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Would you like to fly in my beautiful balloon?

Balloons rise over my valley at the start of the annual Wairarapa Balloon Festival

One of my characters is currently flying over 1840s Madras in a balloon, so I’ve been reading Richard Holmes’ book Falling Upwards. Balloons, he points out, gave our ancestors their “first physical glimpse of a planetary overview”. From up above balloonists could contribute to forecasting weather, researching geology and other earth sciences, and — if only because winds are fickle — improve (or make worse) international communication.

The first successful hot air balloonist were the Montgolfier brothers. They were the children of a French paper manufacturer, and one of them was a dreamer. Joseph-Michel Montgolfier watched laundry drying over a fire, and was much taken by the way it caught the hot air and floated upwards. In 1782, he made some experiments with a small box made from wood and cloth. Success led him to approach his brother, and he and Jacques-Étienne built a larger model together.  In 1783, several experiments brought them to the attention of the King, as well as scientists and other flight enthusiasts. The first human passengers were carried October (tethered) and November (when they traveled 8 km in 25 minutes).

From the dawn of time, people had dreamed of flying. Now a lucky few could finally do so.

Frenchmen were the first hot-air balloonists, but others quickly took up the challenge. The French scored another first, though, with the first military balloon regiment, founded in 1794. The opposing armies hated them. They couldn’t do a thing without being observed from on high, so whenever the balloons came close enough, every weapon that could be mustered was fired at the basket. This, says Holmes, “made the military aeronaut’s position both peculiarly perilous and peculiarly glamorous.”

That was the beginning. Throughout the nineteenth century, aeronauts explored the limits of what was possible with a balloon, and sometimes — with dire consequence — beyond those limits. Holmes says that they came from many different walks of life, had many different approaches and interests, but all had in common a single compelling desire: they wanted to fly.

Nicolas Camille Flaummarion, one of those nineteenth century aeronauts, wrote of those early days when suggesting that the balloon was not the final answer to the desire for flight, and that some other method remained to be invented:

…already it has done for us that which no other power ever accomplished ; it has gratified the desire natural to us all to view the earth in a new aspect, and to sustain ourselves in an element hitherto the exclusive domain of birds and insects. We have been enabled to ascend among the phenomena of the heavens, and to exchange conjecture for instrumental facts, recorded at elevations exceeding the highest mountains of the earth.

Doubtless among the earliest aeronauts a disposition arose to estimate unduly the departure gained from our natural endowments, and to forget that the new faculty we had assumed, while opening the boundless regions of the atmosphere as fresh territory to explore, was subject to limitations a century of progress might do little to extend. In the time of Lunardi, a lady writing to a friend about a balloon voyage she had recently made, expresses the common feeling of that day when she says that ” the idea that I was daring enough
to push myself, as I may say, before my time, into the presence of the Deity, inclines me to a species of terror ” — an exaggerated sentiment, prompted by the admitted hazard of the enterprise (for Pilatre de Kozier had lately perished in France, precipitated to the earth by the bursting of his balloon), or dictated by an exultant and almost presumptuous sense of exaltation : for the first voyagers in the air, reminded by no visible boundary that for a few miles only above the earth can we respire, appear to have forgotten that the height to which we can ascend and live has so definite a limitation.

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The right (or the wrong) clothes on WIP Wednesday

 

People say it shouldn’t matter, but it does. When you know you are well dressed, in clothes that suit you and that are suitable for the occasion, you can relax and enjoy yourself. Clothing that gives a character confidence, or clothing that doesn’t work, is often a feature of a story, making us sympathetic to the character or showing some aspect of their personality.

So this week, I’m looking for extracts that describe what your character is wearing and how they feel about it. Mine is from House of Thorns.

As her betrothed assisted her into his chaise on Sunday morning, Rosa was conscious of two conflicting emotions. One was relief that she could leave the house for long enough to attend the church service, since the new maids had shown themselves both willing and able to look after her father in her absence. The other was trepidation. She and Bear would be the center of attention once the banns were read for the first time. The Pelmans and the Thrextons would find something to censure, made up or real, and they had their supporters in the village.

I would feel more confident if I had something suitable to wear, she thought.

Bear had dressed for the occasion, pale breeches and stockings, a dark blue coat over an embroidered waistcoat with a creamy froth of lace at neck and cuff. He didn’t favor the excesses they showed in the fashion magazines she sometimes saw at the village shop, but the materials were of the best quality and beautifully cut to fit his frame.

Rosa’s Sunday-best gown had had more than six years of use, new clothes being a luxury the Neathams could not afford after the new Lord Hurley stopped the pension the former Lord Hurley had once paid. She had tried to keep it from dirt and harm, but six years is more than 300 Sundays, even allowing for those when she could not find anyone to sit with her father and had to miss services.

Turning the back panel to move the shiny spot, carefully mending tears, and cutting off the cuffs to replace them with a band taken from another gown could not disguise the fact that her Sunday-best would be a Monday-washday gown for almost any other woman in the parish.

Next to Bear, she looked like a pauper, which was not far from the truth.

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Tea with memories

The duchess had to give her current companion credit for at least trying to hide her emotional turmoil. Evaline Grenford spilled the tea she was trying to pour, blotted the letter she was instructed to write, pricked her finger with the needle when she was set to some sewing, and completely forgot what she’d been sent for on five separate errands, so that she had to return to Eleanor to ask for the instructions again. But she denied anything was wrong; pasted on a smile that looked more like a rictus; insisted she was perfectly fine.

Until Her Grace set her to reading a story about a faithless man who left the woman who loved him, and then at last Evaline broke down into the tears she so desperately needed, and Eleanor was able to enfold her in her arms and listen to the story she already knew. A man who offered his love, but who took money from the duke and Evaline’s father to go away? Evaline’s heart was broken, and more — her pride was hurt.

“I am sure they must have threatened him,” the girl wailed.

From what Eleanor had heard, the young man had accepted his payment with every evidence of satisfaction. “Do you think so, my dear?” she asked, and Evaline coloured scarlet.

“No,” she whispered. “I think he did not love me as I loved him. Oh, but it hurts!”

Eleanor stroked the girl’s hair. “I know. I know, Evaline.”

“How can you know? You are married,” the girl wailed. “You have never lost as I have lost.”

Eleanor’s stroking hand did not pause; her comforting murmurs did not cease, but the eyes that looked sightlessly across the richly appointed apartment shone with unshed tears.

20 years earlier

James appeared as if from nowhere, slipping his hand under hers and leading her aside through a doorway. The room beyond was not being used for this afternoon musicale. They were alone.

Eleanor threw herself into his arms, pressing her lips to his, and for a moment he returned the desperate passion of her kiss. But all too soon he drew back. “Eleanor. My love. I had to see you one last time.”

“Last time?” Eleanor had known it was coming ever since she had heard of the duel, but she did not want to believe it. “No, James. No, you cannot go.”

“If I stay, I face charges. The king is determined to make an example, and if the duke dies, I will be hanged for murder.”

Eleanor was shaking her head. She did not care about the duke. “This is all his fault,” she hissed. “But James, surely your father…”

“My father, your father, and Haverford. They’re all in it together. Eleanor, I hope he does die. At least then you will be safe.”

Eleanor shivered. She had refused her father’s plans to marry her to the Duke of Haverford, and the old beast had reacted by attempting to compromise her at a Society ball. No. Call it what it was — to ravish her, and with her father’s blessing. If James had not arrived in time…

“Come with me,” James begged. “I can look after you, darling. And we’ll be together. We can face anything together.”

Leave England and her mother and sister? Her friends? But Eleanor hesitated only for a moment. “Yes. Now? Shall I come now?”

Someone rattled the door James had locked, and they heard her companion’s — say, rather, her jailor’s voice. “Lady Eleanor? Lady Eleanor, are you in there?”

“I need to make some arrangements. I’ll send you a message, my love.”

They met for one more kiss, and then James slid up the window and climbed over the sill. “Tomorrow. I will come for you tomorrow,” he whispered.

“I’ll be ready,” she promised.

And those were the last words they had ever exchanged. That same night, her father sent her, heavily guarded, into the country. The very next day, so she found out later, the Duke of Winshire’s men had caught up with his disobedient son as James attempted to scale the walls into Haverford House, and had taken him bound and gagged aboard a ship bound for the East via the Cape of Good Horn.

He would come back, she told herself. She had merely to keep refusing her father, and one day he would come back. She endured imprisonment, even beatings and starvation, holding hard to her trust in her love, until the day the news came. James had been killed. She no longer had a reason to live, but her body refused to die. When Haverford offered once more for her hand, she accepted, hating him less than she hated her father. Though that would change.

This little bit of back story fits with my next story for the Bluestocking Belles. Paradise Regained catches up with James Winderfield, rebel son of the Duke of Winshire. He is very much alive, some 20 years after his attempt to elope with Lady Eleanor Creydon, our very own Duchess of Haverford and the mother of the Marquis of Aldridge.

 

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Summertime reading from Authors of Main Street

We’re a few days out from the publication of Summer Romance on Main Street, more than 150,000 words with six novellas and another to come in an update.

I had a quick skim through an advance copy this morning when the publisher asked us all to take a look for layout issues, and was wildly tempted to stop and read. It’s a treat to come! Here are the blurbs. Don’t miss out on this lovely summer treat for only 99c.

FORGET ME NOT | Carol DeVaney

When guilt, grief, and love collide, Sarah Hall walks away from the only man she ever loved—five years later, after a chance meeting brings them together again, blame and a regretful judgement fall away.

Ted West’s short-lived marriage left him with a four-year-old daughter to raise alone. The latest misunderstanding cannot mend the hurt and harsh words between Ted and Sarah, unless forgiveness steps in.

RETREAT, INTERRUPTED | Jill James

A woman running from her past mistakes, a man buried by his doubts of the future, and a dying town that needs them both.
Will Cassie and Ben find all the answers they seek in the last place they expected?

BEACHED | Jude Knight

Grieving for the grandparents who raised her and still bruised from betrayals in New York City, Nikki Watson returns to her childhood home in Valentine Bay.

Zee Henderson has built a new life in New Zealand: friends, a job he enjoys and respect he earned for himself, without the family name and money he left behind.

The attraction between Nikki and Zee flames into passion, until Zee’s past arrives on their doorstep and washes away their coastal paradise.

THAT SONG IN PANTAGONIA | Kristy Tate

When Adrienne discovers her husband, Seb, has been unfaithful, the illusion of her perfect life is indelibly shattered and she flees. Nick, a shop owner who suddenly finds himself the center of media attention, follows.

They both escape to Latin America for different reasons. Adrienne is tired turning a blind eye to her husband’s affairs. Nick trails after her, not only because he’s become an overnight YouTube sensation and he doesn’t know how to handle it, but also because he’s secretly been in love with Adrienne, his cousin’s wife, for years.

Two people with hurting hearts and unrealized dreams explore the streets of Buenos Aires and the South American countryside, and it changes them both forever. And what they find in each other is something that might just heal them both.

50 MILES AT A BREATH | Lizzi Tremayne

A summertime stint at a small animal clinic takes veterinary student Lena away from her beloved horses, but at an endurance ride she finds horses—and her ideal man, veteran pilot Blake. She decides she can’t do without him and his world— after finishing vet school, that is.

They fall in love and Lena heads back to far-off vet school, but distance and her studies don’t help their relationship any. Then disaster strikes, with her graduation at stake. To make things worse, Blake’s increasing jealousy, fueled by his past experiences, strain the already-tense situation.

The final race tests not only the horse’s endurance, but Lena’s and Blake’s, as well. The pair must come to terms with their fears and make the right choices to create the future they so desire.

IN PLAIN SIGHT | Leigh Morgan

Summer O’Hara stumbles upon an international jewelry thief in small-town Door County, Wisconsin and pays for it with her life. Or does she? As her family searches to uncover the mystery behind her death they find that romance and valuables are often hidden in plain sight.

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Landscapes and surroundings on WIP Wednesday

I find descriptions hard to write, but stories need them. Our readers want to be able to drop themselves into the scene, and authors need to give them at least a few clues.

This week, I’m inviting writers to drop a description into the comments. Mine is from Beached, which is coming out next week in the box set Summer Romance on Main Street.

The shape of the harbor had given Valentine Bay its name: a heart on its side. A gap at the eastern point provided entrance to the harbor. On the western side, directly opposite, the wharves and moorings of the fishing port occupied a rocky promontory between two gently curved beaches. North Beach was currently undeveloped farm and bush land, though the planned hotel would change that. On the shores of South Beach, the settlement spread from the fishing port around the curve of the southern lobe of the heart and beyond, stretching partway along the road that led to the historic lighthouse at the harbor entrance.

Most of the shops in Valentine Bay lined one side of Beach Road or the other. That hadn’t changed. The shops themselves had—in her childhood, there’d been half a dozen businesses offering services and products to the locals and the rare visitor. A dairy, a fish and chip shop, a general store, a bakery, a book shop that also sold stationery and gifts, a garage with petrol pumps out the front and a workshop out the back. If any of those survived, they had gone upmarket to match the twenty or so others that now extended the shopping area far beyond the boundaries she remembered.

On the coast side of the road, the shops, cafes and restaurants backed onto the beach reserve, a wide stretch of lawn with picnic tables and public barbecue stations scattered among the pohutukawa trees and plantings of tough flax and ornamental grasses.

The businesses on the other side backed into the hill, no longer half farmland, but split up into residential lots with an eclectic mix of houses: Victorian villas cheek-by-jowl with modern beach extravaganzas and little square mid-20th century holiday houses, or baches as they were known here in New Zealand’s North Island.

 

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Tea with Lady Avery

“Such a nuisance, Perkins,” Her Grace the Duchess of Haverford consoled her coachman. “But I know you will have it repaired as soon as you may.”

She was sitting on a blanket spread over a grassy bank, perfectly comfortable, and had been hardly at all bruised when the coach lost its wheel, as she assured her companion, Adeline.

“I’ve sent to the nearest village, ma’am, but they don’t have a wheelwright, seems like, and Chipping Sodbury is a good fifteen minutes ride, if these coach horses of Lord Aldridge’s will let us ride them. I don’t like to leave you out here in the open, and that’s a fact.”

The duchess looked up at the clear blue sky, and around at the four strong outriders who stood ready to guard her. What Perkins thought might happen to her in this quiet country lane while he and the two footmen attended to the coach, she had no idea. But the coachman refused to send one of the outriders to the market town, and the outriders would not leave her side nor their horses, so Perkins must be on his way or she would be sitting on this bank until nightfall.

“I shall be perfectly comfortable,” she soothed.

At that moment, a man came hurrying into view; a tall young gentleman with a flaming thatch of red hair displayed when his tricorne hat tumbled off in his haste. The gentleman looked familiar, and in moments the duchess had placed him. “Lord Avery,” she called. “How pleasant to see you.”

Lord Avery reached them, after a quick glance that took in the broken wheel and the hovering attendants.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “I am sorry for your troubles. May I offer you the comfort of Avery Hall and the company of my mother while your men see to the coach?”

The duchess accepted with pleasure, and soon she and Adeline had washed, taken advantage of the conveniences, and been escorted down to where the dowager Lady Avery waited in a pleasant sitting room on the ground floor.

“My apologies for not rising to greet you, Your Grace,” the lady said. Ah. Yes. Eleanor had heard that Lady Avery had been injured in the accident that had killed the previous Lord Avery. Eleanor rather thought that the viscountcy was now in better hands, but it would not be polite to say so.

“My condolences on the death of your husband,” she murmured. “Is that a Merlin chair? How clever.”

Lady Avery showed off the attributes of her chair with every sign of delight. “And I am to have one for outside, as well,” she said. “Like the ones they use in Bath, designed for rough paths. The chair designer was here last weekend, and I had the most wonderful time. Oh, but I do run on. Will you and Miss Grenford take tea, Your Grace.”

The duchess accepted on behalf of her and Adeline, but her mind was carefully sorting through the little bits of news and gossip that came to her attention in her copious correspondence. Yes. That was it. “Tell me more about the chair designer, Lady Avery,” she said. “A carriage maker’s daughter, and a talented designer of chairs, I have heard.” And, according to Lady Cresthover, who was in some way related to one of her aunts, the next Lady Avery, however unlikely such a marriage might be.

Minerva Bradshaw, the chair designer mentioned above, is the heroine of Candle’s Christmas Chair, in which Lord Randal Avery does not allow the difference in their social classes to prevent him from courting the lovely woman from whom he is buying his mother’s Christmas present. Click on the book link for more.

I first met Min and her viscount in Farewell to Kindness (which is Rede’s, the Earl of Chirbury’s, story). Min provided the invalid chair that Rede’s cousin, Alex Redepenning, has collapse under him during a vigorous chair based rendition of a line dance. I wondered how a carriage-maker’s daughter with a business making invalid chairs came to marry a viscount, and next thing I knew, a tall skinny viscount with bright red hair turned up at her carriage-maker’s shop to order a chair as a Christmas present for his mother.

More about the history of wheel chairs

Tea with Min

 

 

 

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Spotlight on Summer Romance

 

I’m delighted to announce that volume 1 of Summer Romance on Main Street, with my novella Beached as one of six stories of summertime love, will be released on 15 June. US 99c is terrific value for more than 150,000 words, so grab it now. Click on my novella title for buy links and my blurb, or read on for an excerpt.

“There.” Dave turned off the tap, and dropped a handful of dirty implements into the soapy water. “I’ll boil a kettle to give the silver beet a head start when the girls arrive. A river cruise could suit you, Zee. No waves.”

Zee used the dish mop he’d just picked up to flick some soap suds at Dave. He’d never live down the condition in which he’d landed in Valentine Bay, but the teasing from his workmates was good natured.

At the sink, he had a good view of the big turning zone outside the triple garage. He glanced up idly when the Masterton people mover drew up, then froze, his hands hovering above the hot water. Nicola Watson? What was Global Earth Watch’s gun attorney doing in Valentine Bay? He’d last seen her on television, leaving the courtroom in which she had just lost her case against O’Neal Hotel Corporation. A loss aimed at destroying GEW’s credibility and that had been orchestrated in a plot between Miss Watson’s colleague and fiancé and Zee’s brother, Patrick O’Neal.

Discovering the machinations had been the final straw that precipitated Zee’s flight from his career, his family, his trust fund, his name, and the United States.

“She’s a stunner, isn’t she?” Dave said, and Zee accepted the excuse for looking as if he’d been bashed across the side of the head. Though he’d known the lovely Miss Watson was a New Zealander, he’d not known she was here in her home country. He had certainly not known that her family owned a house in the fishing village where he’d come ashore.

“She sure is. A lawyer, I think you said?” He finished scrubbing the brush across the base of the pot and put it on the rack for Dave to dry. Would she know who he was? They’d never met, and he didn’t court the camera the way his father and half-brothers did. Nor did he look like the other O’Neals, red hair to their black, finer boned, with his mother’s grey eyes. Any family resemblance needed another O’Neal for comparison.

If she realized who he was, he would tell her he was not an O’Neal anymore, if he ever really had been. One of his last acts in repudiating the family had been to legally change his surname back to the one on his birth certificate; his mother’s name. And if Ms. Watson didn’t know who he was, he wouldn’t say anything that would sour the evening for Becky and Dave.

He’d made his decision just in time, as the two women came into the kitchen from the mud room—back porch, the New Zealanders would say.

Becky went straight into her husband’s arms for the kiss with which they always greeted one another, turning her head to make the introductions from that safe harbor.

“Niks, this is our lodger, Zee Henderson. He lives above the garage.”

Ms. Watson showed none of the hostility she owed an O’Neal, offering instead a friendly smile and a hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Henderson.”

“Zee, please,” Zee begged. “If anyone calls me Mr. Henderson, I look around for my grand-dad.”

Nikki crossed the room to greet Dave with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, Becky having left her husband to check on the status of the dinner. “You’re an American,” she observed to Zee.

“Guilty, as charged.”

“Niks works in New York,” Becky observed. She touched the kettle, decided it was hot enough, and poured some water into the waiting pot. “Or, at least, she used to. Have you ever been there, Zee?”

“I sailed from New York.” Zee grimaced. “Turned out to be a bad idea.”

Nikki looked from Zee to Becky. “Why? What happened?”

“He gets sea sick,” Dave explained. “By the time the boat berthed in Valentine Bay, he’d been sea sick for six months. He staggered off onto the wharf, took hold of a bollard, and swore he was never leaving land again.”

Becky took up the story. “So Dave brought him home, and the New Zealand Immigration Service gave him a new name, and a year later here he is.”

Nikki raised one elegant brow. Close up and in person, she was even more gorgeous than on television, her face devoid of makeup and not needing it, her long hair caught back casually with a couple of hair slides and a clip. “Gave you a new name?”

“My name is Zachary Henderson, ma’am. Only the immigration officer thought I said Thackeray. When I told him ‘zee’ for ‘Zulu ’, Dave thought it was hilarious.” New Zealanders called the last letter of the alphabet ‘Zed’. “Around here, they’ve been calling me ‘Zee’ ever since.”

“Except when we call him Drift,” Dave corrected.

Nikki’s eyes sparkled. “Short for driftwood?”

“Right,” Zee agreed, as he let the water go and wiped out the sink. There. Becky liked to start a meal with a clean kitchen, and Dave liked her to be happy. “I’m beached, and that’s the way I plan to stay.”

“There are worse places than Valentine Bay to be beached.” Nikki had taken the drying cloth from Dave’s hand, had dried the last of the pans, and was putting them away, clearly familiar with Becky’s kitchen.

“There are few better,” Zee said. And the place was improved by having her in it. New Zealand had a worldwide reputation for scenic wonders, and she was certainly that!

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Transport on WIP Wednesday

 

In my stories, people travel. A lot. The Realm of Silence is a road trip story, and so is Gingerbread Bride. In almost everything I’ve written, the characters need to get from one place to another by whatever means of transport was available. In the latest novella for the Bluestocking Belles, Paradise Regained, I’m just writing a camel train, a caravan. Did you know that the largest could have thousands of camels? Wow. House of Thorns meant researching the earliest steam ferries on the Mersey. For Never Kiss a Toad, which is early Victorian, my co-author and I have spent a lot of time calculating journey times on ships and trains.  I’ve gifted the heroine of my latest contemporary novella, Beached, with a dual fuel (gas and electricity) car, and the hero has what New Zealanders call a utility vehicle, or ute.

So transport is this week’s theme. Comments with your excerpts are very welcome! Here’s mine, from Beached.

They went in Zee’s ute—his pickup he called it—leaving after breakfast. Nikki had offered her car, but Zee said he had some stuff to pick up for Dave, and needed the pickup’s bed.

Nikki decided not to call him on being a typical male, hating to be driven. Besides, she enjoyed watching his competent hands on the wheel and not driving meant she could enjoy the scenery—both inside and outside the car.

“We’ve gone as far as we can with the demolition,” Zee explained, as the truck skirted the foreshore. “I’ve got the crew tidying up today, and I’ve a few jobs lined up for next week that don’t need permits, but we’ll run out pretty quick. No problem if the council sticks to their ten-day timeline, but if anything is holding them up, I want to know about it ahead of time. If I let Dave take the team off your house and get involved in another job, who knows when we’ll get them back?”

“I thought you worked for Dave?” Nikki teased, prompting a broad smile and a sideways glance.

“Believe me, Nikki, I’m working for you on this one.” No misinterpreting that, although all week he’d been blowing hot and cold. She’d manufactured several opportunities for them to be alone, and any other man would have made a move by now. Showing an interest had always been enough and she’d done that, surely? Perhaps he was shy. Or she hadn’t been obvious enough.

They had the whole day together today; time enough for things to develop.

The road made its turn from the coast, running beside the estuary before turning to climb into the hills.

“Is this anything like where you grew up?” Nikki asked.

Zee laughed. “Not much! Me and my mom lived with her dad up on a mountain in Wyoming. They call it off the grid these days. To me, it was just the way you lived. Fishing in the lake for lunch. Hunting to put meat on the table. School was lessons with mom or grandpop, not just out of books but in our everyday lives. I learnt design hands-on, making things with grandpop.”

“It sounds idyllic,” Nikki commented.

“I remember it as idyllic. At least until…” He trailed off, his hands on the wheel clenching then releasing.

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Tea with Will and Henry

A sober young woman whose firm chin and intelligent blue eyes marked her as a twig of the remarkable Grenford family tree led William Landrum, the Earl of Chadbourn, through French doors in Her Grace’s sitting room and out into a sunny garden filled with the hum of bees and the scent of roses.  He followed her down a stone path, around towering lilac bushes, into a sheltered bower paved in flagstones and bordered with flowers in lush profusion

He had known Eleanor Winshire since boyhood, and had come to count her a friend in spite of the difference in their ages. Her immediate response to his request for an interview pleased him. That she invited him so early in the day, hours before her formal calling hours, gratified him even more.

“The Earl of Chadbourn, Your Grace,” the young woman announced, bowing out.  The earl hesitated. She wasn’t alone. A tall gentleman with silver hair and the upright bearing of an officer, but dressed in impeccable civilian clothing, chatted happily with the duchess, sobering when the earl interrupted their tête-à-tête.

The topic that weighed on his mind involved family secrets and deeply personal worries. He didn’t know Brigadier-General Lord Henry Redepenning well, not as he knew the duchess. Will hesitated.

“Will! I’m delighted you could join us. Come and try some of the cook’s berry tarts. He has outdone himself.”

The Haverford chef enjoyed renown for good reasons. Will sat and helped himself. “Thank you for responding so quickly Eleanor.”

“Of course! Don’t hesitate due to Henry’s presence—you know Brigadier-General Redepenning; I know you do. He can be trusted with absolute discretion. I presume you wish advice about Charles.” She glanced pointedly at the black band on his sleeve.

Charles Wheatly, the Duke of Murnane, and, what is more to the point, Will’s nephew endured the loss of his only son six months past, casting him into a hell of grief and despair.  Will looked over at the general, and seeing only sympathy, came to a decision.  He brushed crumbs from his waistcoat.

“It’s killing me, Eleanor. We lost Jonny, and for the first month I thought we were going to lose Charles too.  My Catherine goes about pretending she has regained her spirits, but I know she worries for him still.”

“Charles always struck me as a sensible sort,” Lord Henry commented. “But any man may turn to the bottle after the sort of loss he endured.”

Eleanor nodded. “But Charles has never been the sort for dissipation. “

Will shrugged. “He’s tried every form of dissipation he could, except laudanum. He hates the vile stuff. None of them lasted. I’m not certain how much he eats or sleeps.”

“Has he gone out home to Eversham? He hasn’t been seen in town,” the duchess asked.

“Briefly. Fred has the place well in hand, however, and he doesn’t feel needed.” Will glanced at the general and plunged ahead. “They settled the matter of Jonny’s paternity, thank God, and all is well between them, but I think the sight of Fred’s and Clare’s growing brood running about the place depressed him.”

“Happy memories can wound as deeply as bad ones when one is being strangled by grief,” General Redepenning suggested.

“I suspect spending much time with those two didn’t help either. At least I assume Fred is still besotted with the beautiful woman he married,” Eleanor murmured. “That can’t help in Charles’s situation.” Thankfully she didn’t directly mention the duke’s dreadful estranged wife.

Will nodded morosely. “He is back in London, haunting my house, his own, and Sudbury’s like a wraith, saying little, refusing all invitations, and pacing the drawing room. He throws my children into miseries whenever he comes. He’s lost, Eleanor, just lost.”

The duchess glanced at her friend the general. “Henry and I were discussing it before you came. He can’t be allowed to wallow in grief until it makes him ill, you know that.”

“But what am I to do?” Will snapped. “I’m at my wit’s end.”

“He needs work. He allowed his career to languish these few years while he attended to Jonny. He needs work, and England needs his talent.

“I thought of encouraging him to find a position in the foreign office, but I don’t see that haunting Whitehall will be an improvement over my drawing room.”

Eleanor smiled at him. “Perhaps not, but he would be out from underfoot.”

“Getting away from places that bring his son to mind might help,” General Redepenning put in.

“Precisely!” the duchess replied. “What he needs is a mission, preferably something overseas.”

Will brightened. “That might do the trick, but what?”

“Why don’t you speak to your friend the Duke of Sudbury. He keeps an oar in for all his party is out of power. He’ll know of something.”

“He might at that,” Will said. “I feel better.” He sat back to enjoy the duchess’s excellent tea.

“One other thing,” Eleanor said, this time more sternly. “He needs to deal with his marriage mess. He’ll be lost until he does it. Now that the boy is gone, it’s time. I know you use Sudbury’s network to keep an eye on the woman.  What do you know about her whereabouts.“

Will choked on his tea. “Julia? Yes, well as it happens we heard she sailed for India with some baron she met in Baden.”

The general looked at the duchess, amusement impossible to conceal. “You want to send him on a mission to Madras?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she answered primly. “You and Sudbury will think of something Will.”

They passed an hour in pleasanter conversation until the earl rose to depart. Before he could take his leave, Eleanor spoke again. “One other thing, Will. Sudbury’s heir is becoming a byword. Tell the duke I would be delighted to chat about some ideas for that boy as well.”

About the Book: The Unexpected Wife

Children of Empire Book 3

Crushed with grief after the death of his son, Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane, throws himself into the new Queen’s service in 1838. When the government sends him on an unofficial fact finding mission to the East India Company’s enclave in Canton, China, he anticipates intrigue, international tensions, and an outlet for his frustration. He isn’t entirely surprised when he also encounters a pair of troublesome young people that need his help. However, the appearance of his estranged wife throws the entire enterprise into conflict. He didn’t expect to face his troubled marriage in such an exotic locale, much less to encounter profound love at last in the person of a determined young woman. Tensions boil over, and his wife’s scheming—and the beginnings of the First Opium War—force him to act to rescue the one he loves and perhaps save himself in the process.

Zambak Hayden seethes with frustration. A woman her age has occupied the throne for over a year, yet the Duke of Sudbury’s line of succession still passes over her—his eldest—to land on a son with neither spine nor character. She follows her brother, the East India Company’s newest and least competent clerk, to protect him and to safeguard the family honor. If she also escapes the gossip and intrigues of London and the marriage mart, so much the better. She has no intention of being forced into some sort of dynastic marriage. She may just refuse to marry at all. When an old family friend arrives she assumes her father sent him. She isn’t about to bend to his dictates nor give up her quest. Her traitorous heart, however, can’t stop yearning for a man she can’t have.

Neither expects the epic historical drama that unfolds around them.

The Unexpected Wife, will be released on July 25.

Here’s a short video about it:

https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7/videos/924791187669849/

About the Author

Traveler, would-be adventurer, former tech writer and library technology professional, Caroline Warfield has now retired to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, and divides her time between writing and seeking adventures with her grandbuddy. In her newest series, Children of Empire, three cousins torn apart by lies find their way home from the far corners of the British Empire, finding love along the way.

She has works published by Soul Mate Publishing and also independently published works. In addition she has participated in five group anthologies, one not yet published.

For more about the series and all of Caroline’s books, look here:

https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

 

by

Correspondence on WIP Wednesday

 

For an author, correspondence can be handy, letting us tell the reader a bit of backstory without beating them around the head with it. Of course, this presumes a certain context — literacy, for a start. But in the historic novels I write, I use notes and letters quite a bit. In contemporaries, the equivalent would be a text message or an email.

This week, I have a piece for you from my latest contemporary, a novella for the Authors of Main Street summer collection: Summertime on Main Street Volume 1. In Beached, my hero has become estranged from his family, but is writing to his father.

Feel free to post your extracts in the comments. I’d love to read them.

The email took a long time to write. Zee knew what he needed to say, but the words didn’t come easily. Twice, he deserted his laptop to do other things — take Oliver out for a walk, do a bit of cleaning around the apartment, catch up on his laundry, set dinner simmering in the slow cooker. In the end, he thought he had it. Reading it over carefully, he adjusted a few words here and there, went to send, then changed his mind and resaved as a draft.

Stop procrastinating, you idiot.

It was as good as it was going to get. He opened the draft and clicked on the send button before he could have second — no, nineteenth or twentieth thoughts.

 

Hi Dad

It’s Drew here. I should have been in touch long ago. In fact, I shouldn’t have stormed off without first talking to you. And I’m going to admit straight up front that I’d still be putting off writing if I didn’t want something.

First, the apology. I knew fairly early on that you couldn’t have been involved in Pat’s conspiracy with that guy at Global Earth Watch. It just isn’t your style, or Michael’s either. I’m sorry I didn’t figure that out before I blew up.

That wasn’t why I left, though it was the trigger for the timing. I’d been thinking of trying something else, outside of O’Neal Hotel Corporation, for quite a while. I needed to see if I could make it on my own. I should have talked to you about that, too. Looking back, I can see that you’ve always supported all of us to do what we thought was right for us. You might have argued — probably would have. But just to be sure I’d thought things through, and then I would have had your blessing to make my own decision.

I’m sorry for judging you and getting it wrong.

I’ve been living in New Zealand, which I expect you knew. And I’m guessing you knew I’ve gone back to my old name. Zachary Henderson, not Andrew O’Neal. When Grandma and I decided to change my name back when I first came to live with you, you understood it was part of me trying to fit in. I hope you’ll understand that I needed to be that guy again, and see what he could grow into without the corporation and the O’Neal history behind him.

But, as Grandma always said, family is family. I like being Z. Henderson of Valentine Bay, New Zealand. But I’ll also always be an O’Neal. I needed some distance and the good friends I’ve found here to understand that.

Which brings me to my request. There’s a developer here who is building a hotel in a beautiful spot not far from where I live. Not a bad idea. The local economy would benefit from a properly designed and targeted project, one that respected the local community and the environment.

I have fears about the project as it stands, especially since Chow xxxx seems to be involved. I overheard him talking to the developer about bringing in his own labour, but his name appears nowhere in the publically available documentation, which is attached.

I have tried following the trail from the named investors to Chow. I’m sure there’s a connection, but I can’t find it. Would you put some people on to it? I’m happy to cover any costs.

Dad, I’d like to keep in touch. Give my love to the rest of the family, and feel free to pass on my email address.

 

How to sign off had bewildered him for a while. Just his name seemed far too cold. ‘Kind regards’ was too business like, and ‘Love’ was a step too far. He did love his father, and he knew his father loved him, but a male O’Neal didn’t talk about such things. In the end, he settled on ‘I miss you all, Drew’.

He hovered over the laptop, berating himself for expecting an instant reply. His father was a busy man, and might — in any case — need some time to come to terms with an out-of-blue contact from the prodigal son. But in less than fifteen minutes, the laptop dinged for an incoming message.