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Tea with Queen Guinevere
Gwen came through a dark swirling tunnel into what looked like the kind of historic townhouse that has public tours, except that it was polished to the nth degree and many of the items looked new. A man was waiting for her, and if he wasn’t a butler she was a marshmallow. He conducted her through a pair of double doors and onto a terrace where a woman of mature years was seated on a cane chair beside a table laden with cakes and tea. Tea – something she’d sorely missed in the Dark Ages.
“Queen Guinevere, I assume,” the lady said.
“The Duchess of Haverford,” Gwen replied, for that was the name on the invitation she had received.
“Please be seated, your majesty,” said the duchess. “Would you like some tea?”
Taking the offered seat, Gwen looked at the offerings on the table. “Yes, please. I’ve often longed for a nice cup of tea back in the 5th century. Sadly impossible. It’s all watered beer and some rather rough wine. We do get some Falernian imported from the Mediterranean from time to time though, and that’s worth having.”
“I have coffee, too, if you prefer it,” the duchess offered. “Or hot chocolate, though I personally find that a little bitter.”
“Definitely tea—hot and strong as I’ve so often longed for. And some of those fancy cakes.” Another thing that didn’t really exist in the Dark Ages, and which Gwen had often found herself daydreaming about.
“Please, your majesty,” the duchess said, as she passed over a cup of hot strong tea and a plate of little iced cakes, “tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“I’m very happy to be here with you, Duchess. Is that the right way to address a duchess? I’m not used to the gentility of this period, and there were no duchesses back in the Dark Ages. In fact, the term ‘your majesty’ didn’t exist then so I’m more at home with being just called my Lady by my subjects, or Gwen by my friends. I’m more used to a thatched Great Hall and a roaring fire with the carcass of an ox roasting over it. What would you like to know about me?
“Do call me Eleanor,” the duchess said with a smile. “And I’ll call you Gwen, if I may. The note that said you were coming commented you were from the twenty-first and the fifth centuries. How did that come about?”
Gwen nodded. “I consider you a new friend so Gwen will be fine. And as to my origins – I suppose you’d say they were a little unusual. I was born at the end of the 20th century and married in the 5th, about 1500 years before I was born. But I’m afraid I can’t give you an exact date, as back then no one used the same way of dating as we do nowadays, or in your time. That didn’t come in until later. I tried guessing but it was all ‘the twentieth year of the reign of High King Uthyr’ or such like.”
Gwen took another sip of her tea and continued. “I arrived in the 5th century quite by chance, or so I thought, but it turned out I was expected by at least one person.” She smiled. “I’d gone with my boyfriend to scatter my father’s ashes. My dad was an Arthurian scholar, convinced the legendary king was real. I went up Glastonbury Tor first thing in the morning and found a gold ring inside the ruined tower on the top. I picked it up and whoosh, I was back in the 5th century. Of course, time travel was furthest from my mind. I just thought I was lost to start with, and then that I’d stumbled upon a reenactment group. Some might say I was stupid not to realise from the start what had happened, but think about it – if it happened to you, you just would be looking for a rational explanation and time travel would not be it.” She gave a wry smile. “And Merlin was the one expecting me.”
“So there really is a Merlin?”
Gwen nodded. “There is. A lot of characters from the oldest legends really existed. But there’s no Lancelot or Galahad – they were later medieval additions, and Lancelot was French! Not a sign of him in the Dark Ages. It was quite fascinating seeing which of the legends turned out to have been based on fact.” She smiled. “As I’ve said, my dad was an Arthurian scholar, convinced the legendary king was real. I can’t help thinking he’d be impressed to discover his only daughter ended up being Queen Guinevere! After all, he named me and my twin brother after the king and queen. It’s rather surreal being named after yourself.”
“You met Arthur in the fifth century and married him. Or is that just a legend?”
Gwen said, “No, that much is true. I married in the last year of the reign of King Uthyr Pendragon. Actually, right before he died—it was his last command to his son Arthur before his death. And I had no way of refusing. If I had, I’d have risked ending up being married to his older son, Arthur’s not at all attractive half-brother. Not a fate I relished. I found Arthur attractive, but I wasn’t in love with him at that point. It was just the safest thing to do. So I agreed to marry him.”
Eleanor nodded thoughtfully. “In my own time, women often have little choice about whom they marry, as I know to my cost. Please, do have another cake and continue. I am fascinated.”
“Back then Glastonbury Tor was an island in a lot of low lying wetlands and the monks at the abbey escorted me along their secret causeway to the local lord’s stronghold. I was silly enough to ask Merlin, who I met there, if it was Camelot. He’d never heard that name before. I should have guessed that, as it’s really based on the Roman name for Colchester—Camulodunum. Camelot never existed – it was added in about the same time the Lancelot stories were created. Where I found myself was a place called Din Cadan, which back where I come from was known as South Cadbury Castle—not a stone castle, you understand, but a refortified Iron Age hillfort. Not much in the way of mod cons. I don’t know about you, but I was used to flushing toilets. What I got there was a leather bucket in a corner. A rather smelly leather bucket.”
“It must have been a shock,” Eleanor commented.
Gwen nodded her agreement. “It took me quite a while to accustom myself to life in the 5th century. At first, all I wanted to do was get back to my old world, but there was no chance of that. Firstly, it was a good ten miles back to Glastonbury across marshlands I could drown in, and secondly, I couldn’t get out of the fortress. Guards on all the gates. So I just had to put up and shut up. And then Arthur came back. He’d been away fighting somewhere on the south coast – against Saxon raiders. And, well, wow. Quite wow.”
Eleanor sighed. “I have felt that wow,” she confided. “We have stories about your husband in our day, of course, but stories don’t always represent the man.”
Gwen chuckled. “Talk about unreconstructed and totally out of touch with his feminine side (as we’d say back in my old world but probably not in yours). Do you know what the first thing (not quite but pretty nearly) he said to me was? You have good childbearing hips. Not the way to a girl’s heart. I nearly gave him a slap, only I thought it might get me into trouble.”
“Good childbearing hips are an asset,” Eleanor replied, seriously. “I take it, though, that he won you around?”
“He did,” Gwen confirmed. “It helped a lot that he wasn’t hard on the eye. Tall, muscled but not huge, a real horseman. Dark hair and dark eyes, bit of stubble going on. And quite sharp and witty when he wants to be. But whatever I do, I can’t undo his first 23 years of being a Dark Age lordling used to women knowing their places. He has his moments. Moments when I’ve thought a few angry words about his attitude.”
“Stubborn arrogant men can be difficult to live with,” Eleanor said, with feeling.
“And then I discovered I was pregnant,” Gwen said. “Normally, this would make a young newly wed wife happy, but I wasn’t, and the reason I wasn’t was that I was terrified. I knew all about how women died in childbirth back then and I didn’t want that happening to me. I wrestled with my conscience about this for a while, and in the end I asked Merlin what he could see of my future. And he was his typical self—non-commital. What he said was ‘I see you with him to the end, if there is one’. As if that was any help. But I did feel a bit better about the pregnancy after that.”
“Tell me, what aspects of the legend have you found to be true?” Eleanor asked.
“Well… I found out straight away that Arthur really existed, and Merlin, but as I said, there was no sign of a Lancelot or Galahad. I was pleased about that as this vindicated my father’s research.” She bit her lip. “The sword in the stone turned out to be all my fault, and at the risk of giving away some spoilers, so did Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake. And my father had told me about a list of battles written in a ninth century book by a monk called Nennius—they turned out to be true as well. Lots of the people from legend appeared and became my friends.”
Gwen frowned. “At first, I thought my only friend was Merlin, but I made a few mistakes with him. He’s pretty manipulative. And he insisted I was the one who’d make Arthur the king of legend. So I told him no, it was him, and that he’d set a sword in a stone which only the true High King could pull out. Big mistake. That one came back to bite me on the bum. If you don’t mind me saying that. Possibly not a saying you’d use as a duchess. In fact, Merlin has turned out also not to be the sort of person you play chess with. That would be my advice—never play chess with a man who can see the future, at least some of the time. And that was my fault too because they didn’t have chess back then so I introduced it.” She grinned. “I also introduced stirrups which made riding a lot more comfortable. And thank goodness there were no sidesaddles back then – I got to ride astride as I was used to doing.”
Eleanor shuddered. “A manipulative man is a dangerous thing. I can only imagine what it is like to have one with magic.”
Gwen nodded. “He’s had his moments. Luckily for me he’s never really got angry with me, nor I with him, but I know exactly what he’s capable of because I’ve seen it. I can’t tell you, as that would be a huge spoiler for book six.”
“But I can divulge something else. Something not a lot of people know. Arthur had children. I expect you guessed that as I said I became pregnant. I can’t tell you anything else about that though, as that would also be to spoil the story. The children are very important to the story and have major roles to play. And of course, there’s Medraut, called Mordred in later legends. Not a nice fellow at all, but again I can’t give too much away about him. All I’ll say is watch this space as he grows up.”
Eleanor poured more tea. “What would you most like to have been able to share with your father?”
Gwen smiled. “The first time Arthur and I went to bed together after we were married, I decided that was NOT something I wanted to share with my father! I’d been wanting to share some of the other stuff but not that. Little did he know he’d end up being grandfather to his hero’s children. That’s one thing I’ve often wished I could tell him.” She shook her head. “And something a little weird – before one of the battles, Arthur and I were in a location both of us had visited as children but fifteen hundred years apart. We’d both been there with our fathers and stood virtually on the same spot. I wish my father could have known that. I believe my biographer has also stood there. Odd, but rather poignant, don’t you think?”
“And what about the end of the legend?” Eleanor asked. “Is that true? Does Arthur lie sleeping still, waiting for the moment when Britain needs him? Did he go to Avalon?”
Gwen smiled a secretive smile. “Now that would be a spoiler, wouldn’t it? You’ll have to read the last book, The Road to Avalon, to find that one out. I’ll just say this – I think you’ll like the ending.”
Meet Fil Reid
Fil Reid, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, writes historical fiction with romance from a canal boat in the South of England. She won the Dragonblade New Writers’ Competition in its inaugural year with book one of her six book Guinevere series. Next year she has a four book regency series coming out – The Cornish Ladies. She has ridden for most of her life and worked with horses in many fields, as well as a spell as a rent collector – a job that involved a lot of cups of tea and cake with old ladies who didn’t believe in paying with Direct Debits. In what little spare time she gets from writing, she likes to knit and sew and has made clothes and toys for her grandchildren.
The Guinevere series:
- The Dragon Ring
- The Bear’s Heart
- The Sword
- Warrior Queen
- The Quest for Excalibur
- The Road to Avalon (to come)
Buy from series page on Amazon, or read from KU.
Fil’s links:
The Dream of Macsen Wledig
Welcome to Fil Reid, guest author of today’s Footnotes on Friday. Thanks for being with us today, Fil.
Several times in my books I’ve had characters refer to The Dream of Macsen Wledig. This is a story that’s survived to today as one of the tales in The Mabinogion, stories compiled from earlier oral traditions in the 12th and 13th centuries. I thought it would be nice to infer that these were stories being recounted around the fireside in kings’ great halls only a hundred years after Prince Macsen’s own time.
Although he’s classed as a Celtic ‘hero’ he’s based on a real person – a Roman general born in Spain called Magnus Maximus, who served in Britain where he acquitted himself heroically and briefly became the Western Roman Emperor in AD383. Unfortunately, he led a lot of the forces defending Britain, including native British warriors, away to fight in Europe and was himself killed on the 8th of August AD388.
Those are the facts about him, but for some reason, the British tribes took him to heart and he became one of ‘theirs’ rather than a member of the occupying force. This was helped by his defeat of the rampaging Picts and Scots (the Irish) in the North in AD381. In a time when the British themselves were not able to defend themselves against invaders, Magnus Maximus did it for them, and they loved him for it.
And of course, he went off and had a tragic end that the bards could transpose into being both romantic and heroic. Thus was born The Dream of Macsen Wledig, which is how they came to refer to the man they thought of as Prince Macsen.
The content of the dream is as follows – the emperor of Rome (Macsen – already emperor unlike in reality) dreams one night of a lovely maiden in a faraway land and sends his men off to search for her. Eventually, they find her in a splendid castle in Wales, the daughter of a chieftain based at Segontium (Caernarvon) and lead the emperor to her. Everything is just as in his dream. The maiden is Elen and he marries her and, as she is a virgin, makes her father king of all Britain.
However, in Macsen’s absence, a new emperor seizes power and warns him not to return, and that Rome is his now. Macsen, being a hero etc, takes an army (in the dream strictly a Celtic army) and marches on Rome. He gets himself killed, and Elen receives the news on the road and promptly lies down and dies as every romantic heroine should on hearing of her loved one’s demise.
What’s interesting about Macsen is his presence in so many genealogies as a founding father: he crops up in the lists of the Fifteen Tribes of Wales, has a prominent place in the Welsh Triads, and he’s given as an ancestor of a Welsh king on a monument – the Pillar of Eliseg – 500 years after his own death. Luckily this inscription was recorded in 1696 by Edward Lluyd as nowadays it’s illegible. But it’s interesting not just for its mention of Maximus (in that spelling) but also for its mention of Britu, son of Guarthigirn (Vortigern) and Sevira (described as a daughter of Maximus presumably by Elen) having been blessed by Germanus (a saint who we know visited British shores in Rome’s fight against Pelagianism).
Of course, none of this is really relevant to how I use Maximus in my stories, but in the current book, Excalibur turns out to have belonged at one point to Maximus, and to have been returned to Britain after his final battle, when he knew he was about to die, and hidden until his true successor could discover it. That might be a small spoiler, but you’ll have to read the book to find out the complicated ins and outs of how it ends in Arthur’s hands.
Excerpt (Merlin shows Gwen where the sword has come from)
The younger man reached for the sword with reluctance, his stubbly cheeks tear-stained, eyes anguished. Filthy fingers closed around the hilt. “My Lord, I will not rest until this sword lies in the hands of your wife.” His head bowed in supplication.
The dragon ring winked at me in the raw daylight, as the Emperor laid a hand on the young soldier’s bare, short-cropped head in benediction. Withdrawing his hand, the Emperor fumbled at the ring with awkward, bandaged fingers as the young man rose wearily to his feet, and slid the sword into the scabbard by his side.
The Emperor, his own cheeks wet with tears, held out the ring, gripped between finger and thumb. “Take this as well. It was my wife’s.”
It fell into the soldier’s open hand, and the young man turned it over, so the dragon rested uppermost on the filthy palm.
An overwhelming urge to reach out and snatch it washed over me, but the vision vanished. My eyes flicked open.
I was back on the wall-walk again, with Merlin still holding my hands and the dragon ring on my finger glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
My breath came hard and fast. “Was that sword Excalibur?”
“I don’t know, but I think so. This is the clearest I’ve seen him. All I can tell you is that every time I look, I see this sword gripped in that hand. That hand with that ring. This ring.” He indicated the ring on my hand. “And I believe that what I’m seeing, what I’ve just shown you, is Macsen’s defeat by the Emperor Theodosius. I think he knew execution awaited him and wanted to send his sword back to Britain. Perhaps it was a British-made sword – even linked to the Princess Elen, his wife.”
The Quest for Excalibur
Book Five of the award-winning historical romance series based on Arthurian legend.
Twelve years ago, 21st-century librarian Gwen decided to remain in the Dark Ages with the man she loves above all else – a man around whom endless well-known tales of legend and magic have been spun. King Arthur. Over the years, she’s carved a life for herself by her husband’s side, gently steering him in the direction she wants him to go, but always with an awareness that he’s a Dark Age king with a Dark Age view of the world.
Equipped with her prior knowledge of Arthurian legend, Gwen’s sole aim has long been to save her husband from the legendary fate she dreads hangs over him. But always, at the back of her mind, is the nagging doubt that whatever she does is already set in stone, and nothing she can do will change his future which is already her past.
Now, in book five of the Guinevere series, she’s all too aware that time is marching on, and that this fate might well be drawing closer to the man she gave up everything for.
Danger lurks in the most unexpected places, and long-hidden secrets threaten to rise to the surface. After a long, cold winter in their hilltop fortress, Gwen’s pleased to welcome traveling players to Din Cadan. But these players are hiding secrets of their own, and one of them has come with black deeds in mind. Gwen will have to fight harder than she’s ever done to save herself and thus her husband. And all evidence points to the hand of Morgana, Arthur’s wicked sister, manipulating everything from afar.
Throughout all of this, simmering in the background, is young Medraut, Arthur’s nephew. Unnoticed, despite still being only a boy, he’s been exerting his malignant influence over those around him, in particular, Gwen and Arthur’s son and heir. The wedge he succeeds in driving between Arthur and his son will carry forward into the cataclysmic events of the final book, The Road To Avalon.
But even Morgana can’t prevent Gwen discovering the truth behind the story of Excalibur and setting the legendary sword in her husband’s hands.
Meet my “Little Mermaid with a Twist” in WIP Wednesday
Angelico Warrington made his painful way from the parlour of his employer down the stairs to the main hall of the Lyon’s Den, where he was nearly due to play another set with the other musicians. His progress was slow, but with a crutch on each side to take part of the weight off his damaged feet, Angel did make progress.
That was an improvement over those excruciating months after his friends rescued him from the French camp. They had insisted on sending him to London to see the best doctors, but he remembered little of the journey from Spain, and not a great deal of successive failed treatments. Except for the pain. He remembered the pain.
He had been working for Mrs Dove Lyons for a calendar month, completing the trial period she had offered him at the behest of her chief guard. Her wolves, she called them. Titan, their leader had served with some of same officers as Angel, but at different times. Still, at the request of one of his friends, he had put in a word with Mrs Dove Lyons, who had declared herself willing to employ Angel for a month. And after that, she said, they would see.
He had not doubted his ability to prove himself. Angel had always been a capable musician, though he had been a better singer. Once. Before he screamed his throat raw over and over during the month he had been in the hands of the French.
He had been a good dancer, too, once.
No point in repining. He could have been killed when the explosives he’d been setting under a bridge went off early and trapped his feet under piles of rock and his head under the water. He could have died at the hands of the French who rescued him, imprisoned him, and tortured him to find out what he knew about the movements and plans of the British army.
He could have passed away after his friends got him out, since by then the wounds in both feet were infected. Or he could have lost his feet altogether. The surgeons had been keen to cut off the poor mangled objects that remained after his captors had repeatedly rebroken the bones, over and over.
Instead, he was alive, free, and mostly recovered. He was even mobile, sort of. And he now had a permanent job. Mrs Dove Lyons had pronounced herself satisfied with his performances in the post month. She had offered him a contract and an increase in his wages. He could possibly move from the fourth floor room he shared with one of the other musicians, if he could find a cheap enough place on the ground floor somewhere.
He was smiling as he reached the intermediate landing and executed the manouver that allowed him to change directions, but one foot came down more heavily than he intended, and he shut his eyes against the pain that stabbed up from every poorly set bone in the dismal appendage.
As he did so, a warm fragrant body collided with him, and he lurched off balance into the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony, now from both feet as his crutches clattered to the floor.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said a melodious voice even as a firm hand grasped his upper arm on one side to support him.
“Take a moment, Nereus. My lady, would you fetch my friend’s crutches?” It was Titan, the head wolf. Not that his true name was Titan, any more than Angel’s was Nereus. But Mrs Dove Lyon gave each of her workers a name—a stage name as it were. From Midsummer Dream, most of them, but not Angel. For him, their employer had strayed into Greek mythology. Nereus was the shape-changing god of the sea and particularly of its fish. Titan must have told the lady what Angel had done when he joined the Allied cause in Spain.
Titan’s was the firm hand, but not the melodious voice. Angel had to see who that was.
He managed to open his eyes, but the lady was wearing a bonnet with a thick veil. A pale blue rather than black, as was the fashionable gown that highlighted rather than disguising her figure. So not a widow. Wonderful. He had fallen in front of one of the customers.
“I truly do apologise Mr Nereus,” she insisted, as she handed Angel each crutch and he tucked them under his arms. “I was speaking to Mr Titan over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going. I do hope I have not hurt you. Well. I mean, I can see that I hurt you, but not worse, I mean.”
“Nothing that won’t pass, my lady,” Angel assured her. “As long as I keep my weight off my feet, they will be better soon.” Or as good as they ever were, which was the best that could be expected.
“Mrs Dove Lyons is expecting you, Lady Laureline,” Titan told the lady, and she smiled at Angel. “If you are sure you are unharmed, Mr Nereus,” she said, and continued on up the stairs.
Titan stopped to say “Stay there and I’ll help you down when I’ve seen the lady to Mrs Dove Lyons. He hurried after the lady.
Angel stayed leaning against the wall, it and his crutches doing most of the job of supporting him. He ignored the pain—it was a familiar companion. The thoughts that seethed in his mind took all of his attention. That was Lady Laurel.
Laurel Barclay. The girl he had once adored from afar. The girl he had saved from the sea when the ship they were on sank off the coast of Portugal. Eight years ago, that had been, in 1808. She had returned to her world and he had joined the British army.
Why on earth was Lady Laurel, virtuous sister of an earl, and flower of the English ballrooms, visiting the proprietor of a gambling den? Even such a gambling den as this, popular as it was with men and women alike, was not the place for an unmarried daughter of an aristocratic family.
A thought crossed his mind, but that couldn’t be her errand. Mrs Dove Lyon was a matchmaker for the misfits and the desperate. Laurel is betrothed. And if she does not like Lord Tiberius Seward9, and who could blame her, she can just choose another.
Titan caught him by surprise. “Nereus. You waited. Do we need to call a doctor?”
A fair comment. Usually, Angel refused help. “The lady,” Angel said. “I knew her once, a long time ago. I was curious about why she was here.”
Titan raised a brow. “Her business with Mrs Dove Lyon is her own. When did you have an opportunity to meet Lady Laureline? I thought you had only been in England for eighteen months.”
“It was long ago,” Angel said. “We were both on the same ship coming from Italy.” For part of the trip, anyway. Angel had been taken from his Sicilian home by pirates, and was on his way to the Tunisian slave blocks when the pirate vessel encountered a British naval patrol and came off the worst.
“The commodore was Lady Laureline’s uncle—Lord Somerford’s brother. I can’t say that we met, exactly. She was well chaperoned, and I was working with the crew. Then, off Portugal, a storm struck the fleet. It was scattered and our ship was blown onto rocks and foundered.” Angel shrugged. “Lady Laureline was the first person I rescued.”
“Which means,” Titan observed, “that you went back into the sea. More than once if I was to guess. How many people did you rescue, exactly?”
Angel shrugged again. He had no idea. Just the memory of aching heavy muscles as he forced himself through the waves again and again.
Tea with Lady Faith
Lady Faith Afton surveyed the large pile of open bags and boxes. Containers of all sorts with their contents strewn about the comfortable sitting room of the suite she’d occupied at Haverford House for the past two weeks.
“I don’t know how I will get all of this back to Reabridge.”
“I’m certain we have a spare carriage or two you may borrow,” the duchess said.
“I also don’t know how I can ever thank you for inviting me to stay while I shopped for my trousseau. Your advice on styles and colors has been invaluable.”
“ Nonsense Faith, my dear. We’ve been friends since we were in the schoolroom. I would have been greatly offended had you come to London on this blessed errand and not sought me out. Besides, we always had great fun shopping together when you lived in London.”
Faith smiled. “Those are very precious memories. It is good to see you Eleanor. You’ve always had such a steadying influence on me.”
“You’ve a steady enough hand yourself with that young niece of yours, if I understand correctly what you have told me of her.”
Faith sipped the last of her tea and set the cup aside.
“Oh, Charité is the best of nieces and quite practical. She would have come with me, but she and her husband Thom, my Isaac’s son, are working tirelessly to set up the day school they are founding for the local children.”
“They won’t be taking in boarders?” Eleanor asked.
“Not for the first year or two. Thom wants to establish a local reputation before branching out to teach other students.”
“Very wise. How are they financing the school?”
“Thom, who reached the rank of Captain under Wellington is very organized and thorough. Before making any definite plans or commitments, he spoke with the leading families in Reabridge and gained their support. The Duke of San Sebastian purchased and donated the land and buildings where the school will be located. Other prominent men of the area are contributing time, labour and funds. All was so well in order that we expect the school to open within a year.”
Eleanor nodded, thoughtfully. “That is a massive undertaking.”
“You would know, Eleanor,” Faith said, “You’ve sponsored educational projects throughout the country.”
“Especially for young women.”
“My niece will be working with Thom at the school so there will be education and training for all. Not just the boys.”
“Quite foresighted of the Captain,” Eleanor said, approvingly.
Faith’s eyes gleamed. “I doubt very much Charité would allow him to have it any other way. She is a force of nature, my niece.”
“Excellent.” The Duchess of Haverford put down her tea. “May I refill your cup, Faith?”
“No, I might burst if I try to consume more.” She bowed her head and looked at her hands, twisting the ring her fiancé had given her as a symbol of their love and pending marriage.
“Very well.” Eleanor sat back and waited. Something had been troubling Faith from the moment she arrived. However, she’d taken none of the many opportunities to unburden herself that Eleanor had created. Sometimes one simply had to wait.
“I have a confession to make, my friend.”
Eleanor sat forward, placing a hand on Faith’s arm. “Tell me.”
“It’s silly, really.”
Eleanor smiled and shook her head. “I doubt that.”
“At my age, I should not be nervous about my wedding night,” Faith insisted.
“Some nerves before marriage are normal, Faith.”
“But I am far from a blushing innocent. Heavens, I’ve been married before. Although, Afton, God rest him, was not the most tender of lovers. He did his duty. I regret to this day I was unable to conceive.” Faith sighed.
“You must not blame yourself.”
“I don’t.” She shook her head. “Not really. I know that both man and woman are needed to produce a babe, and the fault could lie with either or neither. I accept that God did not mean for me to be a mother. Yet, I can still regret that I was not.”
“Very well,” Eleanor agreed, “but surely this is not why you are suffering nerves about your coming nuptials.”
“No. Neither Isaac nor I expect or wish for the blessings received by Abraham in his old age.”
“Then why the nerves.”
“It’s just that…well…I’m old. I’m not the lovely young thing I was when Afton courted and married me.”
Eleanor restrained a laugh. “Do you imagine that Dr. Owen wishes you were other than you are. That you were young and sylph-like.”
“No, no. Isaac is the kindest and most loving of men.”
“Is he not older than you?”
“By a year or two.”
“And is he an Adonis?” Eleanor persisted.
“Nooo. I wouldn’t say that,” Faith acknowledged. “Although he is a very distinguished figure of a man.”
“Do you like his kisses.”
Faith blushed. “I’d not wed him if I didn’t.”
“Worry not, my friend. Your nerves will cease the morning after your wedding night.”
Lady Afton covered her face with her hands. When she dropped them, she was smiling. You are right. I’m dithering over nothing.”
There was a twinkle in Eleanor’s eyes “Most likely. But it is an exciting time, nonetheless. I suggest you enjoy it.”
“I promise to do so.”
“Now let us ring for the maids and begin packing. You have much to do before departing tomorrow morning.”
This conversation between the Duchess of Haverford and Lady Faith Afton, mentions Captain Thom Owen and Mrs.Charité Owen nee du Pessac. Thom and charite are hero and heroine of my novella, A Harvest Blessing one of the stories in the Bluestocking Belles with Friends collection Under the Harvest Moon.
About A Harvest Blessing:ter Waterloo, Captain Thom Owen is uncertain what to do with himself. Then fate casts Charité du Pessac and her aunt in his path. No gentleman would abandon a damsel as brave and kind as Miss du Pessac, but how can he help her? With no clear solution in mind, Thom escorts the ladies home to his father.
Charité ‘s aunt believes her niece and the captain are engaged, and Charité fears the captain’s father will not welcome them. She is French after all, and while the captain might not object to her nationality, others—like his father—might disapprove of a marriage between former enemies.
About Under the Harvest Moon
A Bluestocking Belles with Friends Collection
By Caroline Warfield, Jude Knight, Sherry Ewing, Cerise DeLand, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Collette Cameron, Mary Lancaster, Alina K. Field, and Rue Allyn
As the village of Reabridge in Cheshire prepares for the first Harvest Festival following Waterloo, families are overjoyed to welcome back their loved ones from the war.
But excitement quickly turns to mystery when mere weeks before the festival, an orphaned child turns up in the town—a toddler born near Toulouse to an English mother who left clues that tie her to Reabridge.
With two prominent families feuding for generations and the central event of the Harvest Moon festival looming, tensions rise, and secrets begin to surface.
Nine award winning and bestselling authors have combined their talents to create this engaging and enchanting collection of interrelated tales. Under the Harvest Moon promises an unforgettable read for fans of Regency romance.
Universal Link: https://books2read.com/UnderHarvestMoon
About Rue Allyn:
Author of historical and contemporary romances, Rue Allyn fell in love with happily ever after the day she heard her first story. (She claims she was a precocious little brat who read at the age of two but she could hear much earlier than that.) She studied literature for far too many years before discovering that writing stories was much more fun than writing about them. One of her greatest pleasures as an author is being able to share her stories with so many other readers. Rue is happily married to her sweetheart of many, many years.
Insatiably curious, and avid reader and traveler, she loves to hear from readers about their favorite books and real-life adventures. Crazy Cat stories are especially welcome. You may contact her at Rue@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.
Spotlight on It Began with a Kiss
❥•*•☆❥•*•🌹 It Began With A Kiss 🌹•*•❥☆•*•❥
By Sherry Ewing
Sometimes you need to listen when your heart begins to sing…
Aiden of Clan MacLaren, a warrior seeking purpose, finds himself in the service of King Henry II. Tasked with a mission that will shape his destiny, he never expects to cross paths with Lady Iona Ferguson, a woman burdened by her duties as the widow of a powerful clan chieftain. A chieftain who died when Aiden takes over her husband’s castle.
As Aiden takes charge of Iona’s home and seeks justice for her late husband, their lives become intertwined in ways neither could have predicted.
Will their love conquer the boundaries of clan, country, and duty? Or will their differences tear them apart forever?
Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bxNdWd
Excerpt
She turned her face upward and gave him an enchanting smile and his own face brightened that she did not protest being brought close to his side. They began to walk the battlements until they reached the part of the wall facing most of the moon lit ocean. He nodded his head toward the guards who were nearby. They took the hint and disappeared further along the walkway, leaving him and Iona in privacy.
He took Iona’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I am glad you wished to join me here this eve, Iona,” Aiden stated honestly and with an open heart. “You give me hope for a future together.”
She turned her face upward again to stare at him with those wonderous blue eyes. A man could get lost in such a look. “I am still uncertain if this will work out between us, Aiden,” she whispered.
“Do you fear me?” he asked hoping that this was not the cause of her apprehension.
“Nay, I do not, nor do I fear any man,” she replied, jutting out her chin, “even when ye tied me tae that chair.”
“’Twas a necessity, I assure you, and now highly regretted on my part. Can you forgive me?” Her bravery was to be applauded and was most likely the reason he was drawn to her. A woman who could stand up to him and share her thoughts was appealing to Aiden. He would never be able to stand a wife who cowered down to him for the rest of their lives.
Meet Sherry Ewing
In 2014, I saw my first self-published work, If My Heart Could See You, hit Amazon’s bestseller list at #3 for the eBook three days after the paperback released. I was stunned and have been humbly grateful to my readers who have made all my books hit those wonderful charts. And so it began…
When I’m not writing, I love to read historical and time travel novels (naturally) and am a huge NASCAR fan. As a matter-of-fact, I do some of my best writing listening to the hum of the engines in the background! I love to camp, although I haven’t had the time since I’ve moved back to the city. I also enjoy hiking, the beach, and checking out our National Parks when the opportunity presents itself.
Research takes us down byways and along highways
How inspiration works is a true mystery. Nonetheless I am grateful that it does work. When I began to draft my novella A Harvest Blessing, I knew that my hero, a vicar’s son returning home after Waterloo, would be walking up the path to knock on the front door of the vicarage, his childhood home.
But I’d never been to a vicarage, nor met a vicar for that matter. Thus, my first research efforts for this story were not about Waterloo, or British soldiers, or even French emigres. My heroine is one of those. No, my first research was about this building, the pathway leading to it, and the front door. I could see the entire event in my mind’s eye, but I could not have described the materials from which the house was constructed. For that I needed a picture or two and perhaps a description of a vicarage as it might have looked in 1815. I must have spent an hour searching for period accurate images of vicar’s homes. I found several, but the one that struck me as most like the home of Thom Owen and his father is pictured on the right.
I was doubly blessed when I found this image because it came with a description. The description references a ‘refacing’ circa 1872 but also refers to a number of the building’s features that existed prior to that time.
“House, early C18, altered early C19 and extended at front and largely refaced, probably by John Douglas 1872. Stone-dressed brick; tiled roofs. 2 storeys plus attic. Jacobean. Cross-gable right; octagonal entrance turret with spire (coved plaster eaves); recessed, lower,service wing left with cross-gable at end. Mullioned windows of stone and brick; leaded glazing; oak door in stone surround, mid C20 to wall behind turret; panelled brickwork; plastered gables with brick diapering. A well-composed vernacular revival reworking of an older house; the expression and materials strongly suggest John Douglas as architect.
Interior. Amongst many later C19 features of good quality, with some C20 modifications which fully maintain the character, an early C18 oak-panelled room and the open-well oak stair with 3 turned balusters per step and oak dado panelling are major items.” [Same Source as Photo]
Below is the text of the scene in which Captain Owen finally comes home.
EXCERPT from A Harvest Blessing
Captain Thomas Paul Owen recommended the ladies remain in the carriage and approached the vicarage door. Memories threatened to swamp him.
His mother holding his hand as they followed Papa to church. Then, a year later, following his father alone.
The years of silent meals and disciplined study. Thank heaven he loved to read. His mother may have died, but his father did his duty by his son. Successful study was praised. Failure received frowns and a warning to try harder.
As he’d grown older, he’d tried to discuss topics his father categorically said were wrong. Those attempts had met with many a supperless night. Until the final disagreement that had sent him from home.
Thom raised his hand to the knocker. His heart raced, and his empty stomach knotted. He clutched the iron ring in the lion’s mouth, waiting for the familiar and fearsome dizziness to pass.
His father’s last words to him rang in his ears. “Don’t do this, son. God forbids killing for good reason. War and taking others’ lives can break a man’s soul.”
He’d turned his back on his father and had gone off to fight Boney along with his childhood friends. Too many of them had died. Those few who survived returned home broken in body or spirit or both.
Thom was one of those. War had broken him—part of him, but he could never confess such to his father. The right reverend, Doctor Joshua Issac Owen, Vicar of Reabridge saw everything through the lens of unshakeable faith. It would give him no pleasure to say ‘I told you so.’ Nonetheless he would say it, and Thom had no wish to hear it. His soul might be held together by a thread, but he had some pride.
Finally steady, he rapped the iron ring on the wood three times. More than once in the journey from England’s southeast coast, he’d told himself this was a bad idea. But he had exhausted all options. Others depended on him now. He must swallow his fears and his remaining shreds of pride to seek help for them.
About A Harvest Blessing: After Waterloo, Captain Thom Owen is uncertain what to do with himself. Then fate casts Charité du Pessac and her aunt in his path. No gentleman would abandon a damsel as brave and kind as Miss du Pessac, but how can he help her? With no clear solution in mind, Thom escorts the ladies home to his father.
Charité ‘s aunt believes her niece and the captain are engaged, and Charité fears the captain’s father will not welcome them. She is French after all, and while the captain might not object to her nationality, others—like his father—might disapprove of a marriage between former enemies.
About Under the Harvest Moon, A Bluestocking Belles with Friends Collection
By Caroline Warfield, Jude Knight, Sherry Ewing, Cerise DeLand, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Collette Cameron, Mary Lancaster, Alina K. Field, and Rue Allyn
As the village of Reabridge in Cheshire prepares for the first Harvest Festival following Waterloo, families are overjoyed to welcome back their loved ones from the war.
But excitement quickly turns to mystery when mere weeks before the festival, an orphaned child turns up in the town—a toddler born near Toulouse to an English mother who left clues that tie her to Reabridge.
With two prominent families feuding for generations and the central event of the Harvest Moon festival looming, tensions rise, and secrets begin to surface.
Nine award winning and bestselling authors have combined their talents to create this engaging and enchanting collection of interrelated tales. Under the Harvest Moon promises an unforgettable read for fans of Regency romance.
***
Universal Link: https://books2read.com/UnderHarvestMoon
About Rue Allyn
Author of historical and contemporary romances, Rue Allyn fell in love with happily ever after the day she heard her first story. (She claims she was a precocious little brat who read at the age of two but could hear much earlier than that.) She studied literature for far too many years before discovering that writing stories was much more fun than writing about them. One of her greatest pleasures as an author is being able to read the story before anyone else. Rue is happily married to her sweetheart of many, many years. Insatiably curious, an avid reader and traveler, she loves to hear from readers about their favorite books and real-life adventures. Crazy Cat stories are especially welcome. You can contact her at Rue@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.
First Kiss in Four Years on WIP Wednesday
Before she could say anything, he had fallen to his knees before her, and was asking, “May I kiss you, Ellie?”
“You need to ask?” she said, laughing.
He was serious, though. “Yes. You gave yourself to me four years ago and I responded to that gift with distrust and accusations. We parted in ill feeling and have lived apart for four years. I am more grateful and more delighted than I can say that you are considering giving me another chance. I will make no assumptions; assume no rights. It shall be as you wish.”
She parted her knees so he could come closer and put her hands on his shoulders. “The fault was on my side, too,” she reminded him, and pulled him closer for a kiss.
He accepted the invitation. In a split second, his body was pressed against hers and his hands pinned her in place, one on the small of her back and one the nape of her neck. His mouth covered hers, his lips and tongue urgently demanding her response.
Ellie went up in flames at his touch, revelling in the sensations she thought she’d never feel again, cursing the clothing that kept her from getting closer still. She still had to tell him something, but with his tongue in her mouth, the hard length of him rubbing against the place that wept for him, she couldn’t remember what it was.
She clawed at his shirt, and he co-operated, shifting slightly away and moving first one arm and then the other as she dragged the shirt off him, their mouths parting only long enough to slip the material past.
That was better. Skin under her hands. His clever hands had inched up her hem and were now raising her night rail. In moments, she would be naked, and her body ached for the fulfillment he could give her.
(An excerpt from One Hour in Freedom, which is out for beta reading and will be published next month.
Tea with a doting mother
Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire always greeted the Duchess of Kingston with warmth and courtesy. More so than if she had actually liked the woman, for Eleanor held that courtesy and kindness was a duty that one owed to oneself, however unworthy the recipient.
Today, she was struggling to maintain her facade. “And so you see, duchess,” said the other lady, “that scoundrel has kept my poor daughter-in-law’s baby from her out of sheer spite. My son’s baby, too, as the world knows, though she was born during my daughter-in-law’s unfortunate first marriage. Heaven alone knows how he treats the dear little girl.”
“Very well, or so I understand from Cordelia Deerhaven,” Eleanor replied. “Cordelia says that John Forsythe is besotted with his daughter.”
“But duchess,” Kingston’s duchess complained, “of course, Lady Deerhaven would make that claim. But the little girl is not Forsythe’s so why should he treat her well? And how do we know that he does?”
“I am sure you do not intend to imply that Cordelia lies, duchess,” Eleanor said. Mendacious of her, for she was certain that her guest meant to imply that very thing. “She is, after all, a lady of excellent reputation.” Unlike the other duchess’s daughter-in-law, who had abandoned little Jane years ago to run off with the married lover who had got her with child before she trapped poor John Forsythe into marriage. whom she had since married. Neither of them had shown any interest in the child until the last few weeks.
“Cordelia and her husband visit Cumbria frequently, and she has mentioned many times over the years how much Captain Forsythe loves Jane. I do not know, duchess, how often you have visited…?” That was even more of a lie. Eleanor knew perfectly well that the Kingstons had never visited; had never even written to enquire about the good health and wellbeing of the little girl who was John Forsythe’s in every way except blood.
The Duchess of Kingston stood, her mouth puckered as if she had sucked on the lemon, and her nose in the air. “I can see you have made up your mind to support that reprobate Forsythe. I see no point in prolonging this conversation. Rest assured that my husband and I will do everything we can to support our son and his wife in his efforts to bring our granddaughter back where she belongs.”
Eleanor stood, as well. “I can assure you, your grace, that even if I was not an intimate friend of the family, I and my family would still be doing everything we can to ensure that a happy little girl is not ripped away from the place where she belongs by people who have not shown any interest in her for her entire life to date. My butler will show you out.”
***
The ton refused to support Lord and Lady Tenby and Tenby’s ducal parents in their demands to have Jane Forsythe handed over. Their legal challenge failed in the courts, for part of the settlement of the divorce Lady Tenby had demanded had been absolution from any responsibility for or interest in her daughter. The Tenby’s therefore kidnapped the child, inadvertently taking with them Pauline Turner, who loved both the child and John Forsythe.
This story and what happened next is told in Perchance to Dream, out on September 7th.