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Spotlight on Only a Lyon Will Do

Only A Lyon Will Do: Lyon’s Den Connected World

By Sherry Ewing

Can a chance encounter turn desire into love?

Asher Tyler, Earl of Rowley, has guarded his life as a carefree bachelor by avoiding romantic entanglements and the debutantes of each Season. When his world is turned upside down by a mysterious woman who saves him from a fall, Asher wishes to know her better but she refuses to reveal her identity. Asher cannot forget the woman at the Lyon’s Den and remembers every delectable detail about her.

Mrs. Patience Moore, a widow with a complicated past and ties to the Wicked Widow’s Club, was disowned by her merchant father when she married without his consent. Now a widow, she lives with her friend, Cassandra, who pays the matchmaking fees of the infamous Mrs. Dove-Lyon, the Widow of Whitehall, to find a husband for Patience.

But Patience doesn’t want an arranged marriage. She wants to fall in love but not with the man who stumbled into her one night at the Lyon’s Den who appears only interested in one thing. She knows his type. She should stay far away from him. Her heart tells her differently.

Mrs. Dove Lyon’s matchmaking brings Asher and Patience together, but the road is complicated. Asher insists he isn’t interested in marriage, his brother is vying for Patience’s affection, and an enemy from Asher’s past is seeking revenge.

Only time will tell if love will win over a woman who is afraid to trust and a man who refuses to see that the perfect woman is right before his eyes.

Learn more on Sherry’s website at https://sherryewing.com/regency-books/only-a-lyon-will-do/ 

 

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Tea with the Viscountess Andrepoint

“Your Grace,” Jane curtsied deeply, hoping that the amount of respect she was showing was adequate. She often granted far more depth to her courtesy than was strictly necessary, but she’d rather err on the side of respect than not.

“Lady Andrepont, please come in.” Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford gestured to a waiting teapot and sitting area.

Jane’s palms sweated as she gripped her silk gown, crossing the plush pile rug of the duchess’s drawing room. “Thank you.”

Jane almost tripped on the way over, but righted herself in time. She was grateful when she was able to sink into the deep cushion of the Duchess’s upholstered settee. Finally she pulled out an unadorned tin that she’d held gripped in a sweaty fist lodged deep in her pocket on the way over. “If it is not too forward, I would like to gift to you a tisane of my own making.”

“Oh?” The Duchess asked, reaching out to take the small, undecorated box. “Shall we brew it up now?”

“Oh, no, it is for medicinal purposes.” Jane managed to get out the words. She was as skittish as a colt on ice, and her voice took so much effort to use. “It is especially meant for cramping or for headaches. I use it myself as well as for my staff.”

The duchess opened the tin and sniffed. She had the politeness to not wrinkle her nose at the pungent aroma. Jane had not yet learned how to mask the odors well yet.

“I have a greenhouse that I use to brew up my mentor’s receipts. Or, she was my mentor before I married.” Jane hurried through the explanation feeling foolish. But the duchess looked on with generosity. “I, of course, do not seek education now.”

“Cream?” Duchess asked, poised with the tiny ewer.

“Yes please.” It seemed impolite to refuse, so she accepted without thinking.

“You must be very well accomplished to have had a mentor,” the duchess said, pouring tea for them both.

“Well enough, I suppose. I had thought I would stay in the country, unsure if I would ever marry. It seemed prudent to have a profession.”

“If I may say, Lady Andrepont, you are quite a beauty. I know you are young, but you have many years of beauty yet. A profession would not have been needed.”

“Very kind of you to say. But I rather enjoyed my time with the midwife. She did more than attending the birthing room. The skills seemed preferable to marriage.”

“And now?” The duchess inquired.

Jane tried to give the polite answer. The one she should say, especially given the company. “I’d rather be a midwife.”

“And this tisane you’ve gifted me, you say you’ve tried it yourself?” The duchess inspected the tin again.

“Yes. Though I will caution that it does make bruising worse, even as it aids the feeling of the cramping.”

The duchess snapped her eyes back to Jane. She’d said too much. Jane looked down at her cup, the deep brown of the high quality tea swirling with the pale cream. Her heart hammered in her ears.

“Is it the viscount who does this?”

“Does what?” Jane said, before she could think of a lie, forcing herself to meet her hostess’s gaze. There was a pause, and Jane knew the duchess was weighing her options, on how much intervention she could muster. But no one could stop Andrepont. If someone could have, it would have already happened.

“Do you need protection?” the duchess asked, and even her asking the question made Jane tear up.

Jane couldn’t fathom anyone being nice to her anymore. She had spent long enough in Andrepont’s house to know that she was not a person who deserved kindness. That charity was nothing but bait to hurt her even further. There was a part of her that insisted the duchess had no such malice, but experience pushed those thoughts away. Jane shook her head.

“I’m sure I could help, if you are in true danger.” the duchess pursed her lips.

Jane thought of Vasya. He was the man who had built her greenhouse. The man who kept her safe despite her husband. Jane pulled her shoulders back, giving the impression of confidence she did not have. “I have protection. You have no need to worry.”

A Lady’s Resilience by Edie Cay

When the Blood Is Up series finale

Love Makes Us Desperate

In 1780, Queen Charlotte hosts a ball for her birthday. Jane Laurent has not been to a ball because at age sixteen, she isn’t ready. Raised in the country, Jane appointed herself apprentice to a midwife—a calling she wants to pursue. But the family traipses into London so Jane’s older sister Emma can land herself a lord. The family celebrates when lovely Emma catches the eye of the handsome viscount Andrepont. But the night of the engagement ball, dependable Emma runs away with a soldier instead. The family panics and pushes Jane forward to fulfill the marriage contract with the older and oddly unsettling Lord Andrepont. How bad could he be that pragmatic, reliable Emma ran away?

Vasily Nikolaevich Kuznetsov is a man with a past, but at least its far away. Meeting up with Gareth Somerset in a seedy gambling hell outside of Paris was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Aimless, he follows Gareth to London where he helps his friend win the girl of his dreams, and vows to keep an eye on her while Gareth is deployed to the colonies. But when Gareth’s wife joins her husband in the colonies, and Vasya hears the younger sister is marrying Andrepont, a monster well-known to the seedy underbelly of London, Vasya takes a position as a groom in the lord’s household to protect the sister-in-law of his friend.

Years pass, and Vasya watches Jane grow into the formidable and beautiful Lady Andrepont. He can only love from afar, but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. And when it comes to murder, Vasya has the experience and the moral flexibility to help…

Links:

www.instagram.com/authorediecay

www.facebook.com/authorediecay

Edie Cay store: https://store.ediecay.com/products/a-ladys-resilience

Amazon: https://a.co/d/2CBWnyo

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-ladys-resilience-edie-cay/1144037353?ean=2940167447905

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/a-ladys-resilience/id6464488842

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-lady-s-resilience

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Money problems on WIP Wednesday

Here’s a scene from my next story in Jackie’s Climb, the next novel in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. Guess the folk tale that inspired this one!

Bessie did not attract much interest at the market. She was nearly ten years old and would not be in milk again until she had been successfully bred and had given birth to the resulting calf, which meant no milk for at least nine months.

The first person to make an offer said he would pay two pounds, for he could get that much value out of her hide and her bones. “Not much value in the meat,” he opined. “It might be fit for the dogs.”

Jackie was horrified. “She has many useful years yet,” she insisted. She could not sell her old friend to be made into handbags, dog food and glue.

She received three more offers in the next two hours, and all of them were insultingly low. “A good cow might fetch as much as twenty pounds,” she told one man, indignantly, after he’d suggested that he could take Bessie away if she’d accept ten shillings.

“Aye, lad,” the man agreed. “A good cow. But that’s not what you have to sell now, is it?”

By the middle of the afternoon, she was tired, hungry, thirsty, and discouraged. She hated the thought that she might have to take Bessie home and admit that she had failed. Finally, a fifth buyer approached. Humbly, and without much hope. Poorly dressed and bent with age, she did not look like a buyer, but as she examined Bessie with gentle touches and soft murmurings, Jackie found herself warming to the woman.

“You’ve allowed her to dry off,” the woman commented.

“She calved two years ago, and gave good quantities of milk for twenty months,” Jackie explained. “We thought we would breed her again after we sold the calf, a lovely little heifer.” She shrugged. “It was not possible.” Though Civerton was not on Hunnard land, many people from the estate and the village came here for market. It would not be wise to explain that she and her mother were being victimised.

The woman asked how long Bessie had given milk, and in what quantities. “She seems sweet natured,” she commented.

“She is,” Jackie assured her. “She has a very sweet nature. Do you want her for yourself, Mistress?”

“I do. To join my little herd. I cannot pay much, mind. I’ll have to feed her for nearly a year before I get anything back. Ten shillings, lad. What do you say?”

“I’ve been offered two pounds,” Jackie said, honestly.

The old woman examined Bessie with narrowed eyes. “I could not go to two pounds,” she said. “You should take it, lad.”

“It was a knacker,” Jackie explained. “I couldn’t sell dear Bessie to a knacker.”

“No,” the old woman agreed. “It would be a great shame. I will tell you what, young man. I will give you one pound and a packet of my never-fail heavy crop beans. Come up like magic, they do, and taste delicious. I don’t give them to just anyone, mind. But I do like a boy who wants a good home for his cow.”

A pound. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a better offer than any but the one from the knacker. “I’ll take it,” Jackie said.

It was on the walk home that Jackie had her idea. A pound wasn’t enough to pay the rent, but it was the entrance fee to the Crown and Pumpkin’s gambling night, which was on tonight. Yes, and Jack Le Gume had two pounds of stake money hidden in a hollow oak just outside the village. Jackie had planned to give it to Maman with the price paid for Bessie, but even three pounds, with the money they had already saved, would fall short of what was needed.

But what if she could double her stake? Or better? Hunnard was one of the habituees at the Crown and Pumpkin. How fitting it would be if his losses paid the extortionate rent that he was demanding. Yes. Jack Le Gume would certainly be visiting the Crown and Pumpkin tonight.

First, she needed to face her mother and admit that all she’d received for the cow was a package of bean seeds. Maman was as upset as Jackie expected.

“Bean seeds? Jacqueline, how could you! You foolish, foolish girl. Even a few shillings would have been better than that!”

Almost, Jackie confessed to having the pound, but she clung to the picture she’d imagined—Maman’s face tomorrow morning, when Jackie showered her with money and admitted that she had withheld the pound the woman had paid in the interests of multiplying it.

It would all be worth it.

Maman snatched the little pot of bean seeds from Jackie’s hand, strode across the room, slammed the window open, and threw the seeds—pot and all—out the window. “That for you bean seeds. Do you think we will be here to see them grow? Or will have any ground to grow them in after that scoundrel Hunnard throws us out? Do you not understand what he has planned for you, you foolish child? Out. Get out now, and find some work to do. Clean a few more horse stalls. Wash dishes at the inn. We need money, Jacqueline.”

Poor Maman. She always got angry when she was upset. Perhaps Jackie should tell her about the pound, and how she planned to make more money. “It is not quite as bad as it seems, Maman.”

But Maman interrupted her. “You are just like your father. It was the same with him. Always, something would come along to save us. He was certain of it. Always. And always the same. He would gamble away our last coins and things would be worse. Get out of my sight, Jacqueline. I do not wish to see you.”

Jackie left.

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Tea with Drew

Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, was particularly fond of her husband’s fourth son. Drew was always obliging, always ready to help a sister or a brother, to attend his stepmother’s events and contribute to their success, and to support his father in any one of a myriad of ways. Drew was, in fact, a thoroughly nice gentleman.

He always joined Eleanor and James for lunch, if they were all in London. His father made it an insistent and permanent invitation when the young man’s investments began to show a profit and he bought his own townhouse and moved into it. He was here today, and had been telling them about a balloon ascension that he’d watched in Hyde Park. “And so I have promised to take Bartholomew and Jamir to the next one,” he finished. Bartholomew was James’s fifth son, and Jamir was his dearest friend.

“Your brother tells me you have been borrowing dozens of horses,” James asked his son. “Is it for a race? Or a joke?”

“Neither,” Drew told him. “It is, I suppose, a trick. But in a good cause.”

“What sort of a trick,” Eleanor wondered. It was not like Drew to play tricks on people.

“I can tell you, I know,” Drew said. “It is highly confidential, but you will not speak of it.”

James and Eleanor exchanged glances. His said, “What on earth is he up to?” and hers replied, reassuring him that, “This is Drew. We can trust Drew.”

“You remember my friend Jowan Trethrewey? I told you that the singer, Tammie Lind, was a childhood friend of his.”

What did that have to do with dozens of horses? “Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “She sang at my concert. She was magnificent, but she does not look at all well.” An understatement. Miss Lind looked fine on the stage, when she was singing. But in person and up close, she was gaunt and pale. Eleanor feared for her wellbeing, particularly given that she was under the control of one of the nastiest men Eleanor had ever met.

As if he had followed her thoughts, Drew told her, “She wants to be rescued from the Earl of Coombe. Jowan has come up with a plan. And to carry it out, he needs horses. Lots of horses. All as close to identical as I can get them.”

He leaned forward as he told them what Trethrewey had in mind. It was ingeneous. Eleanor hoped that it worked.

Hold Me Fast

Published 19th September

She has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

Tamsyn Roskilly and Jowan Trethewey were childhood sweethearts, until their parents conspired to separate them. Seven years later, Tamsyn has become addicted to drugs and alcohol, supplied by the earl who has seduced, debased, and abused her. Their childhood romance may be over, but now Jowan owes her a rescue.

As he and his friends nurse her through withdrawal, Jowan and Tamsyn fall in love again. But Tamsyn does not believe she is worthy of love, or that Jowan can truly overlook her past. And the wicked earl is determined to take her back.

It will take the help of their friends and their entire community for Jowan and Tamsyn to finally prevail.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBXN9GYJ/

https://books2read.com/u/3GLkPQ

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Spotlight on Hold Me Fast

Hold Me Fast

She has paid for her fame with her heart and her dreams. What must she pay for peace and love?

Childhood sweethearts Tamsyn Roskilly and Jowan Trethewey are ripped apart when her mother and his father conspire to sell Tamsyn to a music-loving earl. He promises to make her a famous singer, and to keep her from Jowan.

Hold Me Fast starts seven years later, when Tamsyn has become Tammie Lind, a sensational singing success. Jowan, now baronet in his father’s place, hears she has returned to England after a lengthy and successful tour of Europe and beyond. He travels to London to speak to her, but the earl continues to stand in their way.

However, Jowan discovers that Tamsyn has become addicted to drugs and alcohol, supplied by the earl who has seduced, debased, and abused her. Their childhood romance may be over, but now he owes her a rescue.

As he and his friends nurse her through withdrawal and help her make a new life in their home village, Jowan and Tamsyn fall in love all over again. But Tamsyn does not believe she is worthy of love, or that Jowan can truly overlook her past. And the wicked earl is determined to take her back.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBXN9GYJ/

https://books2read.com/u/3GLkPQ

Published 19th September

(Hold Me Fast is a reinterpretation of the border stories about the man stolen by the queen of the Fae to be her lover and her musician (in some versions) or her knight (in others). Brave Janet wins him by holding on to him as the queen changes him into one monstrous shape after another, until he returns to her own, the magic vanquished.)

An excerpt from Hold Me Fast

Tamsyn was absent during the auction but appeared briefly at the start of the supper. Jowan recognized the man with her as the Earl of Coombe, but he had changed over the past seven years. Then, he had been a gentleman in his prime, elegant, and sophisticated but also handsome and charming. To the sixteen-year-old Jowan, he had represented the fashionable world—that circle of superior beings who sometimes passed through their village, pausing only long enough to look down their noses at the locals. Jowan had hated that he found the man impressive and somewhat intimidating.

From a distance, he looked much the same, but as Jowan worked his way through the crowd to approach, he realized how much the man had aged in the last seven years. The firm skin beneath his eyes had become bags and his neck had relaxed into jowls, his waist had expanded, and his hair had receded from his forehead.

He was moving from group to group, introducing Tamsyn and stopping to chat for a few minutes. Jowan placed himself in a group with Lord Andrew and several others, waiting for the man to reach them, but Coombe turned the other way and was soon lost in the crowd.

No matter. Jowan would follow as soon as he had finished the conversation he was having with Snowden about enquiry agents. But when he did, he found that Coombe was on his own.

Jowan, having concluded that Tamsyn was nowhere in the ballroom, asked Lord Andrew to introduce him to Coombe.

“Not a nice man,” Lord Andrew warned him. “Aunt Eleanor decided to tolerate him for the sake of Miss Lind’s singing, but he would not normally be invited to any of her entertainments.”

“We met some years ago,” Jowan explained. “Miss Lind was a childhood friend. I had hoped to speak to her.”

Lord Andrew shrugged. “As long as you’re warned,” he said.

Coombe was holding forth to a group of men about his European tour. When Lord Andrew and Jowan approached, his eyes darted sideways, as if he was about to work another disappearance. He must have thought better of it, for he greeted Lord Andrew, saying, “Winderfield. I trust your belle-mere is happy with the performances this evening.”

“I believe Her Grace is well satisfied,” Lord Andrew replied. “Coombe, I wish to make known to you Sir Jowan Trethewey from Cornwall.”

“Lord Coombe and I met long ago,” Jowan said, with the minimum of polite bows. “You may remember your trip to Cornwall, my lord, since you collected such a treasure there.”

“You were no more than a gormless boy, Trethewey,” Coombe replied. Up close, the signs of dissipation were even more obvious, from the threading of broken veins on his face and discolouring his eyes.

Obvious, too, was the hostility in those eyes.

Jowan ignored it. “Yes, and Miss Lind was no more than an innocent girl. I hoped to pay my respects to my old friend.”

“Miss Lind was tired, and an associate has taken her home,” said Coombe. “However, you are wasting your time, Trethewey. I can assure you that Miss Lind has no interest in revisiting her girlhood.” His eyes narrowed and he shifted into a threatening stance, setting his shoulders, and leaning forward. “Leave her alone. That is my last word on the subject.”

He turned his body to shut Jowan out, saying to Lord Andrew, “I do not wish to be rude, Winderfield, but I consider it my duty, as Miss Lind’s protector and patron, to keep such annoyances from her. She has moved far beyond past acquaintances such as impoverished baronets from the remote corners of nowhere.”

Jowan didn’t bother to hide his grin at the lame attempt at an insult, and Lord Andrew, seeing his expression, rolled his eyes. “Lord Coombe, I am surprised to hear you insulting my friends under my father’s roof,” he said.

“Perhaps you might give Miss Lind my compliments on her performance,” Jowan said to Coombe’s back. “Drew, thank you for the introduction.”

Bran was waiting within sight, and Lord Andrew walked with Jowan to join him. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out as you hoped,” he said. “Miss Lind is Cornish, is she? I wonder what she really thinks about meeting you again.”

“You think Coombe was lying?” Jowan asked.

“I think he lies as easily as he breathes,” said Lord Andrew. His eyes were alive with questions, but he had no chance to ask them before another of Her Grace’s guest stopped to talk to him about the evening’s cause. “Duty calls,” said Lord Andrew, and left Jowan and Bran to talk.

Jowan told Bran what had happened. “That last song was for me,” he said. “It’s one her Granny used to sing to us both.” But then why, having recognized him and sung to him, did she run off before they could meet?

“She can’t have known you were going to be here,” Bran argued.

That was true, and Jowan had followed Tamsyn and the village choir to enough festivals and competitions to know the next question to ask. “Are the musicians still here?”

They were, having a supper of their own in a little room off the ballroom, and someone soon pointed them to the conductor. “Miss Lind’s last encore,” Jowan asked him, after he had introduced himself. “Was that unplanned, as far as you know?”

“It was, as a matter of fact,” said the conductor. “We had the accompaniment for ‘Say, Can You Deny Me’, but at the last minute, she told me she was going to sing something else. I didn’t know the tune. It was Welsh, was it? Sounded a bit like Welsh.”

“Not Welsh,” said the man who had sung the duet with Tamsyn. “Pretty, though.”

“Very pretty,” Jowan agreed. He thanked them for their music and left the conductor with a guinea to share with the others.

“That last one was for you,” Bran conceded.

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What should I write for 2025?

This is a repeat of a request that went out to my newsletter subscribers today.

I’ve just signed up to do four more novels A Twist Upon a Regency Tale. So that’s somewhere between a third and a half of my writing time sorted for the next twelve months. I’ve written the first couple of thousand words in Jackie’s Climb, which is inspired by Jack and the Beanstalk. I’m also going to write my own version of Rumplestiltskin, Tatterhood, and the Twelve Dancing Princesses.

I’m also committed to another Lyon’s Den (and one in 2026), and three more novella for collections. With these added in, I’m sorted for about half of what I can do in the next twelve to sixteen months.

But I’d love your opinion about what I should add to my writing schedule to fill the rest of the time.  I can manage probably another four short or three long novels, and some novellas and short stories.

I’ve outlined the options below, and (for the first four options) given you a link to where you can read more.

Option 1: Lion’s Zoo

In The Darkness Within, the fourth Lion’s Zoo book, I mentioned the men who gathered when Max needed them. Hawk, Wolf, Dragon, Tiger, Centaur. Squirrel, whose real name was Reuben, could probably have his tale told, too.

Find out more about Lion’s Zoo

Option 2: The Golden Redepennings

I still have Books 6 and 7 of The Golden Redepennings to write. Book 6, An Unpitied Sacrifice and Book 7, Children of Wrath.

Find out more about these two books

Option 3: A Coil ln Time

Have I mentioned my Roman time travel? This is it. A three part series following three girls from the twenty-first century as they try out a time machine one of them has made and get stuck in the 2nd century. I’ve written more than half of The Heart of a Roman Gentleman (working title). Two more to go.

You can read an excerpt here.

Option 4: In the Shadow of the Mountain King

This follow-on series from The Return of the Mountain King will tell the stories of the four younger children of the Duke of Winshire, Drew, Rosemary, Barnabas and Thomas, all of whom readers have met in earlier books.

Find out more about the Mountain King and his children. 

Option 5: New Romantasy series

Urban Victorian Noir. Or possibly Georgian Romantasy, or even Medieval.

My ideas are fluid enough to float a battleship, but the plot elves are toying with ideas about the fae once known to, and even worshipped by different cultures, hidden among us–and at war with one another.

Yes, I know. Urban Fantasy, right? But I think I can put a different spin on it. The question is, would you read it?

Option 6: Tidy up loose ends

Then there are the stories that have been lingering for a long time. Revealed in Mist ended with a chapter from Concealed in Shadow, and the rest of the book has never been written. Someone asked me the other day whether Jonathan, Aldridge’s brother, would ever get his story. The answer is yes. He has a story. It is stuck in my head with the plot elves. I need to write it. But when? As for Lord Danwood’s Dilemma, the less said the better.

Can you think of a character I’ve written who deserves a happy ending? Let me know!

Please let me know what you think.

I’ve set up a survey in Survey Monkey. I’ve give each of the options some tick boxes and space for a short comment. But please, feel free to email me if you have more you want to say. I would love to hear from you.

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Tea with the no longer haunted

The Duchess of Haverford, renowned for her progressive views and enlightened mindset, epitomizes a refreshing departure from society’s expectations. Unlike many of her peers who cling to rigid social positions, she possesses the ability to discern a person’s true worth beyond their title or wealth. Growing up, she was undoubtedly a spirited child, characterized by her openness to embrace people from all walks of life.

Recently, the Duchess, a close friend of Lady Margaret Blanefield, had the pleasure of receiving her friend’s daughter, Lady Elizabeth, and her new husband, the financier James Alexander. The Whispering Hollows haunting was well established. Some say that the town, as well as the Duke, had paid a pretty penny for someone to come in to ‘remove’ the ghost, but it came to nothing. It took Lady Elizabeth and her James to put things right and the ghost to rest. Eleanor was eager to meet the brave duo, and this was her chance. They were returning from their travels abroad following their nuptials and would only be in the area for a few days.

“More tea, Mr. Alexander?” Eleanor asked, holding the pot in her hand.

“You can warm mine.” James smiled and lifted his cup.

“Lady Elizabeth?” she asked as she warmed James’s cup.

“Please, Your Grace. That sounds much too formal for friends,” Elizabeth began. “Elizabeth is fine.”

“And James for me, if you please.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“Very well, please call me Eleanor.” She put the teapot down. “Now that that’s all settled, should we celebrate Thomas’s passing?”

James stopped stirring his tea.

Elizabeth’s hand froze her teacup inches from her lips.

Putting his teacup back on its saucer, James turned to Eleanor. “Thomas will not be joining us. The curse that held Thomas here after he passed has been lifted. Thomas is now at rest.”

“That is a relief.” Eleanor’s shoulders eased as she sat back. “I worried about the poor man. How did you manage to free him?”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “The entire event was somewhat supernatural. My mind was on James’s return. He had been away in the Black Watch for six years.”

“And I couldn’t wait to see Elizabeth. Her letters were what got me through all those years, the good ones as well as the bad ones.” James cast a loving smile at his wife. “I am a very lucky man that she waited for me.”

“Was that the supernatural part?” Eleanor asked, trying to stifle her smile.

“Not at all. I got myself turned around in the patch and encountered a man. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I realized who and what he was.” She glanced at James. “Thank heaven James was at my side.”

“The man suffered for twenty years, and for what?” James wasn’t angry as much as he was disappointed. “In anger, he was left to die and cursed to boot.”

“It was when my parents were young. Mother was much in love with Father. He teased her about his conquests.”

“Let me guess,” Eleanor said. “She was left thinking she was wanting.” Eleanor let out a deep breath.

“My grandfather gave her a lovely necklace that a local boy, a childhood friend of my mother’s, designed.”  Elizabeth nervously smoothed out her skirt, unable to face Eleanor.

“And your mother allowed your father to think she was involved with Thomas…to make him jealous.” The Duchess leaned close and gently put her hand on Elizabeth’s. “My dear, you are not responsible for your parents’ actions. They must face the consequences of their actions, whether intentional or not.”

“You were the one who made them take action,” James said calmly. “If you hadn’t gone into Thomas’s pumpkin patch, he would still be chained to this earth. With your help, he found peace.”

“Oh, how so?” Eleanor asked.

“I picked a pumpkin from the patch, intending to give it to my younger sister. You see, she dropped the one she carved, and it smashed on the floor. That started everything. In the end, both Mother and Father confessed what they had done.”

“Retribution for Thomas was them admitting the truth,” James said. “It lifted the curse and resolved an issue between Elizabeth’s parents that had haunted them for twenty years. That, too, was resolved.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Elizabeth asked Eleanor.

“Oh, dear. I do not believe in ghosts, but I do believe in skeletons, and I have loads of them in any number of my closets!”

That set all three of them into a bout of laughing that lasted, on and off, the rest of teatime. Their conversation continued for another hour or so until James glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Eleanor stood. “I’m glad you helped Thomas, ” she said, turning to Elizabeth. And I’m thrilled that you waited for your James. Your story is a great adventure. I am honored and want to thank you for sharing so much with me.”

Eleanor walked her guests to the door. “The two lessons I learned from your story are insightful ones. First, in life, one must take responsibility for one’s actions. Second, true love can endure time and distance.”

She hugged Elizabeth and James. “Please, you must visit me again.”

An Excerpt from The Ghost of Whispering Hollow

Part of The Spirit of Love of Hearts Through History Anthology

 By Ruth Casie

In the haunted hollows, love dances with destiny.

Amidst the moon-dappled oaks of Blanefield Manor, where ancient secrets whisper through time, James returns from war—a soldier scarred by battle and longing. Elizabeth, his childhood friend, has been his solace through ink-stained letters. But as they unravel a family curse impacting both their lives, they face a haunting love, and Whispering Hollows reveals its true magic. In a dance of shadows and moonlight, their hearts reignite—a love that defies both time and spectral secrets.

Buy Link: Amazon

Chapter One

Glenmore, Scotland
October 31, 1786

In the depths of the Scottish countryside, nestled at the western end of Loch Morlich, lay the village of Glenmore. A day’s ride north of Sommer-by-the-Sea, it thrived as it had for over a century. The quiet, picturesque community was dressed in colorful autumn decorations, all to create the haunting atmosphere of the annual All Saints’ Day celebration. The village elders, their memories steeped in Samhain celebrations, recounted the tales of donning costumes to outwit devilish spirits. Today, the air buzzed with anticipation as the children prepared to dress as ghosts and carve pumpkins, rather than turnips, for the annual contest.

Blanefield Manor, the home of Edward, Duke of Blanefield, his wife, and two daughters, stood proudly beyond the village. Within its stone walls were generations of secrets and whispered confidences. Some secrets were murmured during the harvest moon when the veil between this world and the next grew thin.

In the grand foyer, Lady Elizabeth, the Duke’s eldest daughter, flinched as her sister Nancy’s grasp faltered and the carved pumpkin slipped, smashing on the marble floor. Nancy had labored over her creation all day, carving intricate patterns, certain she would win the contest. Now, her breath caught, and for a moment she stood frozen, tears trickling down her cheeks as Mr. Paris, the butler, and several footmen took charge and worked quickly to remove the mess.

“Don’t worry.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away her sister’s tears. “I’m sure we can find another pumpkin for the evening’s contest.”

“I held it tight.” Nancy, her lips quivering, glanced at Elizabeth. “It slipped out of my hands. We’ll never be able to replace it now.”

“We won’t. But I will.” Elizabeth turned to the butler. “Mr. Paris, my coat and shawl, please. I’ll meet you at the Hollow’s gate.”

Her father, the Duke of Blanefield, appeared from the drawing room, his presence commanding attention. His eyes, usually stern and calculating, softened with concern.

“What’s happened?”

Elizabeth and Nancy spun around and faced their father.

“A small accident,” Mr. Paris, ever the unflappable servant, made it sound as if smashing a pumpkin on the foyer floor was an everyday occurrence. “A small accident,” he said. “Your Grace, Mr. Hughes has arrived. I’ve settled him in the library, as you requested.”

Her father turned to his younger daughter, a warm look of understanding on his face.

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Nancy, still in shock. “It slipped out of my hands, Papa,” Nancy confessed, her vulnerability laid bare, “Elizabeth said she would find another one and meet you at the gate to the Hollows.”

“You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one with the winning pumpkin.” Elizabeth took her coat and shawl from the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Paris.” She glanced at her sister. “What do we say if James arrives?”

James Alexander was a name whispered in the halls of Blanefield Manor these past six long years. A steadfast friend to Elizabeth, he had been absent, called away to war. She exchanged ink-stained letters with him, the only way they could bridge the long distance. Over time, those pages contained their shared dreams, secret confessions, and unspoken promises. It was through these pages that their hearts grew.

Nancy’s question hung in the air.

“James isn’t returning until tomorrow,” Elizabeth said. One more day. After all this worry and waiting, just one more day. She opened the front door, ready to slip out into the fading twilight.

“Wait!” Nancy called in a shallow gasp.

Elizabeth, impatient, turned to her sister and rolled her eyes.

“Where will you find a pumpkin now? We were in the village earlier today. There are no pumpkins anywhere.” Nancy paused. The color drained out of her face. “You’re not going into the Hollow,” she said, her eyes wide, her voice trembling with fear.

“Have no concern. I will find one.” Elizabeth called over her shoulder. “Now, let me leave before all the pumpkins are gone.” She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she rushed out of the house before anyone asked her any more questions.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and set her sights on Whispering Hollows or, as the village boys referred to it, Haunted Hollows. Nonsense, that’s what all this ghost stuff was. For decades, the Gabriels, a fine, respected family, had tended the land that yielded a bounty of vegetables for the village. Twenty years ago, Thomas, the last of the family, left without any explanation. The villagers picked through the fields, but soon, the fields were left unattended, and the neglected vegetables grew with great hopes only to wither on the vine. Whispers of ghosts and hauntings kept trespassers, especially the children, away. No one ventured into the Hollow.

With the sun beginning to set and the sky a soft pink, the village celebration would start soon. Elizabeth had no choice but to turn to the Hollows for a pumpkin. Time was running out.

How difficult could this be? There were plenty of pumpkins at the Hollow. They were clearly evident in their cozy furrows when she passed the pumpkin grove yesterday. It was curious that after years of neglect, the pumpkin patch still flourished. That was a thought for another time, right now the miracle was to her advantage.

A gust of cold air caught her by surprise as she left the shelter of the village buildings. She pulled her shawl tight to keep what little warmth it provided. Farther down the lane, the mist lying over the hills spread along the path and seemed to grow taller and thicker with each step she took.

Elizabeth’s footsteps crunched the fallen leaves as she moved through the woods. The waning gibbous moon hung in the sky, casting a sliver of silver against the quickly fading blue. She clutched her shawl tighter, the hem billowing as if it, too, sought refuge from the chill.

She told herself repeatedly all she had to do was choose the winning pumpkin and bring it to the Hollow’s gate. Nancy was clever. If Elizabeth were quick about it, her sister would still have time to carve it into something special.

But as Elizabeth stepped deeper into the mist-shrouded clearing, she had her doubts. The fog clung to her like an embrace, spirals curling around her ankles, urging her to stay, trapping her in place. Yet she pushed on, her resolve unwavering. She would not fail her sister.

Shapes materialized, phantom creatures that defied classification. Were they ghosts of lost souls, their features softened by time and sorrow? Or were they figments of her imagination, conjured on the eve of All Saints’ Day?

All Saints’ Day had weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s heart, a somber reminder of James’s departure six years ago. The waiting felt like a lifetime. Her long wait would be over soon. He would be home tomorrow.

Her breath hung in the damp air as she continued on, her boots sinking into the mossy ground.

Fear whispered at the edges of her mind, urging her to flee—to turn back and seek the safety of Blanefield Manor. But Elizabeth was no stranger to fear. She had faced it on moonless nights when the wind howled through the branches and the owls called out. She had faced it in the letters from James, written from distant battlefields.

The twilight sounds of the forest quieted. Elizabeth stopped. Her cape fluttered, a dark silhouette against the fading light, as her gaze swept in all directions. The forest murmured its enchantment, and she listened. There was magic here—the kind that defied reason, that danced on the edge of reality and called to her.

A glance at the darkening sky prompted her to move on. These last months, she had kept herself busy helping her mother and her sister. She’d do anything to make the days go faster. And now, here it was, All Saints’ Day Eve. Elizabeth didn’t need to re-read James’s message. She knew it by heart.

“Dearest Elizabeth, I have been blessed. I shall arrive at Blanefield Manor on All Saints’ Day. The journey has been long, but the thought of seeing you again sustains me. Yours always, James.”

Her heart raced at the thought of it. He and his friend Finn Elliot had left to serve in the Black Watch and had been garrisoned in America.

His letters were a comfort. His words danced off the page, echoing the warmth of his Scottish burr. He told tales about him and Finn, new friends, and the sights they encountered. Yet he spared telling her what their battalion did or where they were.

Two years ago, when she opened one of his letters, an uneasy sensation had crept over her. Her eyes had darted across the paper, desperately seeking any reassurance that her fears were unfounded until the stark truth leaped out at her.

Finn passed away this morning.

The two were like brothers despite the lack of a blood connection. Since that message, the laughter had gone from his letters. She ached for him and, at times, cried herself to sleep, concerned about him. She wanted one look, one touch. She needed to know he was well. As much as it frustrated her, she reached out through her letters and ensured he realized that she cared, that she loved him.

After the war, the remaining Black Watch regiment garrisoned in Nova Scotia. For three years, she waited and wondered if James would return to Glenmore as the same man he had been when he left. Others who had returned were often mere shadows of their former selves.

Enough worrying. With one deep breath, she pushed aside her concerns for now. They would be together soon—tomorrow. At the moment, she needed to find a pumpkin. The Hollow’s pumpkin grove was around the next bend.

As she went on, the mist thickened, swallowing the bottoms of the fence posts. Gusts of wind raced along the path, growing stronger and colder. The closer she got to the grove, the more an ominous sensation settled over her. Stopping in her tracks, she shook her shoulders. Stop being silly. She started walking again, her pace quicker in defiance of her growing apprehension.

Reaching the edge of the grove, she paused. The Hollows had always been a place of mystery—a threshold between the mundane and the magical. She’d never thought about going into the patch before.

In the distance sat several winning-size pumpkins. A sense of relief flooded through her. With a tentative step, she pushed open the gate and ventured into the patch.

She picked her way across the fallow field. Despite her caution, the hem of her day dress snagged on brambles. As she stepped around a small thicket that wasn’t more than fallen branches covered with leaves, her foot sank into the thick mud. She turned to make her escape, but thorny twigs caught her shawl. She tugged at it, not willing to leave it behind. Finally free and frustrated, for a moment she considered going home. She glanced at the pumpkin and relented.

She found a nicely rounded, golden-orange pumpkin. Relieved that her search was almost over, she reached to pick it up but quickly pulled her hand away. Worms and insects had eaten out the back, leaving only a shell. Disappointed, she took out her handkerchief and cleaned her hands.

Suddenly, a rustling sound and frantic scurrying drew her attention. A mouse darted out from the underbrush, startling Elizabeth. Her handkerchief slipped from her grasp. As she reached for it, a barn owl swooped down. Its talons grazed the earth, capturing the unsuspecting mouse.

Her heart raced, and her breaths came in shallow spurts. The brutal attack had shaken her to her core. Without looking back, Elizabeth hurried off, her footsteps stumbling over gnarled roots, her handkerchief forgotten.

The second squash was not much better than the first. Elizabeth’s disappointment grew as she went on to a third, which was too flat, and a fourth, which was too small. With each step, she went deeper into the grove until she discovered herself surrounded by dense foliage. Finally, she found a plump, beautiful pumpkin.

Satisfied, she turned to leave but stood rooted to the spot. The sun now dipped below the horizon, coloring the sky a deep purple. The mist closed in, forming a wall around her.

As evening settled in, Elizabeth’s unease grew. It wouldn’t be long until the sky was completely black. There would be little light to guide her way to the gate.

With the ground soft beneath her feet, Elizabeth hoped to retrace her steps, but the forest had swallowed her tracks. The once familiar path blurred, and shadows merged, creating a disorienting maze. Which way had she come? Which was the way back? The darkening evening pressed on, and her sense of panic began to build.

“Take a deep breath,” she reminded herself, forcing her racing heart to slow. “That’s it. Again. One more time.”

Calm at last, she glanced around and put together a plan. The pumpkin grove was laid out in neat rows like other vegetable patches. With a little concentration, she should be able to follow the furrows. She chose a row and began to walk, determined to find her way to the gate and her parents.

The path became more treacherous, and the undergrowth grew increasingly gnarled as she went on. She trudged through puddles and mud. The pumpkin in her arms grew heavier with each struggling step. The hem of her skirt repeatedly caught on brambles and thorns. Her saturated skirt weighed her down and made it more and more difficult to lift her feet.

Tired, wet, and cold, Elizabeth stumbled over one of the roots and fell hard to the ground. She let out a startled scream, more from surprise than from any serious injury.

She sat up and paused, catching her breath and taking stock of her surroundings. Should she wait for the others to gather and find her or attempt to find her way to the gate alone? But which way to go? She looked in each direction for some sign but found none. She glanced at the ground as an unsettling sensation came over her. She picked up her handkerchief. A shadow of alarm ran through her. She’d been walking in circles.