by

Journeys on WIP Wednesday

Barge haulers on the Volga River

I seem to get a lot of travel into my books, one way and another. My hero in the book I’m writing at the moment has been overseas since his twenty-first birthday. He is now a week shy of his thirty-seventh. My excerpt is part of his journey home (They departed from Ceylon — today’s Sri Lanka — by ship to what we today call Pakistan, then went up through Kashmire to Afghanistan and from there to Kazakhstan. I had to work out the timings, allowing for the monsoons and the northern winter. I think I’ve got it. If you have a journey in a book of yours, please share in the comments.

Nowhere smelled like England. It was raining, but Ash rode anyway, the better to enjoy the sights, smells, and sounds of his homeland. His childhood memories were created in the tame and gentle lands of South East England, the lands their little line of carriages and horsemen were currently traversing on their way from Dover to London.

Artie had put his riding horse on a lead rope when the rain first began, retiring to the family carriage where Rithya, Caroline, and little Gareth travelled in as much comfort as Artie could procure at short notice.

Caroline had been born in March of 1817. Artie had taken a house in a small village in Kazakhstan when Rithya adamantly refused to travel any further while she was, as she complained, larger than an elephant and far less useful. Besotted with his baby daughter, Artie had quelled his restlessness until Rithya pronounced herself well enough to travel. They set off again, with a wet nurse, he is a train of pack animals and a small army of local guards.

After that, Artie travelled as if possessed. No more stopping for weeks or even months at a time, to see the sights and get to know the locals. “I want to leave St Petersburg before the Baltic ices over,” he explained.

In Turkmenistan, they heard about an Englishman who ran shipping on the Caspian Sea, paradoxically known as the King of the Mountains. The man they found in a small port on the eastern shores proved to be the son of the rumoured king, though from his looks, his mother had been a local. He was able to supply space for their party on a ship sailing for the mouth of the Volga River, and also advice on dealing with Russian officials as they travelled up through the waterways of that enormous empire.

The river travel took longer than expected, and they spent Christmas at the Winter Palace of the Tsar in St Petersburg.

Tsar Alexander was delighted with his visitors, whom he proclaimed he knew well, for he had read all of their books. Artie, in particular, was a favourite, his birth making him, in the Tsar’s eyes,’his British cousin’.

The nearby port was frozen over. Indeed, the ice blocked much of the sea for hundreds of miles. The Tsar assured them they could stay as long as they wished, but Artie insisted on taking an overland route, by troika, to Klaipeda, which was ice free. Somehow, he managed to charm the vehicles and their teams, an escort, and a ship out of the Tsar.

Perhaps it was because Rithya was with child again, and the childless Tsar and Tsarina were enchanted with Caroline, and anxious to do all they could to make sure Artie was back in England “for the birth of your heir, my cousin.”

So, at last, in the middle of February, after being storm-diverted to Calais where Rithya gave birth to Gareth, they arrived in Dover.

Travelling by gentle stages, they spent two nights on the road and were now approaching London. Their sixteen-year journey was all but over.

 

by

Tea with Lord Cranfield

Richard’s cravat was too tight. It had been perfectly fine when his valet tied it, but somewhere between his townhouse and this encounter with the Duchess of Haverford, it had shrunk. To be precise, it had shrunk at that moment Her Grace caught sight of him and beckoned him to her side.

“Go and take a stroll around the room, dear,” she said to her companion. “I have been hoping for a private word with you, Lord Cranfield. Please sit.”

Richard obeyed. One did not refuse the Duchess. Besides, he rather liked the old lady, at least in part because his mother and father could not stand her.

“Will you have tea?” she asked. In this vast room, all the refreshments were being served buffet style at one end of the room and most of the guests clustered at that end. Her Grace of Haverford sat at the other end and had somehow secured a table with a pot of tea, a plate of savouries, and another of sweet cakes.

“Yes, please,” Richard said, thinking it would be good to have something to do with his hands.

She asked how he preferred it, made it for him, and served it, also passing him a plate and inviting him to help himself.

He was taking his first sip when she said, “I have been told, Cranfield, that your parents are sending you to York to find a husband for your sister and a wife for yourself.”

Richard managed not to spray tea all over his lap, but it was a near thing. “How did you…? Never mind.”

“Never mind, indeed.” Her smile was kindly. “Good luck with your quest, my dear. I just wanted to give you a piece of advice, based on my experience. Your sister is a wise woman. She has refused to marry for a title and wealth, as your parents wanted. She is waiting for someone she can respect; someone who respects her.”

“She is waiting for love,” Richard corrected, wondering how the duchess came by her information.

She nodded at his remark. “I know you are a loving brother, and I trust you to honour her choices. I just wanted to tell you that she is right to be careful, Cranfield. Marriage is for a lifetime.  I know you think I am an interfering old woman, and perhaps you are right. But I have observed many marriages over my lifetime.” She leaned forward to emphasise her point. “People think that women have the most to lose when a marriage turns sour, and they are right. But men lose, too. Choose wisely, my dear. Choose someone who can be your partner in life’s adventures, your friend and companion.”

She sat back. “There. That is my lecture done for the day. Finish your tea, dear boy. Or don’t, if you are anxious to escape. I will not be offended.”

Richard, relieved of the threat of more advice, relaxed. “Your son Haverford seems happy in his marriage,” he observed. Now that his cravat had loosened, perhaps he would have a savoury.

Richard, Viscount Cranfield is the hero of Sherry Ewing’s “A Countess to Remember”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.

 

by

Spotlight on “Lady Dorothea’s Curate” in Desperate Daughters

Lady Dorothea’s Curate: by Caroline Warfield

There was a mystery about Doro Bigglesworth; the truth would shock him.

Doro Bigglesworth works at a hotel, and she’s proud of what she does. Besides, her family—the ten unmarried daughters of the late earl of Seahaven—needs her income. She has no use for her title and less for the scorn and pity of society.

Scarred by the death of a boy, Ben Clarke dedicated his life to helping others. Delighted with Doro’s help at his mission, he doesn’t bother with the courtesy title due the son of a viscount.

Separated before either could mention titles to the other, they are stunned when they are formally introduced in a ballroom in York. Explanations are needed. Quickly.

And 8 other great stories.

Excerpt

Hired assembly rooms have no garden but they do, apparently, have a terrace overlooking the square below. Or so Doro—Lady Dorothea—told him when he demanded to know. She seemed to know the place well. Can this night get any stranger? Ben doubted it.

Halfway across the room, she let go of his arm, and he had to skip to catch up with her as she reached the door. He grabbed her hand, half fearing she meant to bolt.

The terrace wasn’t large, but neither was it crowded. A few people mingled near the railing. A couple engaged in intimate familiarity in the corner to the far left of the glass doors, shadowed rather less than they obviously hoped by the gloom.

When Doro stopped in the middle, Ben, who still had her by the hand, dragged her to the similarly darkened corner to the right. It provided inadequate privacy, but it would have to do.

One hard yank on her arm swung Doro into the corner, around his front, to a hard stop against his chest. His other arm anchored her fast against his body and his mouth came down on hers. No tender salute this. Passion driven by anger and frustrated desire drove him. He plundered. He invaded. He…

He felt like a cad, but he didn’t care. Besides, she kissed him back, clinging to his shoulders like she might drown if she let go. When the need to breathe forced him to pull back a fraction of an inch, Doro closed the distance and kissed him again. That’s when he realized she was crying.

“Enough.” He held both her arms and set her a bit away. Not so far that she could run off. Just enough to reassemble his scattered wits. “Do you want to explain to me what happened here?”

“You kissed me. Rather thoroughly.”

Shame over her tears warred with delight at her passionate response. “Not that! Who are you, and what game are you playing?” he demanded gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. 

“Lower your voice.” She hissed at him in the gloom. “I’ll answer your questions, but keep your voice down.” Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t going to shout her deception to the rooftops, she went on. “I am Doro Bigglesworth, Lady Dorothea Bigglesworth. In Harrogate the title didn’t seem to matter.”

“This isn’t Harrogate; it is York. Why the deception?”

She snorted. No ladylike cringing for his Doro. “You know what society thinks of those of us who are forced to work for a living. I didn’t lie to you about our situation. We needed my wages at the Hampton. My father was indeed the Earl of Seahaven, but when he died, we were left with nothing; Patience struggles to support the children. All of us had to scramble to help. If word got out here, it would ruin everything, destroy my sisters’ chances.”

“So, you’re deceiving all of York instead, so the Seahaven Diamonds can latch on to some wealthy fool and enrich all of you.

See the project page at the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more information.

Desperate Daughters is on preorder for publication on 17 May. Order now to get the preorder price of 99c

by

Tripped up by things we know

I’m serious about my research. I prefer well researched historical romance myself, and I try to research the details in my own romances to make sure I get them right. The problem is, I often don’t know what I don’t know. If I’m fortunate, I’ll find out before I finish the book, and can edit accordingly. Or rewrite, even, as when I discovered that my receivers of smuggled goods would almost certainly not be arrested if they simply paid the duty, with perhaps a thank you bonus to the customs officials.

I hate it when I don’t notice until I’ve published the book and found a reader who winces. No, my hero could not buy flowers from a shop in the early 1800s in Bath. Flowers at that time were sold from barrows. Actual shops devoted to selling flowers had not yet made an appearance even in Paris, where they apparently started.

I took flower shops for granted and didn’t trouble to look them up.

On the other hand, several times, I’ve had readers with a little knowledge who have lambasted me for getting wrong something I have exactly right. Anglican clerics with parishes did directly receive the tithes paid by their parishioners.  Cleanliness in surgery and in sick rooms was a natural part of Arabic medicine, and also commonly practiced in the British navy and by doctors trained in Scotland. While upper class women were expected not to engage in work for income, the crafter families of England taught their crafts to their daughters, who continued to work alongside their husbands if they married someone in the same craft.

So when I bump into a small fact in other people’s writing that I know to be wrong, such as the Regency lady in a recent novel I read who offered a visitor a choice between Chinese or Indian tea, I note the historical discrepancy and move on.  In this particular case, I’m certain of my facts. The British stole tea from China in the early 1820s. The early experimental plantings didn’t translate into commercial production until the 1850s. But often, I’ve checked a fact that appears wrong to me and discovered that I am the one who is wrong. Lesson learned, and thank you, author.

And even if I’m right, I’m not going to scoff at the author in a review.  How rude! And what an invitation for the powers of balance to strike me next time I include a detail that I didn’t know I didn’t know.

 

by

Being compromised on WIP Wednesday

The compromise is a stock scene in regency romance. Maybe when two people in love are caught unawares. Perhaps an accidental encounter that is seen and misinterpreted. Or, as in the scene I’ve shared below, an evil plot by a fortune hunter and a female snake, aided and abetted by my heroine’s own mother.

Perhaps you have one you’d like to share in the comments.

Regina put up her parasol and strolled down through the garden, nodding to acquaintances. She crossed the lawn at the bottom, and strolled back up the path on the other side. She was approaching the house when a footman hurried up to her. “Miss Kingsley?”

“Yes, that is I,” she said.

“A note for you, miss.” He handed over a folded piece of paper, and hurried away before she could question him.

It was from Cordelia, her friend’s usual neat copperplate an untidy scrawl that hinted at a perturbed mind.

Regina, I don’t know what to do! It is dreadful. I need your advice, dear friend.  I am waiting in a little parlour by the front door—I cannot bear for all those horrid gossipers to see me. Please do not fail me. Cordelia.

Regina didn’t hesitate. She hurried through the house, too anxious to find her mother and let her know where she was going. To the left of the front entrance, a door stood a little ajar. Regina could see a couple of chairs and low table through the gap. This must be it.

She pushed the door wider and was three steps into the room before she realised that Cordelia was not there.

Behind her, the door slammed shut. Regina spun around.

Mr David Deffew stood there, grinning. “Hello, Miss Kingsley. How good of you to join me.”

“Please get out of my way,” Regina demanded. “I am looking for my friend.”

“I would like to be your friend,” Mr Deffew crooned. “But if you mean Miss Miller, she has, or so I understand, left town.”

“It was a trick,” Regina realised.

Mr Deffew’s smirk confirmed her suspicion.

“Get out of my way, Mr Deffew. Whatever you think you are up to, I am not interested.”

“Such fire,” Mr Deffew crooned.

At that moment, someone spoke on the other side of the door. Suddenly, Mr Deffew leapt on Regina, crushed her in his arms, tore at her dress, and pressed sloppy kisses to whatever part of her face he could reach as she struggled.

The door burst open, and people crowded into the room. Miss Wharton, exchanging triumphant glances with Mr Deffew. Regina’s mother, looking smug. Lady Beddlesnirt, one of the most notable gossips of the ton. Others, too, all expressing gleeful horror.

Regina broke free of Mr Deffew and ran to her mother. “It is not what it looks, Mama. Mr Deffew tricked me. I got this note!” She held it up and Miss Wharton snatched it out of her hand and threw it in the fire.

Mama turned to Mr Deffew. “Shame on you, sir.”

Mr Deffew bowed. “I was overcome by love, Lady Kingsley. I will make it right, of course.”

“A betrothal,” Mama announced to the room.

by

Tea with a daughter-in-law

Another excerpt post from Paradise At Last, published this week as part of Paradise Triptych. Eleanor has a heart to heart with Cherry, the new Duchess of Haverford.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Cherry’s turn to smile and nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

by

Spotlight on My Love, My Rogue

She faked her death. He now knows she’s alive. Can they survive the treacherous enemy that hunts them and gain a chance for love and happiness?

Lady Honora Radcliff was betrothed to the most sought-after man of the Season— just not the man she loved. Too much champagne and too many dances with a handsome stranger leaves her life in tatters and she finds herself married to an abusive man whose only interest is the dowry her father refuses to release. Desperate to save her life and that of her unborn child, she fakes her death and disappears.

Lord Benjamin Crewe, the Marquess of Willington, planned to enjoy the Christmastide season relaxing. Instead, he accepts a dangerous assignment from the Crown and while working it, comes face to face with the woman he always wished he had married. Only she has been thought dead for three years.

Needing answers, he pursues her at the same time a treacherous enemy of England surfaces, and the two of them become tangled in a web of danger, espionage, and deception.

Can Honora and Benjamin survive the danger in which they find themselves and gain a chance for love and happiness?

Buy Links

Amazon – https://amazon.com/Lord-Rogue-Noble-Hearts-Book-ebook/dp/B09SFFWN1P/

B&N – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-lord-my-rogue-anna-st-claire/1141004890?ean=2940160798554

Apple Books – https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1610262220

Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/my-lord-my-rogue

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60419196-my-lord-my-rogue

BookBub – https://www.bookbub.com/books/my-lord-my-rogue-noble-hearts-series-book-4-by-anna-st-claire

Excerpt

Saltdean, Brighton, England

March 1815

Lady Honora Aster stood at the edge of the cliff and regarded the black void of the ocean pounding below and wondered if she could blend in anywhere, ever again, or if her life would be the endless onslaught of pain and mockery she endured today. The frothy waves beckoned her, daring her to jump and join them. The cold March winds whipped her auburn curls wildly about her face as she stood in her night rail and wrapper at the edge of the cliff, staring through the thick layer of sea mist. The smell of salt and seaweed hung heavy in the air. Wet fog soaked her night clothing as she watched the water crash onto the jagged rocks below. She felt lost and hopeless.

Her mind spun with memories of the life she had foolishly cast aside. Two months before, she had been on her way to Lady Beaumont’s event, betrothed to Adam Hunter, the Marquess of Greystone. Her disgraceful behavior that night ended her betrothal and forced her to wed another—a man she barely knew, who had waltzed into her life that night and convinced her they were meant for each other. Today, her marriage to that man was anything but what he had promised her. A shiver shook her. Shamefully, in mere months, her former betrothed would return home from the battlefields to find out she had jilted him. And for what? For the man who married her and used her. Tonight, there was only ache, cold, and loneliness.

Closing her eyes, she struggled against the memory of that fateful night.

She had been eager to attend Lady Beaumont’s event. It had been the height of the social season—and the end of life, as she had known it. With Adam off fighting against Napoleon’s armies, her social life had been limited and felt stifling.

As her parents’ carriage slowed to a stop behind the waiting line, she noticed they were already discussing how long they should stay at the ball. Her betrothal to Adam had been the match of the Season, and her parents wanted nothing to mess up the engagement. A sarcastic laugh escaped as she gave thought to it all. Her parents had wanted the engagement more than she had.

Curse her heart, but she had hoped a different lord would offer for her—one who acted as if she did not exist. To make matters worse, it had been weeks since her last letter from Adam. He was everything one could want in a suitor. She would love him, she felt sure of it.

“Honora,” her mother said as she snugged her pelisse closer, “remember you are engaged. Do not dance more than once with anyone.”

“Yes, Mama.” Her mother did not have to worry. She might not love Adam as he professed to love her, but she cared for him and fervently wished he was here tonight to show off on her arm.

However, when Lord David Aster had shown her attention, she had ignored her promises, dancing twice with him, eliciting looks and whispers. The evening had spun out of control when she foolishly allowed him to take her to the garden, knowing he wanted to kiss her. But it had gone so much further—too far. When it did, David had promised they would be happy together. She attributed her foolishness to frustration, loneliness, and too much champagne.

He had professed to love her and had been quite attentive—at first. Honora had thought she loved him, but realized now that she had only been caught up in the moment’s passion. How could she love someone so cruel? Absently, she rubbed her raw wrists. “I had everything I ever could have wanted, and like a dog with a bone, I wanted another,” she muttered wearily. David had lied.

Finally, he had admitted it was all about her dowry. He needed it. Not her. Not this baby. The problem was that her dowry was the settlement promised to Adam with their betrothal contract. The contract she had broken. And her father refused to cede to David’s demands that David be given the money. They had eloped. There had been no contract.

Slowly, she took off her shoes and tossed them over the edge, one at a time, watching them land. One landed on the sandy, rocky bottom, the second on a large, jagged rock just as a fierce wave full of foam slapped at the cliff beneath her. When the wave withdrew into the ocean, the shoe had gone with it.

Honora shifted closer to the edge and stood, her bare toes feeling the wet grass beneath them. Her toes hugged the edge. It gave a sense of control to be there. David had stripped her of her sense of worth, her own sense of being. She had run from him and he followed her, demanding she return to London. She would never return to London as his wife. Tears streamed down her cheek unchecked as she recalled their last conversation.

He had walked in behind her, yelling her name. She hated his voice.

“I have had enough of your family.”

“You are back.” It was more of a statement. She closed her wardrobe and turned to face him.

“Your father refuses to acknowledge me as your husband,” David seethed, his arms crossed.

“David, please . . .our marriage, everything, it all happened so fast.” She glanced where he was looking, curious. He was watching the gardener tending her aunt’s roses in the seaside garden behind her Brighton home.

“You have not supported my needs. I married you as I promised. I gave you my name.” His voice turned ugly, mocking, “Your Marquess would not have married you, once he returned. I did your parents a favor.”

“David, I have pleaded with Father. He refuses.” She touched her belly, unsure of how to break the news. “Why did you follow me?”

He turned from the window and glowered at her. “You are my wife—my property. And you owe me . . .” He grabbed her by the arm and threw her to the bed.

“David, stop,” she pleaded. “My aunt will hear us. Please . . . I am with child.”

His eyes bore into her before he grabbed her by the wrists, twisting them roughly. “What?” he roared. “You tricked me into marrying you so I would give my name to your bastard child.” He released one wrist and backhanded her with his free arm, knocking her back onto her bed before advancing on her.

Shaking, she drew up into a protective ball, watching him through blinding tears. “That is not true. I have only just missed my courses. There has only been you. You know this is truth.”

He had moved toward her, but her words stopped him. Instead, he stood and walked to the door. “Clean up. I shall return at dinner.” With that, he opened the door and stopped. “You shall convince your aunt to support our side, tonight at dinner.” He gave her a last look and slammed the door closed behind him.

Moments later, Bridget tapped on the door before entering into the room. “Your ladyship! What has happened?” The petite maid dropped the linens she carried and rushed to the basin and wet a cloth, carrying it back to Honora.

“Bridget, I cannot take this anymore. He is so cruel. He accused me of having another’s baby.” Honora hiccupped, struggling to catch a breath. “You are the only one that knows what he does to me.”

Her maid pursed her lips and gave a tight nod. “I will see to everything as you have asked, m’lady.”

Bridget was as true a friend as any other. She had grown up with Honora in the Radcliff home. Honora trusted her above everyone, except Evie. She needed to trust that Evie would do one last favor for her. Ashamed and unwilling to hurt Adam any more than she already had, she sat at a small escritoire and withdrew a page of vellum. Quickly, she penned a note to her childhood friend. When it was complete, she sanded it and folded it. Melting her lavender candle, she dripped enough wax for her seal. Satisfied, she reached under her bed and withdrew her valise. Bridget would see the letter here, she thought, stuffing it inside the side pocket.

Honora found herself pregnant, humiliated, and all alone. She had already written to her parents, giving Bridget specific instructions on when she wanted the letters mailed. This was the only way she saw to gain her freedom. Loosening her wrapper’s tie, she pulled it free and watched the wrapper fall. It floated gently on a breeze before disappearing into the fog-laden haze below her feet. She took one last look at the white silk wrapper snagged on a branch partially down the side of the cliff. There were no other options. This was her only way out of a life she hated.

A black carriage rolled up behind her and stopped. She turned and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to the driver. It was time to leave. Slowly, she backed away from the edge and walked toward the open carriage door her aunt’s footmen held for her. Bridget had a warm pelisse waiting. They needed to make haste before he returned.

Meet Anna St Claire

Anna St. Claire is a big believer that nothing is impossible if you believe in yourself. She sprinkles her stories with laughter, romance, mystery and lots of possibilities, adhering to the belief that goodness and love will win the day.

Anna is both an avid reader author of American and British historical romance. She and her husband live in Charlotte, North Carolina with their  two dogs and often, their two beautiful granddaughters, who live nearby. Daughter, sister, wife, mother, and Mimi—all life roles that Anna St. Claire relishes and feels blessed to still enjoy. And she loves her pets – dogs and cats alike, and often inserts them into her books as secondary characters.

Anna relocated from New York to the Carolinas as a child. Her mother, a retired English and History teacher, always encouraged Anna’s interest in writing, after discovering short stories she would write in her spare time.

As a child, she loved mysteries and checked out every Encyclopedia Brown story that came into the school library. Before too long, her fascination with history and reading led her to her first historical romance—Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, now a treasured, but weathered book from being read multiple times. The day she discovered Kathleen Woodiwiss,’ books, Shanna and Ashes In The Wind, Anna became hooked. She read every historical romance that came her way and dreams of writing her own historical romances took seed.

Today, her focus is primarily the Regency and Civil War eras, although Anna enjoys almost any period in American and British history.

https://www.annastclaire.com

https://www.bookbub.com/profile/anna-st-claire

https://twitter.com/1AnnaStClaire

https://www.facebook.com/authorannastclaire

https://www.amazon.com/Anna-St-Claire/e/B078WMRHHF

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17419205

https://www.instagram.com/annastclaire_author/

by

The social setting on WIP Wednesday

 

For once, I’m setting a novel largely in Society, with my heroine–at least in the first quarter of the novel–a 17-year-old debutante. (In the second and larger part, she will be a 32-year-old widow.)

So I’ve been exploring a ballroom and social engagements setting through the eyes of a very young woman. And boy, as every Regency reader knows, there were some bad girls in those Regency ballrooms. My excerpt covers an encounter Regina had with three of them. If you’re an author, please share an excerpt in the comments showing how one of your characters gets on when out socialising.

It was good that she had a good memory for faces and names, for every outing introduced her to new acquaintances, and she soon gathered a bevy of regular admirers. Mama was over the moon, but Regina did not believe that any of them were serious in their pursuit. Somehow, admiring Miss Kingsley had become the fashion.

Making friends of the other ladies proved to be more difficult. Here, her looks and her wealth apparently counted against her. The other reigning beauties treated her like an interloper, and less favoured ladies regarded her with the same cautious distance as they applied to the beauties.

That changed one day when she overheard Miss Wharton and her two bosom friends in the ladies retiring room one evening, attempting to cow another girl. Regina was behind the screen when they entered, three of them clearly on the heels of the other.

“Please, leave me alone.” Regina didn’t recognise that voice, but she did recognise Miss Fairchild’s falsely sweet coo.

“Oh, girls, Miss Millgirl wants us to leave her alone.”

Regina had not met Miss Miller, but she recognised the name, even skewed to be an insult. The pretty girl’s mother had come from a middle class family whose considerable fortune was founded on mill ownership. She had secured one of the marital prizes of twenty years ago and some in Society had not forgiven the trespass.

Miss Wharton hissed. “Go home and we shall leave you alone. You stink of the shop, and we do not plan to put up with you. These are our ballrooms, our suitors. Just because your mother was lucky enough to trap a gentleman, doesn’t mean we are going to let you do so.” The horrid cow.

“Is this because I danced with Lord Spenhurst?” asked Miss Miller.

Miss Plumfield screeched, “You will not do so again.” The sound of fabric ripping brought Regina hurrying out from behind the privacy screen.

All three of them were tearing at Miss Miller’s clothing and hair, while she batted at them, begging them to leave her alone.

Regina caught Miss Plumfield’s raised hand. “I cannot abide bullies,” she announced.

“This is none of your business, Miss Kingsley,” Miss Wharton insisted. “If you interfere, you’ll get the same treatment.”

“Yes,” Miss Fairchild agreed. “Get out of here while you still can.”

“What has happened to the maid?” Regina wondered.

A smug twitch of Miss Wharton’s lips gave her the clue.

“You bribed her to leave, did you? You did not want a witness. Unfortunate for you that I was already here. Come, Miss Miller. Let us go and find our hostess. I am sure she will be interested to know how her guests behave when not under the eye of their chaperones.”

Miss Wharton swung her hand to slap Regina’s face. Regina stepped back. “I would not do that if I were you.” Regina’s mother would have stopped her excursions with the village children much earlier had she known they had taught her to swim, to climb trees, and—most relevant in this situation—to fight.

Slapping would have been regarded by her tutors as a girlie thing to do. If Miss Wharton tried it again, Regina would let her, Regina decided. A red mark on her cheek would be her defence after she punched Miss Wharton in the belly.

Some of this calculation must have shown in her eyes, for Miss Wharton did not repeat the attempt.

by

Tea with Cherry

“How was your trip to York, Cherry?” Eleanor, Her Grace of Winshire asked Charlotte,  Her Grace of Haverford, as she handed her daughter-in-law a cup of tea, made just the way she liked it, with a spoonful of cream and a small drizzle of honey.

“Delightful,” Cherry replied. “I understand why Anthony loves spending time on his yacht. The freedom, the sea air, the sense that we might be able to sail anywhere we please.” She laughed. “The knowledge that the door knocker won’t announce unexpected callers, and that a message will not arrive with an urgent summons to Clarence House.”

Eleanor nodded and agreed, though she privately thought that the kind of unexpected visitors who might invite themselves aboard at sea were somewhat more troublesome than a garrulous vicar or a gossip-seeking harridan. “I’m glad the weather stayed pleasant for you. And what of the wedding?”

Cherry laughed again. “That was fun, too. Lord Diomedes is a charming man and I found Lady Diomedes clever and delightful. Pretty, too, though not in the common way. The newlyweds are clearly deeply in love, and it was amusing to see Anthony competing with the Marquess of Pevenwood for most supportive half-brother. Apparently the Pevenwood side has only recently learned that it was their father who cut the connection, not Lord Diomedes himself. The two brothers came to York to find him, and then didn’t know how to approach him, so kept wandering in and out of social events for weeks, hoping to bump into him by accident.”

“Men can be duffers,” Eleanor remarked.

Cherry smiled and nodded. “So Pevenwood was anxious to make some magnificent gesture to show how pleased he was to have his brother back again, and Anthony was just as determined to show that the Haverford connection had an equal claim to flamboyant gestures. ”

Eleanor snorted. “Men,” she repeated.

“It all worked out in the end, and the bride and groom are very happy.”

Cherry is reporting on the wedding of Dom Finchley and Chloe Tavistock, from my story Lord Cuckoo Comes Home, out in the anthology Desperate Daughters on 8th May. The anthology has nine stories, all centred around the York Season and the daughters and other family connections of the dowager Countess of Seahaven.

See more about Lord Cuckoo Comes Home

See more about Desperate Daughters

Order Desperate Daughters at the preorder price of only 99c