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Tea with a new granddaughter

Outside of the nursery they may be the Duchess of Winshire and the Duchess of Haverford, but leaning over the ornate and much befrilled cot, Eleanor and her daughter-in-law were merely Grandmama and Mama.

“She is so beautiful, Cherry,” Eleanor exclaimed. “Look at the little darling.” Her voice slipped into the higher register that is natural to even the most dignified of ladies when speaking to a tiny infant. “Are you smiling? Are you smiling at your Grandmama? You are, Sally. Yes, you are.”

The baby, highly amused at the faces Eleanor was pulling, chortled.

“She is so precious,” Eleanor added.

The child’s mother was wearing a frown. “Anthony says that he does not mind that she is a girl,” she said.

“No more he should,” Eleanor replied, stoutly. The next words were cooed to the baby. “She is a little blessing, and he adores her from the tip of her sweet little toes to the dear little curls on her head.”

“He does.” Cherry sounded uncertain, and Eleanor dragged her attention from the dear little angel to focus on the mother.

“Cherry, he will has five nephews to be duke after him. He married you because he loves you, knowing the pair of you may never have children, and has never regretted his choice. He did not expect a child, and is over the moon with this one. Believe me. He is my son.He adores this little miracle, and would not change anything about her.”

Once, long ago, Eleanor had tried to talk Cherry out of accepting Haverford’s offer of marriage, knowing that Cherry had been told a disease had made her unlikely to carry to term, and being convinced her son would resent a barren wife.

She had been wrong. She had castigated herself many times for putting doubts in her beloved daughter-in-law’s mind, since they surfaced to torment Cherry every time a pregnancy failed.

“Come, darling,” she suggested, “let us send for a pot of tea and sit and talk. You shall tell me what is worrying you, and I shall rattle on about how happy we all are that Sally is a beautiful, healthy, little girl.”

She picked the baby up and cradled her in her arms. “You darling, darling child. You are going to be a heartbreaker, I can tell. Your father’s eyes and the curls your father cuts off lest anyone call him pretty! You shall be wooed by every nobleman in Great Britain. Yes, and Europe, too!”

That made Cherry laugh. “Her father swears that he will turn Catholic, just so that he can lock her up in a convent when she turns fifteen.”

Eleanor dropped a kiss on the little girl’s petal soft skin. “Do not you worry, Sally. Mama and Grandmama will make Papa behave.”

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Just like clockwork

When I was a child, we used to go every December to Wellington to see the windows at Kircaldy and Stains, the big department store, where each window contained a different animated scene, which we had to follow in order, as they told a story. It was a different story each year, and to me as a child, they were beautiful, exciting, and an important part of Christmas. More recently, I took my grandchildren to see the same windows in the same shop. (My children did not grow up in Wellingon.)

The department store closed in 2016 after 152 years, but some of the automata live on at the Wellington Museum.

I’ve had simpler automata as toys. A monkey that played a drum when wound up. A ballerina that danced when a jewelery case was opened. Automata have always fascinated me.

Perhaps that’s why I have made the hero of the book I’ve just sent to beta the creator of clockwork automata. They were a sensation when they first appeared in the 17th century, and remained popular with wealthy collected and intrigued patrons throughout the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. And, as I’ve just indicated, into the 20th, though from the Victorian age on, they tended to be powered rather than clockwork.

The history of mechanical figures goes back into legend and through various accounts of the last 2,500 years. Stories of moving statues, mechanical men, and automated birds who sang pop up in accounts from Ancient Greece and Biblical Judea, Persian and China, the Ottoman Empire, and other places. But we are concerned with Europe in the 18th and 19th century, where they were a sensation with wealthy collectors and influential patrons. Many even went on tour. The History of the Automaton Mechanical Miracles describes three by Pierre Jaquet-Drois, built between 1768 and 1774:

Each figure is 28 inches tall and performs a range of realistic actions. The draughtsman draws four different pictures, including a portrait of Vaucanson’s royal patron, Louis XV. The musician plays upon an organ, while the writer — made of more than 6,000 separate components — can be programmed to pen any message of 40 characters or fewer, making him in the eyes of many the true progenitor of the modern computerised android.

The three automata toured Europe for many decades, advertising the firm that built them, which prospered.

France remained a centre for automata building, moving to powered automata in the second half of the 19th century. Germany and Switzerland also had their great makers.

Clocktower automata like the one in my book are also know as glockenspiel, though the name refers to the instrument that makes the sound rather that the figures. As my hero says, it is made of bells or small pieces of metal struck be hammers. Not the one in Stratford in New Zealand, which is a town not far from where I’m writing this blog post. The town website says:

Since 1999, the clock tower has been entertaining passersby with a short Shakespearean performance four times a day.

Following the striking of the tower bells at 10 a.m., 1 p.m., 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., carved figures of Romeo and Juliet emerge from doors within the tower. As they do so, a recording begins of some of the most famous lines from the Balcony Scene, backed by some suitably Elizabethan music. Six different figures emerge in total (three of Romeo and three of Juliet) during the five-minute mechanized performance, with the last set standing hand in hand. The music plays throughout, with various lines from the play.

The music, along with the lines from the play, is piped out from a modern(ish) sound system. It is not played using a traditional carillon system of bells as found in more authentic towers of this type.

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First meeting on WIP Wednesday

First meeting in the book, that is. They first met a decade earlier, and the picture he formed of her was not positive. When she turns up at his house seeking refuge, he suspects her of ulterior motives, and is certain she must be causing trouble. After fretting about it all morning, he goes to find them, sure they won’t have stayed in their room, as his housekeeper assured him they would.

He heard nothing in the house. No voices, no movement. Down the main central passage he went, from one end of the main wing to the other, and then up the branch passage that led to the other tower.

When he reached the other end of the main wing, he knew he had been right. The visitors had not stayed put. He could hear them downstairs in Mrs. Thorne’s kitchen, laughing and talking. What on earth were ladies like that doing in the kitchen? Making a nuisance of themselves, he’d be bound.

He wasn’t going to be kept out of his own kitchen by a pair of Society ladies. And if they were bothering Mrs. Thorne, they could simply get back to their rooms, and so he would tell them.

He walked down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, which was in the lowest level of the main wing of the house. It and its associated store rooms were the only part of the main wing in regular use, though Mrs. Thorne had women from the village up several times a year to give the whole place a good clean.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was struck dumb by the sight of a pretty young lady in a simple day gown slicing a loaf of bread, while an older one whom he recognized as Miss Turner was helping Jane to sprinkle powdered sugar over the top of a cake.

That was the most startling part of the scene, though all of those currently in the kitchen were busy. Another strange female, presumably the maid, was buttering the slices as Lady Vivienne cut them, and a large lean man had stopped setting the empty end of the table with crockery and cutlery to eye him suspiciously.

Jane looked up from the cake and flung up her hands, scattering sugar all over Miss Turner. “Papa!”

Mrs. Thorpe twisted her hands in her apron and eyed him warily. “Captain, sir.”

John heard her, but couldn’t tear his eyes off Miss Turner, who was nothing like the besom of his imagination. She wasn’t even much like her former self except in general appearance, somewhat modified by the passage of time. The haughty female who had been bosom friends with his former betrothed wore her discontent on her face and looked down her nose at the world.

This older version of the woman he had met years ago was altogether softer. More rounded, for a start. Eight years ago, she had been slender to the point of gaunt. The extra weight was distributed in all the right places, too, which he shouldn’t be noticing.

Nor was she dressed in the height of fashion. In fact, he was fairly certain he had seen the dress under the capacious apron that had caught most of the sugar. If he was right, and it was one of Mrs. Thorne’s, she certainly didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

She was laughing as she dusted sugar off her nose and cheeks. When she darted out a tongue to taste her own lips, he tore his eyes away, embarrassed by his reaction.

“Papa, did you come to have some of my cake? Miss Turner and I made it our own selves!”

There was only one possible answer. “I would love some cake you made, Jane of mine.” For his darling girl’s sake, and not because he was at all interested, he added, “Will you introduce me to our guests?”

Jane went to jump down from the chair she was standing on and realized two things in swift succession. First, that she was still holding the sieve of powdered sugar. Two, as she turned to hand it to Miss Turner, that the lady was had been soundly dusted.

“Oh dear,” Jane said. “I threw sugar on you.”

“These things happen,” Miss Turner said, with a twinkle in her eye. “You were excited to see your Papa.” She took the sieve and held out the other hand to help Jane jump to the floor.

Jane grabbed John by the hand and pulled him towards the table. “Lady Vivienne and Miss Turner, may I present my Papa, Captain Forsythe?”

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Tea with Arial

 

This is an excerpt post from Lady Beast’s Bridegroom, now on preorder on Amazon, and out on 16 February. My heroine Arial has been the victim of a scurrilous caricature campaign. Then our Duchess throws the weight of her approval behind Arial and her husband. (This is not a scene in which they have tea, but I like to imagine that she invited Arial to visit shortly after.) The scene begins with Peter showing Arial the caricatures.

Arial raised her eyebrows at the pictures and blushed at the indecent ones. She was inclined, though, to be optimistic about their likely impact. “They have gone too far, Peter.” She raised one of the worst and put it down again. “Our friends will be as indignant as you are, but even those who are mere acquaintances will recognize these as outrageous rubbish. The viciousness of the lies may work in our favor by garnering us the sympathy of Society’s leaders. After all, if people can be made outcasts on the basis of provable fictions, nobody is safe.”

Peter shook his head, doubtful. However, on the drive through Hyde Park and at the theater that evening, many people approached with invitations, compliments on Arial’s gown or her mask, and even outright statements of support. Even one of the patronesses of hallowed Almack’s sought them out to assure Arial that she would be sent tickets.

Then the Duchess of Winshire, one of society’s most influential matrons, cast the weight of her reputation on their side. She had one of her stepsons escort her to the Ransomes’ theater box, where she reminded Peter that she had known his mother. She further claimed to have kissed Arial when she was a baby. She took a seat next to Arial, in full view of the rest of the theater, chatting for several minutes.

When she stood to leave, she said, “You are doing the right thing, my dear Lady Ransome. Facing down these ridiculous calumnies is your best option. It is unpleasant, I know, and takes courage, but I and my friends have seen that you have plenty of courage and are of good character, besides.”

She held out her hand to Peter. “You have found yourself a treasure, Lord Ransome. Young ladies who are beautiful on the outside are common enough in Society. Young ladies who are brave, wise, and honorable are much rarer—and my friend Cordelia Deerhaven assures me your wife is all three.”

Peter bowed and mimed a kiss above the back of the duchess’s hand. “I am fully sensible of how fortunate I am, Your Grace. My wife is a delight to my eyes as well as a true friend and partner.”

“Good answer,” the duchess replied. “Come along, Drew. Your father will wonder what is keeping us.”

 

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Spotlight on Three Ships and The Beau of Christmas Past in Belles & Beaux

Three Ships: Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Laura Winter lives on a tidal island that is home to a lighthouse. On a late November day, a violent storm brings not only the handsome Lieutenant Michael Renten but also a clutch of pirates bent on wreaking mischief.

My comments: As always, Elizabeth has given us an adventure with heart-stopping danger and great rewards at the end. I love her wry humour, and very much enjoyed Whiskey the cat, but the stars of the show were our heroine Laura and the brave lieutenant. Bravo!

The Beau of Christmas Past: Cerise DeLand

Years ago, Alyssa and Gabriel were caught enjoying a Christmas kiss, which broke Alyssa’s betrothal to another man, and caused the pair to be exiled, far from their families and one another. Home for Christmas, will they find the past something to be overcome? Or fulfilled?

My comments: Cerise has a unique take on a common trope. He feels guilty for the kiss that ruined her life. She has quite a different take on what happens. I thoroughly enjoyed this story about two likeable people separated by interfering family.

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First look at a character on WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from Zara’s Locket, my story in Belles & Beaux, which is being published tomorrow. It squeaks in as a work-in-progress on a technicality, being finished but not yet distributed to readers. But meet my heroine, anyway.

Someone had trashed the small windowless room the Strickland household provided for the comfort of their governesses.

At first, Zahrah was inclined to blame her charges. The three children currently consigned to her care were hell-spawn—encouraged in their defiant disobedience by parents who chose to believe them angels, and to ignore any evidence to the contrary.

However, even their most strenuous efforts to chase her away had resulted in nothing worse than frogs in her shoes, mud puddles in her bed, and a bucket of slops balanced on a door. And their behavior had improved since she began telling them stories at bedtime on any day in which they had all three attended their lessons and displayed the manners they had formerly trotted out only with their parents and their older brothers and sisters.

At the moment, with Christmas approaching, she had an extra carrot to offer them. The Strickland family did not decorate for Christmas, but Zahrah had asked and received permission to decorate the nursery and schoolroom, and the children were looking forward to it, and so was Zahrah. It would make up for not being with those she loved for the festival.

Zahrah sorted her way through the mess. Her mirror broken. Ink thrown onto a watercolor she had tacked to the wall. Her clothes not just tossed around, but ripped apart. Worse still, pages torn from her few personal books and other pages defaced with splotches of ink.

This was not the children. They lacked the strength for such destruction. And they didn’t, she was certain, hide this degree of spite.

It could have been a servant, she supposed. They were stand-offish and unpleasant, but none hated her, or had cause to.

The wooden box her brother had made to give her on her last birthday lay in pieces, its contents gone, or hidden in the clutter, perhaps. The bits and pieces were mostly worthless to someone else. Cheap pieces of jeweler suitable for a governess, most of them with happy memories of the person who gave them to her, or the occasion on which she bought them. The latest letter from her mother, set aside for a rereading. A button that she had not yet had time to sew on a cuff.

And her locket. That was the one item she hated to lose. Her father had commissioned it for her sixteenth birthday, and she had worn it daily ever since. She had only taken it off because the catch had been broken in the scuffle with Gerard Strickland.

The oldest Strickland son had been brooding for the past two weeks, ever since his ambush on her had resulted in a threat to his person, backed up by the knife she always carried. Yes, and he had been muttering threats when none of the other Stricklands were around to hear.

She had taken no notice. What could he do, after all?

Well. Now she knew.

For more about the stories in Belles & Beaux, and for preorder links, see the project page on the Bluestocking Belles website.

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Tea with Simon

Simon Marshall was nervous. He had drawn several designs to show the Duke and Duchess of Winshire, and now he was to present them. They were ordering a signet ring to mark the sixteenth birthday of the duke’s nephew, and Simon had made hundreds, perhaps thousands, or rings, many of them signets. The status of the clients, however, made this one of his most important jobs ever.

Not as important as the locket the duke’s dearest friend had commissioned for another sixteenth birthday some eight years ago. That locket, rescued from a thief, had reunited him with Zara, his darling wife of just a few months.

Zara stood somewhat in the relation of a godchild to the duke, and had assured him that the august couple were very nice. He knew that. He had met them at his wedding and again when they summoned him to Winshire House to commission the ring.

She also said his designs were magnificent. She was prejudiced in his favour, and thought everything he made to be beautiful. They were acceptable. Any one of them would work to make both an attractive ring and a clear and identifiable impression in wax—a mark that signified Elias, Lord Bentham, the youth who would receive the ring.

He held the courtesy title of viscount, as heir to the Earl of Lechton, would one day succeed to his father’s title and wear the ring that now graced the earl’s finger. “Long may that day be in coming,” the duchess had said. “In the meanwhile, my husband’s family has formed the habit of gifting their sons a signet ring when they turn sixteen.”

“A tradition,” the duke added, giving his wife a look full of affection, “that we will in future extend to daughters, at my duchess’s behest.”

Simon had asked a few questions about the Lechton coat of arms and the young recipient’s interests.

Dozens of drawings had been narrowed down to three designs. One contained the elements of the Lechton heraldic symbols that came from the Bentham title: a sword and a stylised fish. One was a representation of a star cluster, since Bentham had a passion for astrology. And one combined the two: a star crossed by a sword.

As the butler announced him, he took a deep breath and stepped into a pretty parlour, tastefully furnished, where the duke and duchess greeted him with warm smiles.

The duchess invited him to sit. The duke asked after his wife. The duchess poured him a cup of tea. Simon found himself relaxing.

Then the duke gestured to the folder Simon had put on the table before him. “Your designs?” His Grace asked. “Would you like to explain them to us, Mr Marshall?”

“No, Your Grace,” Simon said, then blushed at the look of surprise on the duke’s face and explained. “I believe, Your Grace, that if they need to be explained, they are not good enough.”

The duke nodded, and the duchess smiled. “That makes perfect sense, Mr Marshall. My husband and I shall look at what you have brought us, then, while you serve yourself one of Fournier’s little cakes and enjoy it with your tea.”

Simon Marshall is the hero of Zara’s Locket, my story in the new Bluestocking Belles collection, Belles & Beaux. Belles & Beaux is on preorder at the sale price of 99c, and is published next week. Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles website.

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Spotlight on Room at the Inn and Zara’s Locket in Belles & Beaux

Room at the Inn: By Caroline Warfield

A fatherless child requires a village to care for it, provided they have room in their hearts. When a cold-hearted baroness makes it impossible for the tenants of Little Hocking to care for one little boy, the Honorable Declan Alworth steps up to make room in his heart and his home for the little treasure. How can the vicar’s niece, Maera Willis, resist either one of them?

My comments: I certainly couldn’t resist them. I have never read a story by Caroline where I didn’t love both the heroine and the hero. This hero is a particularly lovely one. Caroline has a deft touch with a thoroughly satisfying short story, and Room at the Inn is a gem.

Zara’s Locket: By Jude Knight

A run-in with the adult son of the household leads to dismissal for governess Zahrah ibnit Yousef, or Zara MacLaren as the household knows her. Turned out on a Christmas Eve, her circumstances go from bad to worse when she is robbed and then arrested.

Goldsmith and jeweler Simon Marshall recognizes the locket a young aristocrat tries to sell, and it leads him on a hunt for Zara, the friend of his childhood. He finds her. He finds trouble, too, and joins her in her incarceration.

They need a Christmas miracle. It will take a pair of charitable gaolers, a little Christmas cheer, and the timely intervention of family to bring this story to a happy ending.

No comment on this one. You’ll have to read it and decide for yourself.

Find out more

Read all about the set on the Bluestocking Belles website, and preorder at the special prerelease price.