residents of a brothel.

Stubborn female. Had she not already found out that her high birth and fancy title would not protect her if some of the slime who polluted the streets she traversed decided to kill her fancy footmen and help themselves to a taste of noble flesh?

Snowy’s anger rose again at the thought of how they had met. He would never forget his first sight of the lovely young woman standing over her footman’s body and swinging a weighted reticule to keep six armed men at bay.

Snowy sent the boy back to his post in the entrance hall. He left his account books and locked the door of the office. He would escort her home again, once she had finished whatever errand of mercy brought her back to the House of Blossoms.

He sighed. If he had not brought her here for refuge after he rescued her, she would never have met his friends, never have begun bringing them herbal remedies from her still room. How did a countess become a gifted herbalist? No. He did not want to know. His only interest was in seeing the woman returned to her own world.

Blue, whose nickname was an ironic comment on his flaming-red hair, guarded the top of the stairs on the floor with the private apartments. He stood as Snowy approached. “Where is she?” Snowy asked.

Blue pointed along the passage to Lily’s suite, which took some of the wind out of his sails. If Lily herself had invited the aristocrat to visit, then Snowy’s objections were on shaky ground. The owner and mistress of the House of Blossoms had her reasons for everything she did, and would not have brought the countess here on a whim.

At his knock, Lily called for him to enter. “Snowy,” she said. “I am pleased you are here. You know Lady Charmain, of course.”

Snowy gave the lady his best court bow. “My lady.” Not only did Lily expect him to display the impeccable manners she had paid his tutors to beat into him, but it discomposed the Countess Charmaine, which was turnabout and fair play, for she had been discomposing him since the day he looked into her vivid blue eyes.

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The marriage mart on WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is from The Husband Gamble, a short novella I am writing for The Wedding Wager.

The Earl of Hythe was already regretting his agreement to attend the party. The room he had been given was perfectly adequate. His valet Pritchard, who had been with him for years, had been busy while Hythe was in his bath. Pritchard knew exactly how Hythe likes things. He had organised the dressing room and the bedside table, and had moved the chairs in the seating area so that they were precisely aligned with the edge of the hearth, with the little table equidistant between the two and on the same ruler-straight line.

After he was dressed again, Hythe set his travelling desk on the desk provided, and checked the desk drawers. Lady Osbourne had provided quality paper and ink. The stack of paper needed to be tidied, as did the rest of the drawer contents. That task finished, Hythe had no further excuse for lingering in his room, getting in Pritchard’s way. Like it or not, he needed to go below and meet the other guests.

He blamed his sister Sophia, entirely. On second thoughts, he had opened himself to the attack. If he had never grumbled to her about the difficulty of finding a wife one could respect and even, perhaps, befriend, she would never have suggested that he put himself in the hands of the acclaimed matchmaker. One who had found matches, furthermore, for people whom Society had judged unmarriageable.

Even so, Hythe would never have agreed if the marriage of his sister Felicity had not left his townhouse appallingly empty. Felicity had followed him from one diplomatic post into another, keeping house for him. His servants were perfectly competent, but they would be horrified to be asked to sit down for a chat over breakfast or of an evening.

And, of course, no servant could be his hostess or be at his side during the social occasions that were so much part of his work.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Pritchard said.

Hythe stepped out of his way, and Pritchard, carrying Hythe’s dinner jacket as if it was the crown jewels, proceeded to lay the garment on the bed and return to the dressing room for the next item. “Dinner is at seven, my lord, with gathering in the drawing room from six thirty.”

It was Pritchard’s way of saying “You have at least two hours before dressing for dinner, so please go away so I can ensure that anything you might choose to wear has been inspected and, if necessary, restored to a standard suitable for the Earl of Hythe.”

Hythe repressed a sigh and bowed to the inevitable, though he only went as far as the passage, where he stood for a moment, his eyes shut, bracing himself to meet all those people.

It was only for a week. He could resist any plots by Lady Osbourne or her protégés for one week. One of them might be the one for you. He rejected the errant thought. Everyone knew that Lady Osbourne had wagered with her cousin that she could find matches for the most awkward, difficult and challenging of wallflowers and hoydens and the most unprepossessing of grooms.

Hythe knew that he had little to recommend him beyond his title and his wealth. Ladies seem to prefer a man of address, who could flatter them with elegant compliments and talk for hours about frivolous matters that bored Hythe witless. Someone at ease meeting strangers and comfortable in crowds of people.

For Hythe, social occasions were an ordeal. He could manage. He had memorised a hundred different meaningless but polite responses, and practiced them in front of a mirror. He had learned which ones to trot out on which occasion.

It was not so bad if he could find a meaningful conversation in which to immerse himself, but the ladies of Society and many of the men had no interest in topics that mattered. Hythe had discovered the trick of finding a quiet corner where he could take a few deep breathes before pasting on a smile and getting back to work.

The right wife would have the skills he lacked, as his sisters did. They were both brilliant political and diplomatic hostesses, and had been happy to give their brother the benefit of their skills. Until they married. Without them, life in Society was even more exhausting than before.

He had not been able to find what he needed as a man. What his title required made it even more difficult.  The Earl of Hythe needed a countess who could burnish the reputation of the earldom and the family. Money was irrelevant. Looks were secondary. Behaviour…

Even in his thoughts, he could not agree that behaviour was everything. Important, yes. Hythe was the head of the Belvoir family, and no stain had ever attached to their family name. His parents had been renowned for their good ton as well as their wealth, their generosity, and their wide circle of friends. His sisters were models of propriety. Felicity, his younger sister, might at times allow her vivacity to bring her to the edge of proper behaviour, but never over.

However, Hythe wanted more from marriage than a countess who could be a good hostess and who knew how to behave. Perhaps, if he had contemplated marriage a few years ago, he might have chosen one of the insipid bird brains that seem to be the primary offering on the marriage mart. And perhaps, if he had been lucky, she might have learned to be an adequate countess.

Hythe also wanted a wife. He had watched his sisters find love matches. So had several of his friends. He was not convinced that a love match was a desirable thing — such an untidy excess of emotions did not appeal to him. In any case, he had never imagined himself in love, even when his friends were falling like flies for opera dances and Society beauties. He was probably not capable of the emotion.

The other kind of love he could manage very well. He held a deep and abiding affection for both of his sisters. He was sure he could be a fond and caring husband and father. All he had to do was find a wife he could talk to. It may be setting the bar too low to say a wife who did not irritate him, but that was precisely what he told Lady Osbourne when she buttonholed him in Town after Sophia had asked her for her help.

Someone who did not irritate him. Someone who was old enough and interesting enough to know her own mind and be prepared to have opinions and defend them. Someone who liked children and would be a good mother, for Hythe would need an heir, and hoped that his son might grow up with brothers and sisters.

Someone who knew how to behave as the wife of a diplomat and a peer — that went without saying, although he said it anyway. Someone who was at ease in social situations and prepared to exercise that mastery on his behalf, though he did not put that into words, unwilling to expose his deficiencies to that extent.

He waved away Lady Osbourne’s questions about appearance. Short or tall. Fair or dark. Plump or slender. What did those matter over a lifetime? “I want someone to grow old with,” he told Lady Osbourne, “should we be so blessed.”

He couldn’t spend the rest of the day leaning against the wall outside his room. He opened his eyes even as he took a stride down the passage, only to find his arms full of a warm fragrant female. Who gasped, and pulled backwards.

 

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Amnesia on WIP Wednesday

Today’s excerpt is from the story I’ve just written for my next newsletter, which I’ll be putting out in the next few days. It uses the amnesia trope, and is set in the same part of the UK, and a few months after, the storm in the Bluestocking Belles collection Storm & Shelter. Indeed, the storm in question sets off the events of the story, and the seaside village of Fenwick-on-Sea comes in for an honourable mention.

All day, Abbey had been following a cart across the field and the rickyard and back, one of three men using pitchforks to lift the hay from the windrows into the cart and then from the cart onto whatever rick was being built. It was one of the skills he had discovered when he was well enough to be put to work. It was exhausting work, but still gave him time — too much time — to think about his dreams.

Were the dreams about his past life? He did not know. He did know he always woke feeling as if he had left something undone and time was running out.

He could no more remember what task he was neglecting than he could remember his own identity.

His ability to build a hay rick was a clue, he supposed. He could plough and scythe, too. And milk a cow. And groom and ride a horse.

He could also read and write. He spoke — or so they told him — like a gentleman. His mind was stuffed with all sorts of knowledge that the farmhands around here found surprising. It was something of a game for them, to ask him a question out of the blue. Name the kings of England. He could do that, yes, and recite the dates, too. He knew the dates of key events in English history. He could finish the verse of popular song if someone called out the first line. He could do it for poetry too, as the local squire discovered.

The squire suggested he might have been the son of a wealthy farmer, sent away to school but still accustomed to helping out on the land.

Abbey wondered why he could access so many facts and skills, but not know who he was, where he was from, or how he arrived on the beach at Dunwich more than half drowned, with a broken arm and a great bleeding wound on his head.

There had been a great storm that had swept all of that coast, cutting Dunwich off from the roads inland and to villages north and south. At a guess, he had been washed overboard from a ship, or had been aboard one of several that had foundered. Nobody knew. The squire made enquiries when he took Abbey into Ipswich to be examined by a doctor. He even sent letters to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

No one had reported losing a man of Abbey’s description and name. If Abbey was his name. It had been the first word on his lips when he recovered consciousness, or so they told him. It didn’t feel as if it fitted, but he had no other name to offer.

The doctor said his memories might come back a few at a time, or all at once, or never. Abbey, still shaky on his legs from his long recovery and with no clues to his own identity, accepted the squire’s offer to return to Dunwich.

He worked on getting fit. He worked on any task he was given as a return for the care and kindness he had been shown. He bludgeoned his mind for the least hint about his past, but all he gained was a headache.

The dreams had started six weeks ago. At first, occasionally but now, every night. They faded as he woke leaving an impression of warm brown eyes, of someone calling for him to come home. Each night, the sense of urgency increased. He had something he needed to do. Quickly, before it was too late.

He had no idea what it was or why it was important.