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The rose craze

Because I’m a sucker for punishment, I’ve made my latest heroine a rose breeder. Which means research into 18th century and early 19th century roses, and how to develop new varieties using 18th century methods. Which is fun, and not punishment at all.

Wild roses grow without the northern hemisphere, and have been cherished and cultivated since the beginnings of human settlement. They split into two groups, both of which have helped to form modern rose breeds.

First, and most familiar to my English gardener in 1825, are the Western roses: Gallicas, Albas, Damasks, Damask Perpetuals, Centifolias, and Mosses. These bloom once a year, in the Spring.

The Netherlands, thanks to their trading ships and geography, became great producers of all sorts of flowers. They still are. Tulips, of course, but also hyacinths, carnations, and roses. Where there were once dozens of cultivars, by 1810, a couple of hundred existed.

The French rose industry was fueled by the French Empress Josephine, who consoled herself with her garden at Malmaison after her divorce from Napoleon. Here, she encouraged breeding and hybridising, and several breeders inspired by her produced several hundred new cultivars.

The second group, the Oriental groups were newcomers to Europe between 1750 and 1824: primarily China and Tea roses. These bloom more or less continuously. Initially, they were hard to hybridise with the Western roses, and not hardy. But crosses between East and West finally happened, and by the 1830s, repeat-breeding hybrids began to appear. By the 1840s, hybrid perpetuals were the favourites of most gardeners. Experimentation continued and does to this day, as rose breeders seek to perfect colour, perfume, disease resistance, length of blooming season, size, growth pattern, and other features.

Sources:

  • https://home.csulb.edu/~odinthor/oldrose.html
  • https://archive.org/details/lesroses1821pjre/page/n5/mode/2up (this one is in French, but includes colour plates of the Malmaison roses)

Excerpt

Pansy Turner was never happier than among her roses, so her current low mood was evidence of her general dissatisfaction. She refused to call it unhappiness. After all, what did she have to be unhappy about?

Eight years ago, yes. But eight years ago, she had been a harridan in training with no friends, largely ignored by her more ruthless mother and younger sister except when they had a use for her.

She was making her way along the seedlings in her succession houses, examining the opening blooms to see if any of the offspring of her controlled fertilisation efforts had the characteristics she hoped for.

If she was in the mood to count blessings, the successions houses would be on the list.

She would ever be grateful that her stepbrother Peter had taken her in and made her part of his family. She showed her gratitude by lending a hand wherever she was needed, with the house, with the children, and especially with the garden, which had become her great joy — and roses her passion.

As well as Peter, she had three sisters: Peter’s wife Arial and his sisters, Violet and Rose. She was Auntie Pansy to the children that filled the nursery and the schoolroom, four of them belonging to Arial and Peter, and three cousins of Arial’s.

Her life was full, productive, and rewarding.

In January, when she opened the rosehips produced by her breeding programme and planted them in the succession houses, she had been full of joy and hope.

Then, Rose and Violet made their debut, being presented first at Court and then to the ton at a magnificent ball. She smiled at the memory. They had been so lovely, and had from the first attracted much attention. Pansy was so pleased and proud.

And yet… It seemed like only yesterday they were little girls, and she was the debutante, full of hopes and dreams. Her mother and sister had blamed poverty for their failure in the marriage market, but the truth was they had scuppered their own chances by being horrible people.

Pansy had made amends — was still making them. Today’s debutantes knew her only as the older sister of Rose and Violet, the one with the odd hobby of designing gardens and breeding roses. But still, Society abounded with people who remembered her as she was before. She would never truly be comfortable around them.

No. Pansy did not envy Rose and Violet their success. Their hopes and dreams though; those made her wistful. She would be thirty at her next birthday, and her time to marry had long passed. Without a husband of her own, without children, she would always be an extra on the edges of family life.

She was, she knew, very fortunate. She never needed to worry about a roof over her head. She had a generous allowance, much of which she spent on her gardens. Peter’s and Arial’s gardens, for, though Pansy had made them, she did not own them.

It made no difference. She was guaranteed a free hand; given all the labour, materials, tools and building she required. She was also appreciated. Arial, a busy mother as well as an investor and owner of a number of businesses, said she did not know what she would do without Pansy.

She was needed. It was enough. It would have to be enough, and this maudlin patch would pass.

She bent to examine another of the new blooms; the hybrid children of rosa centiflora and rosa mundi, whose lovely vari-coloured white and magenta she hoped to replicate in other shades. None of her babies had the yellow tones she had been hoping for.

True, some of the plants were worth keeping for another season, and growing on to multiply by making cuttings. But none of the dozens of hips she’d harvested for seed and the hundreds of plants she’d planted had produced the blooms she had seen in her mind’s eye. Perhaps that was the reason she felt so low today.

Here were the centifolias, beautiful in shades of pink and cream. She had hoped for a deep pink. A friend of her brother had given Arial a bunch from his garden that was the exact shade she had in mind. It had, impressively, survived in water on the long journey from Cumbria where the man lived to their home in Leicester. But when she asked him for cuttings, he did not reply.

She had, in fact, sent four polite letters and had received not a single acknowledgment. Which was rude. Her misery flared into irritation. She should write to him again, and tell him exactly what she thought of him.

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Forbidden love in WIP Wednesday

“Bullseye!” crowed Paul. “That’s all five, Dad!”

“You can barely count the third one,” grouched Luke Mogg. “It was right on the line.” The boy was better by far than Luke had been at twelve. Not just with a bow, but with knife, pistol, and bare-handed. Even now, Paul could hold his own against most grown men. Once he had his adult growth and strength, perhaps Luke would be able to relax a little.

“Let’s try for five more,” he suggested.

Paul put five more arrows into the turf in front of him, and Luke held up one hand while fixing his eyes on his watch. The exercise was not just about accuracy, but speed. Paul could count only those arrows that hit the target within sixty seconds.

As his hand came down and the first arrow flew, he heard the sound of someone running. “Stop, Paul. Someone is coming down the path.”

A moment later, Lady Kitty burst into the clearing. Her face lit up when she saw him, and she didn’t slow, but continued running until she was standing before him.

As always, Luke’s heart ached at the sight of her. Lady Catherine Stocke, sister to his employer’s wife, as far out of his reach as a star, and as tempting as a siren. Especially since he knew she thought herself in love with him.

The Earl of Chirbury, his employer, would dismiss him if he knew Luke loved her in return, and kill him if Luke ever hinted that he had once stolen a kiss. A mistake. His birth and his age made him an unfit groom for a lady such as her, even if he was free. As it was, his self-imposed mission barred him from any personal happiness until he had seen Paul safe at last. He should regret the kiss, but he could not.

How far had she run? She was trying to talk, but was heaving for breath. He made out the words, “Warn you.”

He cast a glance the way she had come and nodded to Paul, who nodded and nocked another arrow.

“Take your time, my lady,” Luke advised. “Do you want a drink? Here, come and sit down.” He offered his arm, and she let him support her to the bench by his front door, while Paul stood sentry over the path.

She shut her eyes and took several deep breaths, then opened them again. “I came to warn you, Luke. I heard two men planning your murder. Yours and Paul’s.”

Luke cast another anxious glance at the path.

“Tomorrow night,” she assured him. “They are coming for you tomorrow night.”

“You had better tell me the whole story in order.” He thought about it. “Me and Paul.”

(From The Flavour of Our Deeds, which is currently up to 9,000 words, so about an eighth of the way through.)

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Tea with a worried mother

This excerpt is from Revealed in Mist.

Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.

Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.

The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.

Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.

Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.

It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.

“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”

Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.

The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?

“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?

“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”

Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.

“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”

“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.

“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”

The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.

When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed by…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”

Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”

As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.

“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.

The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”

Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”

She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”

Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”

Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”

“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”

“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”

Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”

The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”

She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”

She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”

“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”

Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”

A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.

Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”

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Backlist spotlight on A Baron for Becky

A fallen woman, she dreams of landing on her feet, until unexpected news threatens disaster

Becky is the envy of the courtesans of the demi-monde — the indulged mistress of the wealthy and charismatic Marquis of Aldridge. But she dreams of a normal life; one in which her daughter can have a future that does not depend on beauty, sex, and the whims of a man.

Finding herself with child, she hesitates to tell Aldridge. Will he cast her off, send her away, or keep her and condemn another child to this uncertain shadow world?

The devil-may-care face Hugh shows to the world hides a desperate sorrow; a sorrow he tries to drown with drink and riotous living. His years at war haunt him, but even more, he doesn’t want to think about the illness that robbed him of the ability to father a son. When he dies, his barony will die with him. His title will fall into abeyance, and his estate will be scooped up by the Crown.

When Aldridge surprises them both with a daring proposition, they do not expect love to be part of the bargain.

More information and buy links:

Excerpt

There was a fog. No. Heavier than a fog. A bank of clouds. A blanket, almost, covering everything. Sometimes, she could see through it a little, or hear a few words, or feel a touch. Sarah came to visit. She was sure of that. Her belly hurt. Was it the baby? No. The baby was gone. There was a grief there, somewhere just out of reach, waiting to consume her, but she wouldn’t think of it. She was so hot. No, she was cold. So cold, she was sweating.

Voices. Hands washing her, changing her. Hands touching her intimately. No! She wasn’t going back there!

“Hush, Becky. Hush. Don’t struggle, my love.” Hugh’s voice. She must be dreaming, then. Hugh didn’t love her. She leant into the arms that restrained her anyway.

Another man’s voice. It must be a dream. Hugh would never hold her for another man. “…fever, my lord… infection… best I can do… crisis…” Becky held desperately to the belief that if Hugh were there, she was safe, and tried to ignore what was happening further down: the scraping, the vile smell.

More washing. So hot. Cooler, please… There, someone lifting her, holding a cool drink to her lips. Hugh’s voice again. “Slowly, Becky, slowly.”

She had been sick for two weeks, her maid told her. They had been sure she would die. The master would not leave her side, “No, not for a moment, not till the doctor said the crisis was past. Then, off he went to sleep, and that was fifteen hours ago, my lady.”

She turned, but he was not in the bed he had promised they would always share. Even the last weeks before Christmas, after she had driven him away with her sordid story, he had come each night to their bed. He didn’t desire her anymore, and who could blame him? But he had come to their bed each night and held her when he thought she was asleep.

But that was before she failed him, of course, before she had a girl instead of the son he needed.

The maid was speaking again, asking something. She worked back through her memory of the sounds. The baby. Did Lady Overton want to see the baby? “No. No, thank you. I think I will just sleep.”

Hugh brought the baby to her later, the reminder of her failure. She turned her head away to hide her tears, but she couldn’t stop her shoulders from shaking with sobs, and he left. But not for long. He took the baby away and came again to sit with her.

He was kind, always so kind. She couldn’t bear to face him. Poor Hugh. How much disappointment must lurk in his eyes, stuck in this marriage

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Franking a letter: a Parliamentary privilege

Someone asked me the other day what it meant in Regency times when someone asked their host or the male head of their household to frank a letter for them.

A frank is just a mark or label applied to a letter that qualifies it to travel through the post and be delivered. When the postal service started, any money it made belonged to the Crown, so post related to Crown business went through the post for free. When, in 1764, the Crown gave the postal revenues to Parliament (or, rather, traded it for a favour), Parliament authorised free franking for Parliamentary business. Any member of parliament and a number of officials could mark (that is, frank) a letter to travel free.

So, strictly speaking, if you were a girl staying at a country estate and you wanted to write to your sister to tell her about the pretty ribbons you bought at the village market, your host should refuse to frank your letters. But nearly everyone abused the privilege. After 1784, the franks needed to have the franking lord’s signature, plus the place and date of franking written at the top, and Parliament set limits on the number of letters that could be franked, but the local postmaster was unlikely to count, and even more unlikely to growl at the local duke.

In 1795, Parliament passed an act that gave a cheap postage rate to the lower ranks of the army and the navy. They could send a letter that weighed less than a quarter ounce for one penny. Again, there were abuses, with officers giving their personal letters to a private soldier or ordinary sailor to post. Parliament was not amused. Even so, they kept it on. The penny rate made a huge difference to the men.

When the penny post came in, in 1840, Parliament stopped the practice of members of Parliament being able to frank letters to send them for free. They looked at the active servicemen rate, and decided to keep it. One officer, reporting to the enquiry, said how important cheap letters were to the men.

“I have observed that they take very great advantage of it and they appear to derive great gratification from it, and it benefits them in a variety of ways…” he said, and also “I believe that many of them learnt to write expressly for the purpose of writing their own letters.”

 

 

 

 

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Peril in WIP Wednesday

This week’s excerpt is one of the murder attempts in my current novel, which is book 3 in A Twist in a Regency Tale. Working title is Snowy and the Seven Blossoms.

His valet must have arrived while he was in the bath, for the man had set up clean clothes and Snowy’s shaving tackle in the room where he had slept.

“I will not finish getting dressed until I have seen to washing my brother and helping him dress,” Snowy said. “But let’s start with my shave.”

“If you will allow me to do it, sir,” the valet said. “I see you have been missing some bits.”

Snowy leaned close to the mirror to check his reflection, and sure enough, the usual morning stubble was thicker in a couple of places he must’ve missed during yesterday’s shave. Even so, he’d never allowed anyone else to get near him with a cutthroat razor, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Thank you. I will do it but I will take more care. You just take the clothes I want to wear through to my brother’s room next door and let him know I will be there shortly.”

The man’s sour expression deepened but he did as he was told. Snowy was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was going to be a viscount. If a valet went with the position he was going to have to find one who suited him better.

Someone who could manage a bit of cheer. Someone who could serve without looking down his long nose at the very man who paid his wages.

Satisfied he was as smooth as he was going to get, he went through to Ned, who was sitting up in the bed. “How are you this morning, brother?”

“Weak as a kitten,” Ned responded, cheerfully.

“Ready to get cleaned up for a bit of an outing?” Snowy asked.

“Perhaps sir would like to change into a shirt first?” said the valet. “It is less bulky than the banyan, and one can roll up the sleeves, thereby suffering less damage.”

Snowy decided to ignore the sneer, since the advice was good. He shrugged out of the banyan and bent to allow the valet to fit the shirt over his head. As he felt it settle over his shoulders, the valet suddenly yanked it down so it trapped his arms at his sides. He tried to turn even as he felt a cord tighten around his neck.

Even as he struggled, he heard a thud and the constriction was gone. He turned, stumbling a little as he did, for the valet lay at his feet, the marble paperweight that had felled him a yard or so away.

“Are you all right, Hal?” Ned asked. He was sitting upright, his face white around the bruises.

“Good shot,” Snowy said. He bent to check the valet’s pulse. The man was still alive, but out cold, with a rising lump on the back of his head.

“Good thing I didn’t break my bowling arm,” Ned responded. “Hal, he was going to kill you, with me right here in the room.”

“He failed,” Snowy reminded his brother. “Thanks to you.”

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Tea with the boys

Another excerpt post. This is one of the memories that Eleanor takes out of her memory box in Paradise Lost, which you’ll find in the collection Paradise Triptych.

Haverford Castle, East Kent July 1806

The Duchess of Haverford examined her two sons as they waited for her to pour them a cup of tea each. To an outsider, they would seem totally at ease — Aldridge relaxed on the sofa, an amused twist to his lips and his cynical eyes fond as he teased his brother about the horse the boy had bought on a jaunt into Somerset; Jon laughing as he defended his purchase, suggesting warmly that the marquis’s eye for a filly blinded him to the virtues of a colt.

To their fond Mama, they appeared worried. Eleanor saw strain around the younger man’s eyes, and quick darting glances at her and then at his brother when Jon thought she wasn’t watching. Aldridge had that almost imperceptible air of being ready to leap to Jon’s defence in an instant; a watchfulness, a vague tension.

Aldridge’s cup was prepared as he liked it, and he came to fetch it from her hands, thanking her with a smile.

She would let them raise the subject, if that was their plan, but she did not intend to let them leave this room without knowing about the new addition to her nursery: a nervous withdrawn little girl of three or four years old. “If she was a bumptious little lordling and not a poor trembling mouse,” Nanny said, “she could be one of my lads come again. Same shaped face and eyes. Same colour hair with the curls that won’t brush out. Their lordships have your eyes, Your Grace, and this wee sprite doesn’t, but I’ll tell you who has eyes just that colour: so close to green as never so.” Not that Nanny did tell the duchess. She did not need to. Those eyes were more familiar to Eleanor than her own.

She handed a cup to the younger son of the man with those eyes.

The child came from Somerset. Jon had brought her home in his curricle, leaving his groom to ride Jon’s horse and manage the colt. On finding out about the little girl, and learning that Jon had deposited her in the nursery and then gone straight out to search town for his older brother, Eleanor had been tempted to question the groom.

However, she wanted Jon to tell her the story.  Or Aldridge, perhaps. It was more likely to be his story than Jon’s, given the age of the child. Jon was only 19. Furthermore, it was in Somerset that a certain outrageous scandal blew up five years ago, resulting in the exile of the sons of two dukes: Aldridge to a remote Haverford estate in northern Scotland, and his accomplice overseas.

Nanny didn’t think the little girl was old enough to be a souvenir of Aldridge’s visit to the Somerset town, but her size might be a result of neglect. She had been half-starved, poor little mite. The bruises might be from falls or other childhood accidents. Nanny suspected beatings, which made Eleanor feel ill to think about.

She sat back with her own cup, and took a sip. As if it were a signal, Jon gave Aldridge another of those darting glances and spoke.

“Mama, I expect you’ve heard about Frances.”

Ah. Good. She was to be told the story. “Is that her name, Jon? Nanny didn’t know it, and little Frances isn’t talking.”

Jon nodded, and smiled. There was a sweetness to the boy that the elder never had, perhaps because he was a ducal heir from the moment of his birth. “She is a little shy, Mama.” His smile vanished and he frowned. “She has been badly used, and for no fault of her own. I could not leave her there, Mama. You must see that.”

Eleanor arched one brow, amusement colouring her voice as she answered. “If you tell me her story, my son, we will find out.”

It was much as Eleanor already suspected, though the villain in the piece was neither of her sons. Lord Jonathan Grenford, arriving in Fickleton Wells to inspect and pay for the offspring of a horse pairing that he coveted, found that the whole town, except for the owner of the horse, gave him a cold shoulder, and no one would tell him or his groom why.

Only on the last night of his stay did he hear the story. He came back to his hotel room to find a woman waiting for him. “A gentlewoman, Mama, but with a ring on her finger, and quite old — maybe 30. I thought… well, never mind that.”

Aldridge gave a snort of laughter, either at Jon’s perspective on the woman’s age or at his assumption about her purpose.

Jon ignored him. “Anyway, I soon realised I was wrong, for there on the bed was a little girl, fast asleep. The woman said she belonged to Haverford, and I could take her. I argued, Mama, but I could see for myself she was one of us, and that was the problem. The woman’s husband had accepted Frances when she was born, but as she grew, she looked more and more like His Grace.”

“He resented being cuckolded, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “Men do, my sons, and I trust you will remember it.”

Both boys flushed, the younger one nodding, the older inclining his head in acknowledgement, the glitter in his eyes hinting he did not at all appreciate the gentle rebuke.

“He took his frustrations out on Mrs Meecham, which she surely didn’t deserve after all this time when I daresay he has sins of his own, and on little Frances too, which was entirely unfair. Mrs Meecham said that if Frances remained as a reminder, the Meechams could never repair their marriage, and that she feared one day he would go too far and seriously hurt or even kill the baby. So, I brought her home. Can we keep her, Mama?”

Eleanor looked at Aldridge, considering.

“She is not mine, if that is what you are thinking, Mama,” her eldest son told her. “She might have been, I must admit, but she was born fifteen months after I was last in Fickleton Wells. I’d been in Scotland for six months when Mrs Meecham strayed outside of her pastures again.”

Six months after the scandal, His Grace the duke had travelled back to Somerset, to pay damages to the gentlemen of Fickleton Wells who claimed that their females had been debauched. He had greatly resented being made a message-boy by the Prince of Wales, and had been angry with his son and the females he had shamed for their indiscretions and beyond furious at the cuckolded gentlemen of the town for imposing on his ducal magnificence with their indignation. The mystery of Frances’s patrimony was solved.

“She is so sweet, Mama, and has been through so much. She needs tenderness and love. Don’t tell me I must give her to foster parents or an orphan asylum. I know His Grace will not be pleased, but…”

Eleanor smiled. “The problem with Fickleton Wells, Jon, as I’m sure Aldridge is aware, is that it is a Royal estate. Wales was mightily annoyed at what he saw as an offence against his dignity. He insisted on Haverford making all right.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He clearly thought this presaged a refusal.

Aldridge was seven years more sophisticated and had been more devious from his cradle. His eyes lit again with that wicked glint of amusement. Eleanor nodded to him. “Yes, Aldridge, precisely.”

Aldridge put down his cup. “Wales is not best pleased with His Grace at the moment. A matter of a loss at cards.”

Eleanor and her elder son grinned at one another, and her younger son perked up, looking from one to the other.

“Should one be grieved by the loss of a fosterling,” Eleanor mused, “and take one’s sorrows to, let us say, a Royal princess who might be depended on to scold her brother for the behaviour of one of his favourites…” Eleanor stopped at that. Jonathan did not need the entire picture painted for him. He gazed at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“His Grace will not dare make a fuss. If His Royal Highness finds out that the very man he sent to save him from the offended citizens left a cuckoo chick in the nest of an esteemed leader of the community…”

“Precisely,” Aldridge agreed. “Mama, you are brilliant, as always.”

The duchess stood, leaving her cup on the table, and both boys. “Let us, then, go up to the nursery, and make sure all is well with your new baby sister.”

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Propriety on WIP Wednesday

In a made-to-order story I’m currently writing for the winner of the Bluestocking Belles’ May rafflecopter, my hero has been called to a neighbour’s house. He is good with animals, and she is worried about her toy spaniel.

Thirty minutes later, he handed the reins to one of the Dalrymple grooms, and presented his card at the front door.

“You are to be shown straight up, my lord,” the butler told him.

Lady Dalrymple was sitting on a sofa in the drawing room, little Lady Fluff-fluff on a cushion beside her. Lord Puff-puff, the lady’s other pet, had been lying at Miss Watkin’s feet, but leapt up when Bas entered and hurried towards him, the plume of his tail waving an enthusiastic greeting.

Bas bowed to Lady Dalrymple, patted Puff, and gave Miss Watkin a friendly nod.

“Lord Sebastian, at last you are here.” Lady Dalrymple sighed, dramatically, laying one white ring-bedecked hand on her decollotage. She had once, or so rumour said, been a great beauty—an actress who had achieved the impossible, and married a baron.

He had long since gone to his rest, and she had taken on the role of aristocratic widow with great enthusiasm. Perhaps the actress still showed through at times like this. One could even see remnants of her youthful appeal through the powder and rouge with which she tried to disguise her wrinkles.

She batted her lashes at him and pouted. “I thought you would never arrive.”

He had come immediately, but he would not point that out. “How is my patient?” he asked, instead.

Recalled to the purpose of his visit, Lady Dalrymple turned to the little dog, who at that moment sat up and then jumped down from the cushion, evading Lady Dalrymple’s grasping hands. Fluff-fluff stepped towards him, not in her usual scamper but in a deliberate trudge. Perhaps she really was ill?

“She is restless,” Lady Dalrymple explained, “and she has not finished her meals this past two days. Also, there is a… When I put her on my lap… My dress… I had to move her away, because of the—” she paused, then, in a hissed whisper, “mess!”

As Bas crouched to greet the little lady, a suspicion crossed his mind, and a quick palpation of the swollen abdomen concealed under the fur confirmed his diagnosis. Lady Fluff-fluff was not ill. She was whelping.

He picked the little dog up and examined her more closely, checking her bright eyes, her cold damp nose, the cheery set of her ears and wave of her tail, the indecorous secretions staining her rear end. Yes, the spaniel was going to give birth, and shortly. Certainly within the next day.

Lady Dalrymple looked up at him, anxiously. “Is she very ill, Lord Sebastian? Will she—she will get well, will she not? You can fix her?”

Bas gently put Lady Fluff-fluff down. “She is perfectly well, Lady Dalrymple. She is about to have a litter of puppies, that is all.”

Lady Dalrymple shot to her feet. “That cannot be! She could not… That is to say, her husband, Lord Puff-puff, cannot…”

Ah yes. It had been before he moved to the area, but the village still giggled about how distressed Lady Dalrymple had been by Fluff-fluff’s first season. Declaring that she would not allow her pet to be so humiliated ever again, Lady Dalrymple had commanded one of her shepherds to render poor Lord Puff-puff incapable of another of the performances that so overset his mistress.

It made a man wince, and also wonder about the baron’s bedroom prowess.

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Monday for Tea

Another excerpt post, this one from A Baron for Becky

When Aldridge sought her out the following afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop: writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

“May I have a moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

“Not at all, Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son. Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery? Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

“Now, my dear, tell me how Mama can help.”

Aldridge waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak in private.

“Mama, Overton has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies before the girls are grown and married.”

Her Grace nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by then.”

Aldridge ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would marry when he must and not before.

“Of course I have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be done.”

The Duchess tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes distant.

“Something more might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

Aldridge watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a barony.”

His mother blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and contemplative.

“Only the old ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

“Letters Patent can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

“Over a century ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

She fell silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our little Belle cannot be a baroness.”

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Backlist spotlight on A Raging Madness

Their marriage is a fiction. Their enemies want them destroyed before they can make it real.

“Envy is a raging madness that cannot bear the wealth or fortune of others.”
François, Duc De La Rochefoucauld

Ella survived an abusive and philandering husband, in-laws who hate her, and public scorn. But she’s not sure she will survive love. It is too late to guard her heart from the man forced to pretend he has married such a disreputable widow, but at least she will not burden him with feelings he can never return.

Alex understands his supposed wife never wishes to remarry. And if she had chosen to wed, it would not have been to him. He should have wooed her when he was whole, when he could have had her love, not her pity. But it is too late now. She looks at him and sees a broken man. Perhaps she will learn to bear him.

In their masquerade of a marriage, Ella and Alex soon discover they are more well-matched than they expected. But then the couple’s blossoming trust is ripped apart by a malicious enemy. Two lost souls must together face the demons of their past to save their lives and give their love a future.

See more and buylinks.

Extract

They had history together, not all of it good

He had embarrassed Ella, which was not well done of him. Particularly since she would need to share his bed this night. Just as well Farnham could not possibly know that. The lousy carbuncle would undoubtedly share the news that Alex Redepenning had been seen with a woman in Stoke-on-Trent but would not be able to identify Ella; would not know that Alex and Ella had been living together since she turned up in his room at the inn.

Living together in the chastest of senses, but Society would say he had compromised her beyond all saving, except by marriage. He was surprised at how tempting that sounded! He’d vowed never to marry except for love, and had sworn off love by his early twenties: a bad experience with an older woman, and then with Ella.

The arrogant cub he’d been resented her choosing Melville instead of him, though he’d never let his interest in her show, certain she would find him as unworthy as Lady Carrington had.

Yes, marrying Ella would be a blessing, not a burden. For Alex. But it would not be fair to Ella.

She was moving around the small cabin, brewing his willow bark tea and pouring him a cup, retrieving the canister of tea leaves she had purchased at the market and brewing another pot, bringing him a cup of that, its fragrant delicacy taking away the bitterness of the willow bark.

If he drank it all, he would need to ask for her help to relieve himself. Just to pass him the pot and perhaps hold a blanket for his privacy. Not the prurient fantasies that flashed across his mind and stirred his recalcitrant member. Simmer down, he told it. Not for you.

She poured another mug of tea and took it to Big Dan at the tiller, receiving the man’s soft thanks.

Alex let his eyelids fall and watched Ella through his lashes as she moved around the cabin finding places to stow their possessions, every movement graceful and economic. She had blown out the candles she’d lit to illuminate her work on his leg, but plenty of light entered the cabin from the doorway and the small windows on either side of the boat. She slipped glances at him from time to time, the colour coming and going in her face. What was she thinking?

Was she as attracted to him as he was to her? Or was she just embarrassed at the situation in which they found themselves? He had never been able to read her. Sometimes, he was sure she saw him merely as a friend. Sometimes, not even that, though those occasions were mostly his own fault.

How often had he looked up across a campfire, or a room in a scurvy little billet in some benighted village on the fringes of a war, or a bedside where someone in his command lay depending on Ella’s care and met her eyes? And seen in them an echo of the wanting in his own?

Was it his imagination; his own longing misinterpreting an innocent glance? Even if it were not, she had never once, since her ill-judged marriage, by word or deed given him reason to think she would act on that attraction.

Only a reprobate would take advantage of a woman under his protection, especially a woman persecuted as Ella had been. Alex could not be such a scoundrel, but perhaps Jasper had unwittingly done him a favour. Because even with the increase in pain, his physical response to Ella’s presence had proven beyond doubt that the injury had not made a eunuch of him as he had feared. The pain would be a timely and much needed reminder to keep his hands and other bodily parts to himself.