by

The lady with the wheelbarrow

My next newsletter subscriber story is in part inspired by a true story that I read many years ago. A man emigrated from England to New Zealand, and then sent for his wife and children to join him. However, when his wife arrived in Dunedin, New Zealand, her husband was not there to meet the ship.

The place he had settled was 120 or more miles away, through rough country trails, in Southland. Our intrepid wife was not defeated, however. She purchased a wheelbarrow, loaded her luggage and the younger children into it, and set off.

History records that she joined him on the farm he was carving out of the wilderness, went on to have more children, and lived to a ripe old age, matriarch of a clan of children, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.

The enduring memory I have of her, though, is of the woman who did not allow a small matter of four (or was it five) children and 120 miles to stop her, but simply looked for a solution and put it into action. They were tough women, those pioneers.

Maggie’s wheelbarrow tells the story not of a pioneer but of another type of woman, equally tough–a soldier’s wife who followed the drum with her husband. When my Maggie arrives in Southhampton with two children and a long way to go, she buys a wheelbarrow. I hope my subscribers enjoy her story as much as I enjoyed the original.

by

Eavesdropping on WIP Wednesday

From her position in hiding, Jackie could see Mr. Allegro select a file book from the top of a neat stack of documents.

“Lord Hunnard has increased some of the rents and decreased others,” he told Lady Hunnard, moving out of sight again. “Repaying gambling debts or favours in the later case. At least one of the rents has been doubled because he wishes to force the tenant into allowing him sexual access to her employee.”

A slap sounded, followed by Lady Hunnard’s harsh voice. “It is not your place to ascribe motives to your master, or to criticise his decisions. What happens to the Hunnard tenants is not your concern,” she said.

Mr. Allegro’s calm and courteous tones did not change. “I merely advise, my lady. The Hunnard estates depend on the wellbeing of the Hunnard tenants. As might Lord Hunnard’s safety as he rides around the neighbourhood.”

“Are you threatening your master?” Lady Hunnard demanded.

“Not I, my lady. I merely advise. Desperate people do desperate things. Lord Hunnard would do well not to drive people to desperation.”

Lady Hunnard’s laughter was a grim sound, with nothing of humour about it. “Those mice? Those frightened cowering fools? They will mutter into their beer, but none of them will do anything. Besides, my Oscar could fight off a dozen of them and not disturb the set of his coat. And then Lord Barton would send them all to the assizes, to hang or to be transported.” He probably would, too, for the Baron Barton was Lady Hunnard’s lover. “No,” she insisted. “Oscar is in no danger. Give me the rent book.”

He must have complied without speaking, for her voice next came from further away. “Do you have an eye for the dressmaker’s girl, Allegro? Perhaps Oscar will allow you his leavings.” This time, her chuckle did sound amused.

The bitch!

“She has gone,” Mr. Allegro said. “You can come out now, Miss Haricot.”

Jackie discovered that her hands were locked into fists, so tightly that her nails had cut her palms. She relaxed them and used the deck to haul herself to her feet.

“Thank you for not telling Lady Hunnard I was here,” she said.

Mr. Allegro shrugged. “I tell the Hunnards as little as possible,” he said. “You no doubt heard that Lady Hunnard has no sympathy for your plight, and no intention of standing between her son and the victims of his vices. I imagine you are here with a plan. What is it, and how can I help?”

Could he be trusted? Would he really help? She looked into his steady brown eyes. Kind eyes, she thought.

He is not going to leave me to wander about the house on my own, and if he does not help me, I shall have to go home empty handed. And I am running out of time.

“You were there last night when Lord Hunnard cheated me out of my winnings,” she commented. He had helped her then, too, come to think of it, stopping Lord Hunnard from seizing her. She shuddered at the thought of what might have happened had that ogre discovered she was a woman.

“Yes?” Mr. Allegro said.

“I need that money to pay the rent,” she found herself saying. “I came to steal it back, and also to look for evidence of Horrid Hunnard’s crimes so that he can be stopped before he hurts more people.”

Mr. Allegro’s jaw dropped and he stared at her. Jackie glanced toward the window. If he called for help, would she be able to get out that way? What possessed her to blurt out her plan like that? Why didn’t he say anything?

As the silence endured, her discomfort grew. “Right,” she said, taking a step to the side so that she could sidle around the desk and make for the door. “It was too much to ask. I’ll just be off then.”

by

Tea with a daughter-in-law

This week’s post is an excerpt from Paradise at Last.

Eleanor was too busy to fret much about her would-be suitors, or about the chill distance between her and the one man for whom she might be tempted to forsake her new freedom. She and Jessica had much to do preparing for Jessica’s wedding in April and shopping for Jessica’s trousseau. She continued the work she had begun, seeking donations for the several charities she had offered to help when last in Town.

She also found herself deputising for Cherry on many of the same committees that she had managed when she was duchess. Eleanor met with her daughter-in-law after every meeting to report on progress.

They took tea one afternoon in the little parlour Cherry had made her own. The previous evening Haverford had escorted them both to a formal dinner, with dancing afterwards, at the home of Lord Henry’s daughter Susan.

“You will be able to take up the work again, now that you are feeling more energetic,” Eleanor told her daughter-in-law. “I’m very happy to hand it all back to you, or to continue with some of it. You must just tell me what you need.”

“We shall see,” Cherry commented. “I expect I will need your help later in the year. You have guessed have you not?”

Eleanor acknowledged the truth of that with a smile and a nod.

“I thought so. You have not fussed over me as much as Anthony, but you are always there with a snack or a drink when I need it, and always ready to take over when a nap overwhelms me.” She put a hand over Eleanor’s and squeezed. “You and Mother are the only ones to know, apart from Anthony.”

“And, I imagine, your dresser,” Eleanor joked. “It is hard to keep such a secret from one’s maid.”

It was Cherry’s turn to smile and nod.

“Dearest, I could not be more thrilled,” Eleanor said. “And not because of that nonsense about an heir to the Haverford duchy. I have seen enough of you together to know that the love you bear one another is far more important than who carries on the title after we are all gone. But you deserve the little blessing you carry. You and my son will be wonderful parents.”

Cherry burst into tears. “Excuse me, Aunt Eleanor. I seem to have little control over my emotions at the moment.” She put her arms around Eleanor and Eleanor hugged her back, then offered a handkerchief so she could dry her eyes.

“And what of you?” Cherry asked. “I always thought you and Uncle James would make a match of it after the old duke died. We would all be so pleased. Can you not talk to him, Aunt Eleanor?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I expect you know what he thinks of me. Sarah was there when he found out what I had done. I cannot even blame him for it, for I was wrong.”

Cherry made an impatient noise. “And I suppose he has never made a mistake in his life? To throw away all of your history and the friendship you have found in the last few years—surely he is not so foolish.”

Eleanor sighed. “Shall we talk about something else, my dear? What dreadful weather we are having.”

by

Backlist spotlight on To Wed a Proper Lady

Everyone knows James needs a bride with impeccable blood lines. He needs Sophia’s love more.

James must marry to please his grandfather, the duke, and to win social acceptance for himself and his father’s other foreign-born children. But only Lady Sophia Belvoir makes his heart sing, and to win her, he must invite himself to spend Christmas at the home of his father’s greatest enemy.

Sophia keeps secret her tendre for James, Lord Elfingham. After all, the whole of Society knows he is pursuing the younger Belvoir sister, not the older one left on the shelf after two failed betrothals.

Buy Links

Books2Read: https://books2read.com/CMK-ProperLady

Jude Knight’s book page https://judeknightauthor.com/books/to-wed-a-proper-lady/

Jude Knight’s book shop https://shop.judeknightauthor.com/index.php/product/to-wed-a-proper-lady-the-bluestocking-and-the-barbarian/

***

I’m working on Felicity Belvoir’s story at the moment, for next year’s Bluestocking Belles’ collection. She was introduced in the collection Holly and Hopeful Hearts, in the novella that later became To Wed a Proper Lady. She was the younger sister of the heroine, Sophia. Felicity has also appeared in another collection, Storm and Shelter, as the employer of my heroine. And she was mentioned in The Husband Game, in which her brother, the Earl of Hythe, met his match over a chessboard.

by

What should I write next–the survey results

These are the results of the survey I’ve been running for the past month. Looks like it is the Mountain King by a nose ahead of the Golden Redepennings. More about precisely what my schedule looks like once I’ve figured it out. At the moment, I’m preparing for a big hoo hah over the two Twist tales coming out soon and hurrying to finish Jackie’s Climb and The Widow’s Christmas Rogue.

Thank you for your support, and especially for the helpful comments.

A war bride’s transport on WIP Wednesday
by

A war bride’s transport on WIP Wednesday

I’ve been writing a story for my October newsletter. My heroine is a woman with two children, trying to get home to England and the husband who left her in Spain when the army invaded France.

The ship docked in Portsmouth on the morning tide. The passage from Spain had taken most of the money Maggie had been able to save, and she was determined to be out of town before nightfall so that she would not have spend any more.

In summer, a woman, a toddling infant and a baby could make themselves comfortable for the night in a hedge or under a tree—and had done so many times during their long treks through Portugal, Spain and even the south of France. But towns were not safe places for those without a roof over their head and a stout door between them and the predators who would take even the little that Maggie and her children owned.

It didn’t take her long to discover that passage on a coach would cost more than she could afford, so it would be another long walk.

Two hundred miles, at least, and that was if the first village was the correct one. It was only after several letters had gone unanswered that a kindly army chaplain explained that Parker was a common surname and that many villages were called Ashton. Even in the English Midlands, which was all she knew about where Will’s family lived, there were several Ashtons. She had sent her next letter to them all, proclaiming her intention to leave Spain and come to England. She hoped one of those letters had reached the intended recipient, for the cost had set back her savings and kept her in Spain for another month, even though the chaplain was good enough to send the package in the army mail, to be posted on from London.

Ah! That was what she needed. Outside a general store was a sturdy wooden wheelbarrow. Maggie went inside to find the price. “Three shillings, ma’am,” said the shopkeeper. After some haggling, she bought it for two shillings, popped Billy inside, and pushed it back to the wharf.

To her relief, the boy she had paid to watch her baggage was still there, and so were her bags, her small trunk and the bag with all the things she needed for the baby. She gave the boy another threepence and an extra penny to help her load the wheelbarrow. Then, with Billy perched on the trunk and Madeleine still in the shawl tied tightly to her back, she set off to walk to Ashton.

“It will take us the rest of June and part of July, I expect,” she told her two children as she walked. Chatting to the children helped to pass the time as the long miles rolled away under the single wheel and her shoulders ached. Her feet, too, for it had been months since their last long trek.

Once she had arrived in San Sebastián, she had found work cleaning floors and making up rooms in an inn, so she could save enough money to buy passage for them all. Between that and the time on the ship, it had been more than three months since she walked that far, and Madeleine had grown heavier—it felt like much heavier.

Eva was happy in her shawl. Soothed by her closeness to Maggie and rocked by the movement, she made no complaint. Maggie supposed she slept some of the time, and for the rest, watched the world pass with those wise eight-month baby eyes.

Billy, who was never still even in his sleep, kept asking to get down from the wheelbarrow to walk and then to get up again a few minutes later, for he was tired of walking.

 

by

Tea with Georgie and a charitable impulse

“What did you think of the singer?” Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, asked her sister-in-law. Lady Georgina Winderfield had travelled up from the country for a lecture series at the British Museum, and had by chance been here at the right time for Eleanor’s charity concert last night.

“I take it you mean Miss Lind,” Georgie said. “She was the outstanding singer of the evening, as you know, Eleanor, since you gave her the last spot of the evening before the auction and supper.”

“She was, wasn’t she? But I wondered about your personal impression of her.”

Georgie put her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. It was a mannerism shared by her brother, Eleanor’s beloved husband.

“You will have your reasons, my friend,” Georgie commented. “You always do. My impressions of Miss Lind?” She pursed her lips. “I did not meet her. The Earl of Coombe rushed her away immediately after the concert. So I am only reacting to her appearance on the platform.”

Eleanor nodded, encouraging Georgie to continue. Her friend had a gift for sizing people up on sight, and the singer had been in sight for twenty minutes or more as she sang.

“She was too thin,” Georgie commented. “Starvation thin. Possibly an illness, but more likely, I think, overuse of laudunum or the like. She had that bruised look around the eyes. When she sang, it was hard to think of anything but that magnificent voice, but between songs, she seemed to shrink into herself. I daresay Coombe abuses her. He has that reputation.”

“She is a childhood friend of a friend of Drew’s,” Eleanor commented. “Sir Johan Trethewey, a Cornish baronet. Drew says that Sir Jowan has tried to see Miss Lind but has been turned away on Coombe’s orders.”

“Poor girl,” Georgie commented. “Perhaps we could get word to her somehow. If she is being abused, and wants to escape, we could help her, Eleanor.”

“I daresay she will do more private contests,” said Eleanor. “Of course we shall help, if we can. And Georgie, I was not aware of Coombe’s private reputation until James told me, and by then the invitations to the concert had already gone out. Perhaps, once Miss Lind has been given her opportunity to flee to safety, we should make sure that Coombe finds England too uncomfortable for him.”

Georgie nodded. Between them, they were related to at least a third of England’s most influential women, close friends with a good half, and able to influence a fair percentage of the rest. If they decided someone was to be ejected from good society, ejected he would be.

But first, Miss Lind needed a chance to escape.

As it turned out, the singer did not need the duchess’s help to escape. Jowan and his friends, including Drew, managed the feat themselves. But Eleanor, Georgie and their friends were certainly instrumental in driving Coombe out of London Society. For more about this story, read Hold Me Fast, which was inspired by the Ballad of Tam Lin.

by

Reviewing the Reviews – and this author’s promise to readers

One piece of advice people give newbie authors is not to read their reviews. It is great advice I’m sure, but I’ve never taken it. I cannot resist seeing what readers have to say about what I write. Overall, it’s a good experience–my books get mostly 4 and 5 stars ratings with the occasional 3, 2 or even 1 to keep me humble. I often learn from a negative review, and they seldom make me feel bad. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and no one book suits every reader.

All reviews are positive reviews in the sense that:

  • they tell other readers what to expect–even a negative review, by saying what a reader doesn’t like, might help the book to appeal to another reader with different tastes
  • the sheer number of them acts on the bookseller’s algorithms to boost the book’s visibility.

Now and again, a review gets up my nose, usually by stridently insisting that I have not done my research, when I have, in fact, done my research and the reviewer has been taken in by The Tiffany Effect. I always want to go back and give them my references. But one can’t, of course. Arguing with reviewers is against etiquette.

The negative review one of my books received recently was more along the lines of “this is not the book for me” (and no, I’m not going to say which book or which reviewer, or even how many stars. Again, against etiquette). The reviewer didn’t want to read about what happened to the heroine, and shut the book at that point. Fair enough. Their taste, their call.

What irritated me a little was a remark about being disappointed in me, to which I wanted to say, “Look, sunshine, the blurb told you what to expect, and you chose to read it anyway.” But. Etiquette.

My promise to readers

I don’t promise that everything in my books is going to be palatable. My villains are often very bad people who do really nasty stuff, and if they can get their hands on the hero or the heroine, they’ll try to make victims of them, and sometimes succeed, at least temporarily. I do promise four things:

  1. My heroes and heroines will never stay victims.
  2. My blurb will usually hint at the issues and topics in the story. If something is likely to be triggering, I’ll spell it out in the blurb or even in a warning under the blurb.
  3. The key villain or villains will be beaten and the danger facing my main characters will be resolved.
  4. My hero and heroine will always have a happy ending.

So please, if you’ve read one of my books, take a few minutes to tell other readers what you liked, what you didn’t like, and how the book made you feel. This author thanks you.

by

A mother’s challenge on WIP Wednesday

This is from Jackie’s Climb, novel 9 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, which is due to Dragonblade Publishing by the end of November and will be published next year.

“Hmm,” said Madame Haricot again. “Jackie, go and make a pot of tea. I wish to speak with Mr. Allegro in private. Mr. Allegro, come with me into my work room.”

Pol followed, his conscience advising him that she had noticed how he looked at her daughter, and sure enough, as soon as she had closed the door, she said, in a hushed voice, “What is your interest in my daughter?”

Only the truth would do. “Nothing I can act on yet,” Pol said. “I have enough saved to keep us all for perhaps six months, and not in luxury, which is what your daughter deserves. I don’t know whether I will be able to find work, or what even what kind of work I might look for. I think the steward here will give me a good reference, but finding a position without one will be hard. I have no right to any intentions when I cannot guarantee my wife and her mother a home and a measure of comfort for the foreseeable future.”

That was all he could say on the matter. It was, perhaps, more than he should say, given that Jackie had no idea how he felt, but this was her mother. Madame Haricot had a right to concerned for her daughter’s safety.

“You intend marriage, then? On a few days acquaintance?” The lady sounded scornful.

Again, Pol opted for honesty. “I am thinking of marriage, yes. Your daughter is an innocent, if perforce somewhat wiser than most of those in the social rank to which she belongs by birth. It has to be marriage or nothing. But I have not spoken to her of marriage or anything else. You must see, my lady, that I have nothing to offer at the moment. Hopes for the future, yes. But one cannot eat hopes.”

She said nothing, but merely examined him, her expression thoughtful. Pol resisted the increasingly uncomfortable urge to shift under her gaze. It seemed a long time before she nodded and said, “Very well, Mr. Allegro. I accept your position. I will care for your grandmother on the journey and until you can make other arrangements.

“Thank you, Madame,” he replied.

“We shall rejoin my daughter and discuss our plans,” she decreed. “Be aware that I will be watching you, Mr. Allegro. And I will not permit you to hurt my daughter.”

Pol had no intention of hurting Jackie, but he was increasingly aware that Jackie had the power to hurt him.

by

Spotlight on Lord Ramsey’s Red-Headed Ruin

Book 3 in Scarlett Affairs is available now!

Lord Ramsey’s Red-Headed Ruin

By Cerise DeLand

It’s dangerous to be an honest woman.
Torture to be the man who loves her.
Amber St. Antoine flees Paris—and her role to spy on Bonaparte.
Ramsey must find her and keep her safe.
But the lady objects.
Stubborn, defiant and stunningly beautiful, Amber accepts Ram’s protection…even as she refuses to leave France.
What’s a man to do, if he’s determined to save her from herself…and is foiled at every turn?
Is he a fool to believe that love conquers all?