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Tea with Mrs Moriarty

This was not the first time that Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, had sat down to afternoon tea with Mrs Moriarty. The young woman was the daughter of an excellent family, but had been ruined—by the rules of Society, at least—several times before she was out of her teens. 

She had hidden in the slums to escape from the murderers of her parents. That was the first count against her. Eleanor had heard the cats among her peers saying, “Of course one cannot blame the child, but she survived on the streets for two years. Heaven knows what she did to feed herself. Any proper young lady would have been dead in a week.” 

Eleanor, of course, admired Mrs Moriarty for her courage and her resilience.

The second mark on her copybook was her uncle, who had taken her from the slums and, instead of retrieving her reputation and seeing her reestablished in Society, had taken her to Spain to follow the army. Rumour had it she had been a spy and worse. Those who raked for scandal never worried about whether rumour was correct or an outright lie.

Then, when she turned up in London again this summer, she was somehow involved in a vast criminal enterprise. It did not matter to the gossips that she and her husband had been instrumental in bringing down said criminals. Ladies, they said, did not involve themselves with such things.

The final count to her demerit was that her husband was a commoner, a former street boy and current Supervisor with the Thames River Police. A wife took the status of her husband, and so Mrs Moriarty could safely be ignored.

Not by Eleanor, she could not. Eleanor found her to be an estimable young woman.

“Let me pour you a cup of tea, my dear,” she said to her guest, “and tell me more about your place for an agency of hired guards. Moriarty Protection, I think you said.”

Eleanor’s guest is the heroine of One Hour in Freedom, published yesterday.

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Spotlight on One Hour in Freedom, published today

Book 3 in Lion’s Zoo

Once they meant everything to one another.

First, in London’s meanest streets and later in Spain facing Napoleon’s army, where betrayal and lies tore them apart. When the machinations of a criminal compel Ellie Nomikos to seek out Dan Moriarty, she doesn’t know what to expect.

With the mysterious King Nemesis circling for the kill, they must learn to trust one another again. Together, can they discover his identity and bring him to justice before he finds and kills the person most precious to them in the world?

The stakes could not be higher. Their love. Their lives. Their daughter.

Buy now: https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

Excerpt

The neutral expression Daniel habitually wore dropped for a moment to reveal surprise, then delight and lust, before he reimposed control over his features.

He stood to one side. “Ellie. Please come in.” The huskiness of his voice sent her body humming, as did his state of dress—or undress. He had wrapped a towel around his waist to open the door, but—apart from that scrap of fabric—he was naked.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and walked past him into the room.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded. He went behind a dressing screen. He is quite correct. We need to talk. Ellie took a deep breath and attempted to distract herself from her sudden lust by cataloguing the contents of the room. A bed. A couple of chairs by the fire, one of which had a half full glass on the little table beside it. She sat in the other chair, and continued her examination.

A clothes press. A side table under the window. Another by the door. Very similar to her own room, so probably a washstand and some pegs for clothes behind the dressing screen.

Daniel was there, too, presumably armouring himself against her lustful eyes by hiding his glorious chest and strong legs under clothing. But the sight was engraved on her eyeballs, and her efforts to think of something else were not working.

He emerged in a pair of trousers, with a shirt worn loose over the top. “Still undress,” he said, “but not quite as scandalous.”

“Not scandalous at all, under the circumstances,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but the household doesn’t know that, do they?” he argued. “Do you want a whisky, Ellie? Lion brings it down from Northumberland. They brew it in the hills there. He has his family seat up that way.”

“I have never tried whisky,” Ellie admitted. “Perhaps just a little. As to the scandal of my presence here, or not… that is one of the things I wanted to talk about.”

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Marital and parental discipline

One of the beta readers for Weave Me a Rope questioned the beatings administered by the two fathers. She didn’t think they would be allowed. And they certainly should not have been. In Regency England, however, while it was illegal to maim or kill a wife, child, or servant, anything else was considered to be the perogative of the male head of the household.

fathers could and did beat their children bloody. Their wives, too. English law is based on Roman law, which gave the pater familias, the father of the family, power of life and death over his household. By the modern era in Great Britain, that power no longer included the right to deliberately kill a wife, offspring, or servant, but:

“the Lord Chief Justice of England, Sir Matthew Hale (1709 -1676) wrote that the common law permitted the physical discipline of wives and that husbands had immunity from prosecution if they raped their wives (Historia Placitorum Coronae, Hale, 1736  @ pp 472-474 ). He also said wives, servants, apprentices and children could be subject to ‘moderate correction’ even if such discipline caused death.” (https://womenshistorynetwork.org/history-law-violence-for-women-children-17th-century-notions-are-inexcusable/0

The same views were still in vogue one hundred and fifty years later. ‘Moderate correction’ was open to interpretation, of course, and various people tried to codify it. The phrase ‘rule of thumb’ comes from one such attempt, which held that a man could beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb.

There seems to have been a general agreement that causing permanent injury went beyond moderate correction. Indeed, in extreme cases, wives could go to the courts and seek legal protection. If they won their case, the court might make an order restraining the husband from immoderate correction.

The mind boggles. Under what circumstances would it be a good idea to take such a case then go home with a man who been embarrassed in front of his neighbors but still had the right to administer as many beatings as he liked, as long as he used a thinner stick? One can only imagine how bad things must have been for those who actually did apply to the courts for help.

As for wives, even more so for children, in a culture in which beatings were supposed to maintain the harmony of a home—for the head of the household.

To be fair to the time, corporal punishment was the norm. Schoolboys were beaten. Soldiers and sailors were beaten. Whipping and scourging were punishments for criminal behavior. However, from the middle of the nineteenth century, this would change, and the change had already begun in the home.

Already, by the Regency period, it was widely considered unbecoming for a gentleman to hurt someone weaker than himself, particularly someone completely dependent on him for food and board. Which, of course, made life better for those in the households of men who wanted to live up to this standard.

However, since no one wanted to interfere in what was seen as a private matter, abusers could safely the new idea of marital and child abuse as a social wrong. They had nothing to fear from public censure nor the law.

It would be a very long time before that changed.

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Torture your characters on WIP Wednesday

A brief excerpt from Weave Me a Rope, which is now with Dragonblade.

They travelled for four days. Spen spent each day chained to a ring that had been bolted to the floor of the carriage. At night, he was released from the ring, but the shackles remained on his ankles. He was escorted to a room in whatever inn the marquess had chosen, then chained to the bed.

No one would tell him where they were going or even the names of the towns they were in. Not that Spen cared. All he could think of was Cordelia. The marquess said she had fallen to her death. The man would tell whatever lies suited him best. Spen didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. Cordelia could not have paid with her life for their glorious afternoon.

Had she been hurt? Had she been taken captive? Was his father, for once in his life, telling the truth?

He kept recalculating how long it would have taken her to climb down the rope. The trouble was, those moments in the tower room when the marquess had been sawing at the rope had stretched out into an eternity. She should have been able to make the descent in a couple of minutes, but had that much time elapsed?

Her scream had been short and cut off. A fall? A small one, perhaps. Or some other shock as she reached the ground.

His mind went round and round, covering the same thoughts again and again. He had asked the guards, but they refused to speak to him. There were four, all unknown to him, two of them with him at all times, day and night. He assumed the two not on duty travelled elsewhere in his father’s retinue or bedded down with the other servants. It didn’t matter. By contrast to his desperate worry for Cordelia, what was happening to him seemed to be unimportant.

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Tea with Her Grace

Readers, shortly we shall be joined by our hostess, Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford. For those who have not yet met her grace, or have seen her only in passing in one of my books, let me tell you a little of her biography.

Her Grace Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford, once hoped to marry the third son of the Duke of Winshire, James Winderfield. The connection was not illustrious enough for her father, the Earl of Creydon, and one of his close friends had also expressed an interest in the girl.

When that friend, the Duke of Haverford, insulted Eleanor in the hearing of her beloved, James challenged the Duke to a duel. The Duke was wounded and James’s father forced him to flee England.

Eleanor held out against her father’s pressure for a long time, but when word came that James had been killed in Persia, she married the Duke of Haverford to get away from her father’s bullying. The Duke’s bullying was much worse.

However, over the years, and particularly since she gave him two sons, Eleanor has learned to manage her life with little interference from her husband. She takes pleasure in helping Haverford poor relations, taking an interest in her vast array of godchildren, supporting philanthropic causes (particularly the education of women) and being an active guardian of her dear wards, three half-sisters who are all base-born daughters of her husband the duke.

In 1812, to the surprise and wonder of the ton, and to Eleanor’s amazement, her supposedly dead first love returned to England. He had spent the intervening years in central Asia, but the death of his older brothers had made him heir, and his father’s impending death called him back to England. He had married in the far off land that he had made his own. Now a widower, he had brought back with him six of his ten children, four of them adults.

To much time had passed to reignite their romance, and besides, Eleanor’s husband still lived. They could, however, be friends.

Ah. But I must leave the story there, and announce our hostess. Dear readers, I give you Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford.

You’ll meet Eleanor in many of my books, but if you’d like to know more about her, her story is told in the series, The Return of the Mountain King.

 

 

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Happenstance in WIP Wednesday

Chance and coincidence play a larger part in real life that we like to admit. And also, of course, in fiction. This segment introduces the heroine in Hook Lyon and Sinker, my little mermaid reinterpretation. Chance has just come to her rescue, though it might not feel like it at the time.

If the kitten had not lost his ball behind the sofa, Lady Laureline Barclay might even now be moving inexorably towards her wedding day.

She was behind the sofa on her hands and knees when her brother and her betrothed entered the room. She stayed there when she realised they were talking about Tiber’s wish to postpone the long-expected event yet again.

“Not if you want Laurel’s dowry, you won’t,” her brother told him. “If she is not married before she turns twenty-five it all goes to a home for indigent gentlewomen. Our father changed the conditions the first time you put off the wedding, when Laurel was nineteen.”

Laurel frowned. She had not been aware of that. She would be twenty-five in a matter of months.

Tiber was surprised, too. He let loose a word that Laurel hadn’t heard before. “But you are joking, Ben, surely. Or making it up to force my hand.”

“Tiber,” said Benjamin, “you are my best friend, but you are a careless ass. Do you mean to tell me that you still haven’t read the marriage agreement? Even after agreeing—and then changing—five wedding dates? Six, now.”

That fetched a deep sigh from Tiber. “For good reason, Ben,” he insisted. “The first time, at least.” His voice brightened. “But you are earl now,” he reminded her brother. “Just change the agreements.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben disclosed. “The money for her dowry is in a trust, and I’m not a trustee. Besides, the trustees are bound by the terms my father set. Anyway, I’m not sure I would if I could. You have messed the poor girl about. Father was right to be suspicious of your motives. And don’t suggest I give her a dowry. My money is all tied up in property.”

That set Tiber off into another string of what Laurel was certain were expletives, accompanied by the sound of boots walking back and forth.

“If you don’t want my sister,” Benjamin added, “just break the betrothal, or ask her to do so. She needs to be married by the time she is twenty-five. I’m sure I could find someone to take her off my hands. She might be old for a bride, but she is comely enough. And she has a whopping dowry.”

The footsteps ceased.

“I esteem her dowry,” Tiber admitted. “I even quite like the lady. She is pretty enough. A bit too strong-minded for my tastes, though. I think she will make the devil of a wife. But I have promised to marry her, and so I will. I don’t dislike the idea of marriage so much that I would leave her to dwindle into a spinster, for I doubt anyone else will have her at this late stage. And at least her dowry will allow me to set up another mistress.”

Laurel was over her first shock, and was in a tearing fury. She bounced to her feet and declared. “However, I shall not have you, Captain Lord Tiberius Seward. Consider our betrothal at an end. Benjamin, I shall find my own husband, thank you very much. One to my taste and not to yours.”

Both Tiber and Benjamin tried to change her mind. Tiber promised to be faithful, looking so doubtful about the idea that Laurel laughed.

“You can barely bring yourself to say the word, Tiber. Do not make me and yourself look ridiculous. You know as well as I do that our marriage would be miserable. I would indeed make you a devil of a wife, and you would make me a devil of a husband. Count your blessings, Tiber. Being jilted by me is certainly one of them.”

After Tiber left, Benjamin told Laurel she would be sorry when she realised what she had done, for Laurel had loved Lord Tiberius since she was seventeen. Laurel replied thatshe had been foolishly infatuated with Tiber when she was seventeen, but had lost her respect and even her affection for him over the interceding years. “You must know, Benjamin, that I have been convinced for some time that going ahead with this marriage would be a mistake. We do not suit, Tiber and I.”

Mama, when she was told, said she entered into Laurel’s feelings, but Laurel was foolish to think that Lord Tiberius would be faithful, for men were not. And besides, what would everyone say if she broke the betrothal? “Every one will think there is something wrong with you. You will be sorry when everyone jeers and calls you an old maid,” she said.

The gossips already thought there was something wrong with her. She had been betrothed for five years and the wedding had been postponed five times already. “People can call me what they wish,” Laurel replied. “I will not wed Tiber.” Mama had an attack of the vapours and retired.

Laurel remained adamant. Marry Tiber she would not. She retreated to her bedroom to think of a plan, but only after begging a couple of sardines from the cook to feed to the kitten as a reward.

 

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Tea at a most unusual farriery

“Would your grace care for a cup of tea while you wait for your horses to be shod?” asked the farrier’s husband. Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, smiled at the man. “Thank you. That would be very pleasant,” she said.

He ushered her and her companion around the corner of the farrier’s shed and to a spreading tree, whose shade would be much appreciated on this hot summer day. Apparently, he had anticipated her agreement, for a tea tray sat on a table flanked by several chairs. 

“Scones, Mr Hughes?” she asked. “You spoil us.”

“And raspberry jam, your grace. I hope it is to your liking.” He bowed, and made to walk away.

Eleanor was burning with curiosity about the couple. “Mr Worth, can you spare me a moment?” Eleanor asked.

“Certainly, your grace. Or I could return in a moment, after I have fetched ale for your men, if it pleases you.”

He was a conundrum, was Mr Hughes. The carriage of a soldier, the manners and language of a gentleman. One arm lashed to his body as if it was useless. He treated her with courtesy and respect, but without losing any of his own dignity. She was eager to know more about him. “Of course, Mr Hughes. Please carry on.”

She poured the tea, thinking about what had brought them here. One of the horses had cast a shoe, some five miles from this little town. They had proceeded at a slow walk, and stopped at the first farriery they passed. When the driver realised that the farrier was a woman, and an obviously pregnant woman at that, he had wanted to move on. However, Eleanor had insisted of giving her their custom. It was, after all, a single shoe and a few nails.

Were female farriers common? Eleanor would not have thought so.

The scone was delicious. Eleanor was preparing a second and her companion was eyeing a third when the farrier’s husband returned. This time, he had another man with him, an elderly gentleman who was even taller than Mr Hughes, but bent with age.

“Your grace, Miss Grenford, may I present Mr Evan Hughes, my wife’s father. Evan, the fine lady is the Duchess of Winshire, and this is Miss Grenford, her companion.”

The older man nodded, his vague eyes shifting from one of them to the other. He apparently did not find them to be of interest, for he strode past them and sat down on the ground, where he proceeded to stroke a cat that appeared from under the bushes to present itself for his caresses.

Mystery upon mystery. Was the farrier’s husband a cousin, perhaps, to have the same name?

“Evan does not mean any disrespect, your grace,” Mr Hughes explained. “He is in his second childhood, but quite harmless.”

“You are related?” Eleanor asked? 

“Only by marriage,” Mr Hughes said, cheerfully. “I took my wife’s name when we wed to keep the family name attached to the forge. With luck, one of our children will want to follow my wife into the business. By the way, my wife is checking all four horses, so that this doesn’t happen to you again. Your driver says you are bound for Liverpool.”

“Yes. My husband is expected to dock there within the next few days,” Eleanor explained. And she could not wait patiently at Windsgate, their country home, to see him again when a three or four days journey would reunite them so much more quickly.

“I am curious, Mr Hughes,” she admitted. “Please do not feel you have to indulge me, but I would love to know the story of how you came to settle in Cheshire, and how you met your wife.”

Mr Hughes’ smile was easy. “And I would love to tell you, your grace.”

To find out Mr Hughes’ story, read Love In Its Season, in Under the Harvest Moon, out on 10 October. 

Only 99c until 18 October.

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Grab Desperate Daughters and Under the Harvest Moon for only 99c

As part of our celebration of the new collection, the Bluestocking Belles are offering last year’s collection for only 99c for a short time only. Buy links here: https://books2read.com/u/bMwL17

The 99c presale price on Under the Harvest Moon will also go up to $5.99 after publication. Buy links here: https://books2read.com/UnderHarvestMoon

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Choosing period appropriate language in historical fiction

A guest post from Rue Allyn

Today I want to talk about the difficulties period appropriate language can cause authors and readers alike. It isn’t that some words common in a given period may be unfamiliar to 21st century readers. The problem is much deeper. One key aspect of using period appropriate language is that meanings and connotations change.

The words used today to discuss the history of people of color in the United States are very different than those used in the past. Mostly this is so because the words used during the period while people of color were enslaved in the US of A have come to be regarded as offensive.

I ran into this problem when I decided to write The Creole Duchess. This novel is about A duke in disguise, a creole miss determined to get her own way, a curse, and the battle of New Orleans.

I sent my duke on a secret mission to try to halt the coming battle. While he was in New Orleans he fell in love with Miss Celestine St. Cyr Duval. That Miss Duval was American, and technically an enemy, was bad enough but she wasn’t just an American or just a Louisiana creole (a person whose family descends from one of the original settlers of that territory), she was also a quadroon.

Today, ‘quadroon’ is a highly offensive word, and with good reason. But in the United States in 1815, quadroon was one of a number of terms used both in everyday language and in legal documents to describe a person of color whose ancestry was composed of only one quarter color. The other 75 percent being white. Very often people with this sort of background exhibit extraordinary physical beauty and rarely are they obviously ‘black’ or ‘white.’

The definition of the term is credited to Thomas Jefferson, himself an owner of enslaved people of color. In a letter to a Mr. Francis C. Gray, Jefferson defined quadroon in purely mathematical terms. Proving, although no doubt without intention, how owners de-personalized enslaved people of color.

“let the 2d crossing be of h. and B. the blood of the issue will be h/2 + B/2, or substituting for h/2 it’s equivalent, it will be a/4 + A/4 + B/2. call it q (quarteroon) being ¼ negro blood …” https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Jefferson/03-08-02-0245

Such was how the term was used in 1815.

However, I was writing a novel about human people. People who, regardless of what they might be called had hopes, dreams, working lives and families. How do I resolve this difficulty created by the changing meanings and connotations of words throughout history.

The easiest way might have been to simply avoid the problem and write a different story. But my research into the term and the people it described fascinated me. Celestine was a quadroon in the setting of the story, and she deserved in my opinion to have her story told. Yet, if I use those words throughout the story that offend modern readers, readers whom I pray will continue to purchase and read my books, I risk losing that audience. What to do?

I used a twofold approach. You will notice that the title of the book is The Creole Duchess. Celie was both Creole and quadroon. Why limit her to one descriptive term? So, I used the term ‘quadroon’ where absolutely necessary in the way early 19th century people would have understood it. However, I took great care to balance that descriptor with other terms that would show the range of Miss Duval’s personality and history. Quadroon. Daughter. Wife. Free woman of color. Creole. Freedom runner, for she did in the story assist a number of enslave people of color to escape their bondage. And eventually, Duchess.

Language is not the only area in fiction writing where history and modern sensibilities are at odds. My strong belief is that we owe it to ourselves, our readers and to history to represent that history with accurate plausibility no matter how unpalatable to 21st century readers.

About The Creole Duchess:

A duke in disguise, a creole miss determined to get her own way, a curse, and two nations at war, is love even possible?

New Orleans Creole, Miss Celestine St. Cyr-Duval refuses to live under the thumb of some man chosen by her parents. Celie will do everything to keep freedom of choice for herself and others. But fate interferes in the form of a duke disguised as British businessman, Caleb Elmond. A relationship with Caleb would find approval with her mother, but both Celie and Caleb have secrets that put them on opposite sides of a great conflict and could destroy them both.

With the Battle of New Orleans looming, can these two strangers from warring countries compromise and protect each other, or will fear and betrayal end both their lives?

The Creole Duchess, Duchess Series Book Three is expected to launch in late 2023. The pre-order price of $0.99 for this long-awaited conclusion to the Duchess Series ends on release day, Oct. 30, 2023

Buy Links: Amazon   Other Retailers

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.

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