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Tea with Susan

“Yes, that should work well.” Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford set the last of the pages she had been reading onto the pile before her, and smiled at her goddaughter. “I like the way you have involved the parents in the running of the school, Susan. I shall have to adopt that idea for my own establishments.”

Susan Cunningham returned the smile as she explained, “Our Scots villagers are theoretically in favour of education, at least for their sons. But they will not support anything that interferes with work on the farm. So it makes sense to organise the school sessions around the demands of the harvest.”

“Yes, and if the leading farmers are the ones who set the timetable, the others will follow their example. Good. Well done, and of course I am happy to be named as a patroness of the school, although you have done all the work, my dear.”

Susan sipped her tea before answering. “A duchess on our letterhead will be much more impressive than a mere Missus, even if I am the widow of a prominent local landlord.”

The duchess laughed. “Yes, by all means use my title to collect donations from your local gentry. But Susan, I wanted to ask about your daughter. How is Amyafter all her adventures?”

“Unscathed,” Susan replied, dryly, then corrected herself. “To be fair, the experience has left her more thoughtful and less impetuous. But she is safe, thanks mostly to Gi- to Lord Rutledge. I do not know what might have happened without him.”

“Your father mentioned that he escorted you on your trip north, but he said little else, except that Amy was found safe and well.”

Susan shuddered. “She is safe and well because she was found, and only just in time.”

The duchess reached for a cucumber sandwich. “And how is Lord Rutledge? I have always thought the pair of you liked one another rather more than you made out.”

Susan sighed. “It is complicated,” she said.

Susan and Gil Rutledge, childhood friends who have been estranged for twenty years, are forced to work together when Susan’s daughter runs away from school. Their story is told in book 3 of The Golden Redepennings, The Realm of Silence (coming in May). Here’s an excerpt.

Dear Lord. All these years she’d held a small bubble of resentment that he’d left London and then England without a note or a message. She should have thrown caution to the wind and written to him before she agreed to marry James.

She snorted at the thought. A fine letter that would have been. “Dear Lieutenant Rutledge, a fine young naval officer has asked me to marry him, and before I give him my answer, I just wish to enquire whether you have any interest in having me instead.”

Regrets and might-have-beens were stupid. She had been happy with James, at least in the beginning, until he proved to lack the gift of fidelity. Even after he made it clear that he would not give up his other women, he did not flaunt them in her face. He was courteous and friendly, respected her abilities and supported her decisions, gave her control of his estate and his income, expected little from her except his nominated allowance and the occasional public appearance. She had been content in her life, if not her marriage, and she had the three most wonderful children in the world.

Accepting Gil’s hand back up into the cabriolet-phaeton, she composed herself for the next stretch of the journey. Knowing he admired her still, at least enough to kiss her, set all of her body singing. She needed to be realistic, and smother the foolish dreams creeping from her memories. She was thirty-seven, and he was a baron. He would need to find a young wife who could give him an heir, and she would need to smile and be glad for him.

A less personal subject than family was needed for the next part of the trip.

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The Realm of Silence – coming in May

I am biting the bullet and committing to publishing The Realm of Silence in May. The book blurb is now up on my book page, and in the next couple of days I’ll set up a preorder through Smashwords for iBooks, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble. Too early for Amazon, but that will come later in the month.

So go take a look (by clicking on the link), and see what you think. Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt and the cover.

Gil was as quick to understand her now as when they ran wild over the lands around Longford. Susan made short work of discovering what Clementine didn’t want her aunt to know, and re-joined Gil by the stables.

“This governess. Was she slightly built, of below average height, and dark haired?” she asked, then, at Gil’s nod, “We need to find out whether a boy hired a post chaise, or possibly a young woman with a French accent. I have no idea whether there is a connection, but apparently the French music teacher is also missing, and she fits that description.”

She had thought he would take over the questioning, but he seemed content to allow her to coax answers out of the stable master, confining himself to looming at her left shoulder.

Looming was unnecessary, however. The stable master remembered the French lady on Saturday morning. “Just the lady on her own, ma’am. She wanted a post chaise for Newcastle, but I told her we didn’t go no further than York. She could get another there, I told her.”

“What of other travellers that same morning? Was there a boy, perhaps around fifteen or sixteen? He may have had a young lady with him of a similar age? Perhaps also travelling to York or Newcastle?”

The stable master was shaking his head when another ostler spoke up. “I saw the boy. With a girl, he was, but I didn’t see her proper. The boy came in and rented the post chaise while the girl waited out the front. It was while you was with that dook’s party, Ben. For York, but they only took ’un as far as Stamford. Joe—he’s the post boy, ma’am—he came back last night.”

The stable master nodded once, a swift jerk of the chin. “Right.”

“We will speak with the post boy,” Gil decreed. But the post boy was out on a job to a nearby town. He would return within the hour, and the stable master would keep him against Susan’s return.

“I will be back in one hour,” she said. “Thank you for your help.” She repeated the thanks to Gil before setting off at a brisk pace for the school. The fear jittered inside, but she quelled it. She had a lead, which was more than she’d had half an hour ago. If the French lady was the music mistress. If the boy was Patrice in disguise. If the two young people the ostler saw were her runaways. The whole trail of ‘ifs’ depended on Gil’s observation. If the girl in Stamford was Amy, the rest fell into place.

This time, she would demand to see Amy’s room and to talk to some of the other girls. She also had questions to ask the head mistress about the French music teacher.

The presence at her elbow impinged on her conscious mind. Gil, still looming, his long stride easily keeping pace with her rapid steps.

She stopped. “Did you want something, Lord Rutledge?”

Grave brown eyes met her glare, dark brows meeting above the straight aristocratic nose in a return glare. “I am helping.” Not an offer or even a request. An obdurate statement. Arrogant male.

Susan fought to keep her irritation from showing. “You have been helpful. Thank you. I can handle it from here.”

Gil lifted one shoulder and dropped it again. “Undoubtedly. Nonetheless…” A second shrug, as expressive as the first. She didn’t have time to argue; not that arguing ever changed Gilbert Rutledge’s mind once it was made up.

He had clearly decided his participation was a foregone conclusion. “What did the Foster chit tell you?”

She would be a fool to refuse him information that might make his help useful. “The Grahame chit,” she corrected. “Clementine Grahame said that her sister and Amy were always whispering together, and would not tell their secrets, so when Amy arrived at their house before breakfast and she and Patrice went up to Patrice’s bedroom, Clementine put her ear to the door to try to hear them or, failing that, spy on what they did next.”

He did not ask the obvious question; just waited for her to continue.

“They talked too low for her to understand. But Patrice left her room dressed as a boy and she and Amy caught Clementine in the hall. They threatened her with retribution if she told anyone what she had seen, and instructed her to tell the aunt they had left for the exhibition together. The rest of Clementine’s story is true, or so she assures me. She followed them here, and actually waited until they left in the post chaise. She then went off to school and pretended the whole thing had not happened.”

Exasperation coloured the last sentence. Susan understood the child’s fear of her unyielding aunt, and her jealousy of the friendship between the two older girls. But if Clementine had spoken earlier, Amy would be safe now.

“Come then, if you must. I am going to the school. You can question the headmistress about the French woman while I talk to Amy’s friends and check her room.” And if Susan weren’t so worried about her daughter, she might be amused at the thought of the coming confrontation between the haughtily disapproving educationalist and the grim uncompromising soldier.

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In praise of anaesthetics

 

I had a small medical procedure under local anaesthetic yesterday; around half an hour lying under a sterile cloth with a hole cut in it so the surgeon could work on the bit of flesh she wanted. We were chatting for much of that time about the difference that anaesthesia makes. Much as I love history, I wouldn’t want to live there. My surgeon said she’d had a similar discussion with the previous patient, this time about geography. Yes; there are places I wouldn’t want to live, too.

For most of history, surgery has been a last, and extremely painful, resort. Opium and alcohol were both used from ancient times, but both had unpleasant side effects and neither entirely blocked the pain. Knocking someone out with a blow to the head ensured they didn’t feel the surgery, but timing was a problem, and the blow could cause its own problems. The same applied to pressing on the carotid artery; the person would pass out, but recover quickly, and repeating the process was dangerous.

Surgeons relied on speed and strong helpers. The first to get the procedure over as quickly as possible, the second to hold the patient still.  In the eighteenth century, the record for the fastest amputation at the thigh was nine seconds, start to finish, including sawing through the bone. Are you impressed yet? Even the average, thirty seconds, was pretty damned fast.

Fanny Burney, the English novelist, describes her mastectomy thus:

When the dreadful steel was plunged into the breast … I needed no injunctions not to restrain my cries. I began a scream that lasted unintermittently during the whole time of the incision … so excruciating was the agony … I then felt the Knife [rack]ling against the breast bone – scraping it.

Ether was the first successful general anaesthesia, and it was first used in 1842. Think about that. Just over 170 years, and before that thousands of years of pain when surgery was the only option to save a life (or possibly two, in the case of caesarean section — more about that another time). Chloroform was introduced in 1847, followed closely by the first person to suffer sudden heart failure under anaesthesia. Both ether and chloroform have since been replaced by much safer agents.

And in 1884, came the first use of local anaesthesia — the nerves blocked by cocaine isolated from the coca plant.

We’ve come a long way since.

For more on the history of anaesthetics, see this timeline: http://www.histansoc.org.uk/timeline.html

 

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Gossip and scandal on WIP Wednesday

Gossip and scandal are the refuge of the bored, and our stories abound in people who have too little to do and too much time to take an interest in the doings of their neighbours, sometimes with malicious intent.

Today, I’m looking for excerpts where gossip, or the consequences of gossip, take centre stage. Mine is from House of Thorns.

Two weeks of mostly fine weather saw the standing part of Thorne Hall made weather tight, and had the local farmers scurrying to salvage what they could of the harvest. Papa seemed slightly better, too, enjoying daily outings in his chair as he lectured Brownlee on herbal lore and the romance poetry of medieval France.

Rosa’s new gown was delivered, and she wore it to Matins on the second fine Sunday with the new bonnet and shawl, feeling a guilty delight at outshining those who had scorned her. With an effort, she reminded herself that she was here to pray, not to show off her fine feathers, and she did penance by praying for the Pelmans and the Benfords.

The two women were waiting outside, talking to the vicar who had ridden over from a neighbouring parish since the rector had gone to stay with relatives for his convalescence. He was a young man, new to the area, and employed to cover the parish for an incumbent who had another living in Lancashire. “The wages of sin, I assure you,” Rosa heard Maud Benford say.

Rosa set her jaw, straightened her back and swept up to them, holding out her hand to the vicar as the other two drew away as if to avoid contamination. “Vicar Watson. I am Mrs Hugh Gavenor My husband and I own and are restoring Thorne Hall. I see you have already met my cousin, Maud, and her friend.

The vicar, with a nervous look at the other two women, tentatively took her hand and bowed slightly. “Mrs Gavenor. Ah… Er…”

Before he could figure out a way not to take sides, or to decide which side to take, a relief force of Rosa’s supporters joined them, introducing themselves and taking over the conversation. Miss Pelman and Mrs Benford withdrew, and the vicar, though not without several sideways glances at Rosa, accepted her presence in the middle of the chattering group.

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Tea with Pierce, Earl of Wainthorpe

Pierce, Earl of Wainthorpe finds himself in a position he never conceived of; in need of the haut ton’s approval. An unrepentant rake and member of the secret Wicked Earls’ Club, he must change his ways, or he’ll never gain guardianship of Bianca Salisbury—the young woman he won at cards. And for reasons, he can’t begin to explain, much less wants to examine closely, assuring her safety has become the most important thing in his life.

Barlow stood just inside the parlor entrance. “The Earl of Wainthorpe, Your Grace.”

Pierce surveyed the elegant room, and the even more elegant Duchess of Haversford. Well, he might as well get on with it. He’d come this far. He bowed over her hand, “Thank you for you invitation, Your Grace.”

“Wainthorpe. I am so pleased you could join me. Please be seated. Will you take tea?”

“Yes, please.” If he must. Pierce flipped his tails out of the way as he sank onto the dainty butter-colored chair. “As I said in my letter, I find myself in need of some direction, and who else, but someone of your pristine reputation to assist me?”

The duchess raised an elegant brow, but remained silent.

“Honestly,” devil it, Pierce felt like an errant school boy, “I wasn’t sure you’d see me. As you well know, I haven’t been the modicum of respectability.”

“I was indeed surprised to receive your letter, Wainthorpe, given your reputation. But I certainly have no interest in placing barriers in the way of a true intent to reform.” She lifted the silver sugar bowl. “Milk? Sugar?”

Don’t suppose he dared ask for coffee instead? No, better not. “Milk and two—er—three lumps, please.” It was about the only way he could abide the beverage.

“And tell me how I can help. And, more to the point. Why I should help.” She passed the cup, and began to prepare her own.

Piece took a sip while sorting while deciding on the best course of action. The duchess seemed a direct sort of person. “I’m determined to win the Chancery Court’s favor. In order to do so, I must have the support of peeresses like yourself.”

“Why?” She stirred her tea, not giving a hint of what she might be thinking.

Yes, definitely blunt and to the point.

Pierce leaned forward, trying to convey the urgency of the matter. “I won a young woman, Bianca Salisbury, in a card game against Lord Fairfax. He must not be permitted to remain her guardian.” He shook his head. “I shudder to think what would have happened to her had someone else won that hand of cards.”

The Duchess of Haverford straightened, and regarded him thoughtfully. “I think I need an explanation, young man. You won a young woman? I must say I agree that Lord Fairfax is a most unsuitable guardian, but are you any better? What do you intend for the girl, Wainthorpe?”

The last was sentence was arid.

This wasn’t going well.

Pierce set aside his teacup and pressed his lips together for a moment.

“Your Grace, she has no one to come to her aid. No one, save I, who cares enough to make sure Fairfax doesn’t use her as collateral again.” He sighed and had one finger inside his cravat to tug the choking cloth loose, before he caught himself. Pierce shook his head. “I freely admit I’ve been a rogue and a scoundrel, but I also have a sense of honor. My only intent is to keep her safe from her blackguard of a cousin.”

“Hmm. She truly has no one else?” Duchess Halversford peered at him, her eyes slightly squinted. “When I received your letter, I asked my son Aldridge about you. And Aldridge gave me the same report.” She pointed a long finger at him. “You are a rapscallion of Aldridge’s own stamp, but at base a man of honor as well.”

“The two are not as incongruous as they might seem, Your Grace.” He glanced out the festooned window. “For her sake, I cannot fail.”

“Very well. I warn you, however, of two things,” the duchess said.

He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“First, we shall not convert all of Society. Some stick to their beliefs. However, I flatter myself that where I lead, others will follow, and you will have my approval and support.”

“And?” Hope flickered brighter.

“Conditionally, which is my second point. I count myself the young lady’s champion, my lord, and will be watching how you conduct yourself with her.”

Relief flooded Pierce. “I expected no less.”

Now all he had to do was convince Bianca she was better off with him.

Earl of Wainthorpe: (Wicked Earls’ Club)

Could you ever love the unrepentant rake who won you in a wager?

He didn’t gamble on losing his heart when he won her at the gaming tables.

Pierce, the Earl of Wainthorpe has finally thwarted his worst enemy. Except he can’t revel in his victory after winning his foe’s ward in a winner-takes-all wager. If Pierce refuses to assume Bianca Salisbury’s guardianship, the fiery-haired beauty with a matching temper may very well find herself sold to the highest bidder.

The shameful secret she guards makes it impossible to love a rogue.

Desperate to escape her blackguard cousin, Bianca Salisbury ventures to London to find a husband or employment. Instead, she’s bartered to a notorious rakehell. She either risks being compromised and accepts The Earl of Wainthorpe’s protection, or flees him and her guardian. But without money and a place to go, she fears she’ll face the same tragic fate as her mother.

Caution: This romance features a sexy, irredeemable scoundrel determined to thumb his nose at the haut ton, a saucy country miss unafraid to speak her mind but terrified of even a hint of scandal, a unlikely aristocratic matchmaker, a trio of busybody sisters you’ll adore, and a very pregnant calico that is convinced humans are only around for her convenience.

PURCHASE THE EARL OF WAINTHORPE FOR $.99 HERE

https://books2read.com/EOWcc

Before the price goes up to $3.99!

Meet Collette Cameron

USA Today Bestselling author, COLLETTE CAMERON pens Scottish and Regency historicals featuring rogues, rapscallions, rakes, and the intelligent, intrepid damsels who reform them.

Blessed with three spectacular children, fantastic fans, and a compulsive, over-active, and witty Muse who won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she lives in Oregon with her mini-dachshunds, though she dreams of living in Scotland part-time.

Admitting to a quirky sense of humor, Collette enjoys inspiring quotes, adores castles and anything cobalt blue, and is a self-confessed Cadbury chocoholic. You’ll always find dogs, birds, occasionally naughty humor, and a dash of inspiration in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances.

Connect with Collette:

Website: http://collettecameron.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/collettecameronauthor

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/colletteauthor/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/Collette_Author

Amazon Author Page:  http://amazon.com/author/collettecameron.com/

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/collette-cameron

Newsletter: http://bit.ly/TheRegencyRose  (Get your FREE 3-Book Starter Library!)

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Can we learn from the past?

My current WIP is set during 1816, the year when summer didn’t come to the United Kingdom, bringing failed harvests, disease, starvation, and other ills. After the long economic pressures of war, times were tough, and unskilled labourers of the time must have despaired at their chances of keeping their families housed and fed, or even alive.

But things were about to improve, at least according to a lot of modern economists. They see widening real income inequality from the 14th century, peaking in the 18th century and beginning to improve from around 1814. For the wealthy, things improved as income from real estate rose and the cost of luxury goods dropped. The poor found it harder and harder to meet the rising cost of housing, especially as the prices of staple goods trended upwards and upwards.

For my book The Reign of Silence, I researched revolutionary movements in England during the early part of the 19th century. For a long time, those in power took the threat of bloody revolution very seriously, especially once the French provided a vivid example of the results of allowing a population to experience untrammeled greed long enough to get sick of it.

In the 19th century, and through to the First World War, the balance shifted as labour shortages forced wages up and real estate prices trended down. The trend reversed between the wars, with the incomes of the wealthy once more pulling away from the incomes of the rich. In the period I remember as my childhood, after the Second World War, income inequality was low, but since then it has reached 18th century levels once again.

Think about these figures (latest ones from the Oxfam report recently published):

  • 1700 England-Wales households:
    • Top 1% share 39.3% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1740 England-Wales households:
    • Top 1% share 43.6% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1774 US households:
    • Top 1% share 40% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 1929 US households:
    • Top 1% share 44.2% of the nation’s before-tax income
  • 2017 global figures
    • Top 1% share 82% of income generated during the year.

Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and 10,000 kilometres of ocean between New Zealand and increasingly desperate people might not be enough.

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The would-be other woman (or man) on WIP Wednesday

In my stories, I quite often have a rival for the position of beloved. Usually one that the hero or heroine would not consider, and often a villain or villainess. It adds a certain something to contrast my innocent heroine with a nasty harpy, or my honourable hero with a wicked deceiver.

Lots of authors do the same, from what I’ve observed, so today, I’d love to see a snippet of a scene with someone who is NOT the one.

Mine is from House of Thorns. My hero is seeking help for the lady who has injured her ankle at his house, going to the only two people he knows in the village: the man who acts as steward for the property he has purchased, and the man’s sister.

“I am not here about Miss Neatham’s housing, though she must find her new accommodations very poor after Rose Cottage. Could you not find her anything more suitable?”

“In an instant, if she can afford to pay. She has no income, Gavenor, and will not be able to afford the place she is in for long.”

“Pride is cold comfort when the roof leaks.” The new voice was redolent with satisfaction. This would be Pelman’s sister. No fairy this one — rather, a hearty country-woman with the undefinable resemblance to a well-bred horse that seemed to characterise the type.

“Livia. Allow me to present Mr Gavenor, the gentleman who has purchased the Hurley estate. Gavenor, my sister.”

Bear bowed. “Charmed, Miss Pelman.”

She simpered. “Mr Gavenor, how delightful that you have joined our little community.” She prattled on about the paucity of social equals and the joys of a visit to Liverpool, not far distant across the Mersey.

That was a prime attraction of the estate. Many of those making their fortunes in Liverpool’s shipping and woollen industries would want to a country place to mark their arrival in the netherworld between their middle class origins and the upper classes who would never accept them. And Thorne Hall was ideally suited, though not if your interests were in London. The new Baron Hurley was a London man to the bone, and had been glad to get rid of the place. Bear had paid a price that would make him money even if he had to raze the ruin to the ground and start again.

Miss Pelman was attempting to dig into his plans. He ignored the hints; time enough for her to disapprove when they were accomplished.

“You may be able to help me, Miss Pelman,” he said.

“Pelman told me you have need of a housekeeper, Mr Gavenor, and I would be willing to fill the position. On a temporary basis, as a favour. You understand that I would need maids to do the actual work, of course.”

“I do not need a housekeeper, Miss Pelman. Though it is kind of you to consider it.”

“Oh? Then you have someone?”

“I have my manservant. No, Miss Pelman, that was not the favour. I…” He stopped to consider his words before he put himself and Miss Neatham in the suds. “I happened to chance on a Miss Neatham, who has twisted her ankle and is unable to return to her home tonight. I offered to check on her elderly father, and found him in some distress. Can you recommend a neighbour who might be willing to look after him for the night, until Miss Neatham is able to make appropriate arrangements?” There. That was all true enough without giving this witch some scandal to hold on to.

But it didn’t satisfy.

“Miss Neatham? Rosabel Neatham? Where is she staying? Who is she staying with?”

“A cottager has taken her in,” Bear said. “Terrible weather to be out in, too. The lady is fortunate she was close to somewhere dry.”

“Lady! Well some might call her a lady, I suppose.”

“Mr Neatham, Miss Pelman?”

“I suppose Mrs Able might oblige. She does sick bed nursing and laying out and the like. I shall give you a note. No. Better. Wait for me to get my cape and I shall take you.”

“Thank you. I won’t ask you to come out in this rain. A note and directions, and I shall manage perfectly.”

“Not at all, my dear Mr Gavenor. Why, we are neighbours now, and one must help ones neighbours. I insist.”

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Tea with Parsifal Keazund

The teapot, tea set, and tea service have all been set up in the private sitting room of Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. All is ready for the mysterious guest. Steampunk? Eleanor wonders what steampunk might be. Steam, she understands, but isn’t punk something to do with tinder?

A light cough alerted the Duchess to Barlow’s entrance.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Lord Keazund is here.”

Lord Keazund entered, dressed all in drab black, tweaking at his cuff. He didn’t look like a lord. He couldn’t have been very old. Sixteen or so, with sun-bleached blond hair and intelligent eyes that harbored a strange sadness in their blue waters.

Her Grace hid her surprise at her visitor’s youth, while wondering whether he had a taste for tea or whether she should send for something else. “Lord Keazund, you are very welcome. Please, come and take a seat.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said, sitting down on the divan opposite the Duchess.

“I can offer several varieties of tea, or I can send for a chocolate, if you wish. Indeed, Haverford House can provide most beverages, so do not hesitate to state a preference.”

“Tea will be perfect, thank you,” Parsifal replied with a smile. “I do love a good cup of tea and I’m sure yours will be excellent. I thank you again for the invite, it was most kind, although a bit surprising, as I haven’t been back in England long.”

“I should warn you, perhaps, that your England might not be precisely the same as my England,” Her Grace said, calmly. “The invitations to my Mondays at Home go, rather mysteriously, to what my author calls ‘the fictionsphere’. Do you take milk, my lord? Sugar? Lemon?”

“Milk and sugar, if you please,” said Parsifal. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Not wildly different, I trust. I believe it may be said that certain technologies and political boundaries are rather different, or at least differently advanced, in my ‘my’ England. I’m not altogether unfamiliar with the concept of…how to put it…other-worlds? I have just returned to ‘my’ England from one, after all.”

She passed him a tea made to his specifications. “You have been travelling, then? How I would love to travel. Where have you been, Lord Keazund?”

“Yes…” Parsifal replied. He paused as he sipped his tea and then continued, somewhat hesitantly. “I’ve just returned from an extensive expedition. My uncle—the late Lord Keazund—set out to find a forgotten city in the wastes of Siberia. Tragically, he was lost under the ice. I came back by way of the Siberian Skyrail. That’s the official story, anyway.”

Eleanor Haverford frowned. “The Skyrail? I don’t understand. My condolences on your loss,” she added.

“Thank you, your grace,” Parsifal said. “I’ve had to explain the Skyrail so many times. There was a newspaper story a while back about the Russian airship that crashed in the North Sea…sort of a long balloon that could be steered. The Skyrail is like a cross between an airship and a train…but the trains from ‘my’ England might be a bit different than yours?”

“Trains.” Eleanor considered for a minute, her mind full of long lines of donkeys or carters. Then her face cleared. “Ah, yes. My son Aldridge has mentioned the term. A row of carts pulled by a steam engine. It runs on rails, and they use them in the mines. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Parsifal said, frowning a little. “Yes…you’ve never ridden one? Never mind. This is excellent tea, your grace!”

“But—you say the official story. Tell me if my curiosity is unwelcome, my lord, but if you can share the unofficial story with an inquisitive lady from another world entirely, I would love to know more.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Parsifal said. “No one in ‘my’ England would believe the truth, and it could cause problems with the Prime Minister…but in reality, the expedition found a…a doorway into another world, I guess. One connected with my own, a place that myth calls the Sea. People and ships sometimes slip through from our normal waters into this other, land-less place. They are lost at Sea. Anyway…it’s a very long story, but I went into that Sea and I came back in a storm…a Weather Caster made it, they can send the weather wherever they like, on the Sea or Land. It’s quite outlandish, I know. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

Eleanor closed her mouth, which had dropped open in a most unladylike manner. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said. “How fascinating. And how fortunate that you were able to find your way home.”

“Not really,” said Parsifal. He looked out the window and bit his lip. “I left a friend there.”

Meet Parsifal Keazund, from the Weather Casters’ Saga

Parsifal Keazund, recently having inherited the title of lord, has already been through the adventures of books one and two in the Weather Casters’ Saga, and stands on the brink of book three, A Hole in the Air, coming in late February.

A Hole in the Ice (Weather Casters Saga, book One):

A Hole in The Ice is an epic historical fantasy sweeping across time, myth and nineteenth-century Europe. A decadent cast of characters embark on a mysterious journey in pursuit of a mythical lost land said to be inhabited by beautiful but deadly mermaids. As the reader sweeps across the story under the glimmer of chandeliers and falling snow flakes, they are taken on a beautiful adventure to the very limits of the imagination. Each character in this extraordinary tale has their own personal treasure they are hunting and each one will pay a price higher than they ever anticipated.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2v2oS1I

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2vgjkkP

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

A Hole in the Sea (Weather Casters Saga, book Two):

As the chase continues into the extraordinary seascape of a mysterious ocean, where sea monsters reign, deadly mermaids hunt, and pirates skulk, Parsifal learns that staying alive on the high seas is no easy task; especially when being hunted down by the vengeful and determined Lady Vasille. As beautiful, deadly, and driven as ever, Lady Vasille will stop at nothing to retrieve the compass and the power it contains. In this fantastically wrought, nautical fantasy adventure, McCallum J. Morgan transports the reader into a truly magical realm.

Amazon link: http://amzn.to/2uHR4o3

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/2tLjbS1

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2uL1AL0

 

Meet McCallum J. Morgan

McCallum J. Morgan is a twenty-two year old author who also dabbles in the dark arts of painting and costuming. His books include the steampunk fantasy, The Weather Casters Saga, and the horror-comedy, Ambulatory Cadavers. He lives and writes in North Idaho, where nature and music inspire madness while he dreams of times long past.

Website: http://mccallumjmorgan.weebly.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mccallumjmorgan

Blog: http://mhablas.blogspot.com/

Publisher: http://www.littlebirdpublishinghouse.com/

Youtube: http://bit.ly/2v2N2cc

Twitter: @McCallumJMorgan

Instagram: @mccallumjmorgan

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2vRR1pG

 

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Spotlight on The Moral Compass

Today’s guest is KA Servian, who brings us her book, The Moral Compass.

Florence is a spoilt young woman shielded from the filth and poverty of Victorian London by her father’s money and status. When he suffers a spectacular fall from grace, she must abandon everything, including the man she loves, and start again in the empire’s furthest colony of New Zealand.

Compromise and suffering await Florence in her new home. Against the odds, she finds security and love. But her decision to risk everything to enjoy some of the trappings of her previous life costs her dearly. She must live with the heart-breaking consequences of the choice she has made.

As the first book in the Shaking the Tree series, The Moral Compass begins a journey that Florence will complete in the sequel, A Pivotal Right.

Link to the book on Amazon – it’s discounted to .99c US for all of February. https://www.amazon.com/Moral-Compass-Shaking-Tree-Book-ebook/dp/B076J4YG33/

An extract from The Moral Compass

Jack watched his wife as she sat poker straight in her chair beside the hearth, needle in hand. With deft movements, she worked the black thread through a piece of fine white lawn. He followed her every move, marvelling at her skill.

“What are you embroidering?”

She smiled as she raised her eyes to his and he noted a pink flush appear on her cheeks. “It is a handkerchief for you. I am putting your initials on it.”

“Can I see?”

She nodded, passing the square of fabric to him. He ran his rough fingertips over the intricately worked stitches. “It is beautiful. You have great talent.”

“It is a shame that I wasted so much time learning to embroider as now I have little need for the skill. Mending and general sewing do not require such fine stitching and I am terribly slow.”

He returned the handkerchief to her. “I am sure that with expertise such as this my mended socks will be the most exquisite in the town.”

She sighed. “I suppose so.”

Setting the handkerchief down on the small table beside her chair Florence picked up a book with a scuffed brown cover and opened it.

“What is that you are reading?” he asked.

She closed the book, keeping her finger inside, and lifted it so he could see the spine. He squinted at the faded gold letters. They were familiar, but some were backwards to his eyes and he could not make sense of the words they spelt. Shifting in his seat, he moved his gaze to the fire. “I canna read them in the dim light.”

She cradled the book like a cherished child. “It is called Pride and Prejudice.” She smiled. “It is one of my favourites. I have read it many times.”

“Why do you like it so much?”

Florence shrugged. “The hero and heroine are so different and at first they do not like each other, but then love grows between them and—” She looked down and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s silly, really.”

He leaned forward in his seat and placed his hand over hers. “It doesna sound silly. Tell me about the hero. What manner of man is he that he is able to convince the lady to fall in love with him?”

“Mr Darcy seems proud and rude but he is shy and finds it difficult to speak freely of his feelings.” She paused. “But then he performs a great act of kindness for Lizzy, that’s the heroine. Well, more for her family, really. Then she sees him for the man he is and—”

“Is he a …wealthy man?”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Oh yes, he’s tremendously wealthy. He owns a beautiful estate called Pemberley. It is when Lizzy sees it for the first time that she realises that he is a man she could truly love.”

Jack released her hand and sat back. “Oh, I see.”

“Would you like me to read to you? I used to read to Mrs Branson sometimes. Her eyesight was fading, but she still enjoyed hearing stories.”

He stretched his long legs out. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

Meet KA Servian

As a life-long creative, Kathy gained qualifications in fashion design, applied design to fabric and jewellery making and enjoyed a twenty-year-plus career in the fashion and applied arts industries as a pattern maker, designer and owner of her own clothing and jewellery labels.

She then discovered a love of teaching and began passing on the skills accumulated over the years—design, pattern-making, sewing, Art Clay Silver and screen-printing to name a few.

Creative writing started as a self-dare to see if she had the chops to write a manuscript. Writing quickly became an obsession and Kathy’s first novel, Peak Hill, which was developed from the original manuscript, was a finalist in the Romance Writers of New Zealand Pacific Hearts Full Manuscript contest in 2016.

Never one to do things by half, Kathy designed and made the costume for the cover of her first historical novel, The Moral Compass and has made several other costumes from various periods in preparation for the novels that will follow in her Shaking the Tree series.

Kathy has just completed a diploma in advance applied writing. She squeezes writing her novels in around teaching sewing part-time and being a wife and mother.

You can follow Kathy on her website  or Facebook page . Photography is also one of her hobbies. You can view her images on her Instagram feed

 

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The smart widow’s country carriage

When I was writing the first, and even the second, draft of The Realm of Silence, I called the carriage my heroine is driving up and down the Great North Road, to and from Edinburgh, a phaeton.

A high-perch phaeton for the sporting man around town — far too dashing for my widow, and built for show, not for comfort.

I knew a phaeton was a round-town vehicle, and that I’d be smacked by those who know better, so last week I went hunting for a four-wheel two horse carriage that a dashing, fashionable, but not scandalous widow might use when travelling. (The children and servants are in a travelling coach, but Susan prefers to drive herself as much as possible. As who wouldn’t.)

The story required that the carriage had room enough for two people in comfort and three at a squeeze, with one of them driving. I allowed for space behind for a servant, and a fold up top against the weather. And I found the carriage I needed, allowing for the fact that each carriage would have been custom-made, so Susan’s did not have to fit some factory production process, but could be made to her preferences (and my story).

A cabriolet — later, many of them became taxis, giving us the term ‘cab’

I’ve found some neat resources, which I share at the bottom of this post, and some interesting information.

I knew that phaetons came in high-perch and low, and that ladies might drive the later without risk to their reputation, but probably not the former. Cabriolets were an Italian invention that reached England late in the 18th century — another sporty vehicle, but this one entirely suitable for a lady, low slung between the single wheels, and pulled by a single horse. But, again, not what I was looking for.

A phaeton from later in the century, after the name began to be applied to a vehicle with four wheels.

But the field was vast. Carriages, even more than custom-made cars today, varied according to the needs and tastes of the owner around certain defined features. Number of wheels. Number of passengers. Seat for a driver-groom or not. Type of axle, wheel, and spring. Height from the ground. Open or closed. Rain cover or no cover. One horse, two, or up to six. And lots more.

In the early years of the nineteenth century, one enterprising coach builder created a four-wheel vehicle with some of the features of a cabriolet, and some of a phaeton. This hybrid cabriolet-phaeton was not a great success, but a few years of refinement, and it gave birth to the four-wheel cabriolet, the victorian, and several other comfortable but elegant carriages for town and country driving.

I’m postulating that in 1812, my Susan had one of the early successful models, and that she might well have chosen to bring it with her from London to Edinburgh and back again, driving it herself on fine days, perhaps with one or two of the children to keep her company.

A Glossary of Carriages: http://www.arnkarnk.plus.com/glossary.htm

The Slower Road: https://theslowerroad.com/category/reference/carriages-carriage-types/page/6/

The victorian was a popular carriage in the mid-19th century.