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Vimy Ridge: Canada’s coming-of-age

Guest post from Caroline Warfield.


Last April, I posted about the 102nd anniversary of the Battle of Vimy Ridge on History Imagined. It was a well planned, brilliantly executed operation in which all four divisions of the Canadian Corps, fighting together for the first time, successfully dislodged Germans from the top of a high ridge, a feat the French and English had failed to accomplish earlier in the war. It cost 3,595 Canadian deaths and approximately 7,000 wounded.

I will repeat most of that post here. Vimy Ridge in many ways represents to Canada, what Gallipoli does to Australia and New Zealand. Brigadier-General Arthur Edward Ross has been quoted as saying, “in those few minutes I witnessed the birth of a nation.” As Gallipoli defines the moment in which Australian and New Zealand came of age as independent countries, so Vimy Ridge took on mythological importance to Canadians. They came out from the shadow of Britain.

Weeks of training and nighttime drilling made use of models and mock-ups to prepare the troops for the attack. Unlike tactics employed at the Somme the year before, effort was made to empower leadership down to the squad level so every man knew that if officers fell, the assault would continue. Units were given as much information as possible, to decentralize command and to encourage initiative.

They built roads and railways, shored up the French trenches, made use of existing underground caverns called souterrains dug into the chalky soil, and built an additional 6km of subways to transport troops as close to the front as possible while protected from German Fire.

More important than any other innovation and preparation, however, were the overwhelming amount of artillery brought up to support the attack and improvements that enabled artillery shells to explode on contact so few simply burrowed into the mud. Steady bombardment began March 20 and lasted twenty days, raining death and destruction onto the top of the ridge. On April 3 it intensified, and Germans called it “the week of suffering.”

Coincidentally that week was holy week; Good Friday must have been hellish for men on both sides. My own interest is rarely about strategy and planning, but primarily about the men themselves, the lives of the common soldier, hiding in tunnels, trenches, and caves waiting. When the time came the stories of individual heroism at Vimy Ridge abounded. The names of Ellis Sifton, William Milne, and Jeremiah Jones, stand out as examples. Ordered to take Vimy Ridge, take it they did.

Shortly after dawn on Easter Monday, 9 April 1917, 15,000 Canadian troops, joined by a British division in their right flank, began their assault uphill in driving sleet, supported by still more artillery fire in a “creeping barrage” designed to protect them, and keep the Germans in their trenches. By the end of April 9 Canadians held the entire ridge with the exception of one hill; they pushed the Germans back 5Km, the greatest one-day advance in the war to that point. The artillery had been less effectively employed against Hill 145 (aka “the Pimple”). Defenders cut the Fourth Canadian Division to pieces in the initial assault. Renewed bombardment and a second infantry assault took the hill on April 12.

In the grand scheme of the Great War, Vimy Ridge could be defined as a mere tactical victory, its importance overshadowed by the British Army’s failure to make significant progress in the overall Battle of Arras of which it was a part, and the failure of the French action at Aisne, which it was designed to support. In the quagmire that was the war in northern France, Vimy cost the Germans an important vantage point, but only a few kilometers of ground.

Strategically vital? No. Defining? Emphatically yes. Though joined by a British division, and other the overall command of Sir Julian Byng, architect of the meticulous planning, at the end of the day Canadian soldiers accomplished the thing. Men from every part of Canada charged up Vimy Ridge, functioning as a single unit. They had good reason to be proud of their daring, initiative, and success.

They were not finished. There were battles of greater strategic importance, and more bloodshed still to come—Amiens, Cambrai, Passchendaele, and Ypres. Yet it is Vimy that is remembered as the corps’ defining moment. It is therefore fitting that Canada’s main monument to the Great War in France is the Vimy Memorial, which sits atop Hill 145.

Caroline Warfield, award winning author of historical romance usually set in the Regency and Victorian eras, reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart, believing love is worth the risk.

Her most recent release is Christmas Hope, set in France during World War I, it includes scenes at Vimy Ridge.

After two years at war Harry ran out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son, hope ensnares him.  When the Great War is over, will their love be enough?

Full blurb and excerpt

 

 

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Scandal and gossip on WIP Wednesday

 

I’ve made the final changes to Unkept Promises and am in the process of generating the files to upload to the retailers. So this is my last work-in-progress extract from the book, and this time, I’m thinking about that perennial driver of Regency and Victorian romance, gossip. In my excerpt from Chapter 2, we find that gossip was the force behind Mia’s and Jules’s marriage.

How about your stories? Has gossip been a motivating factor? Share an excerpt in the comments.

“Tell me about the rumours,” Jules commanded.

The three gathered around his bed. Susan fussed over helping him to sit then left the room so the men could see to his comfort. She returned to say she had sent for breakfast. “Just a coddled egg and some thinly cut slices of bread, Jules. Nothing to inflame your fever again.”

“Tell me,” Jules repeated.

“Eat first,” Father suggested, “and get a little of your strength back.”

From what he’d heard, Jules would need it.

The egg and bread came with a few mushrooms, some bacon, and a cup of warmed milk flavoured with honey and spices. Jules rejected the drink and demanded some of the coffee that had been fetched for the other three. “Now tell me what they are saying about Mia,” he demanded. “Surely people realise the circumstances? She was trapped with me, yes, but her father was there too, and she is, after all, just a girl.”

“Gossip,” Aldridge said. “Rumour paints her as your lover, of course, but worse is being said.” He held up a hand. “Not my servants. They know how to be discrete. It seems a mix of village small-mindedness and a couple of females who should never have been invited to one of my parties. I am sorry. They shall be, too, but not soon enough to undo the damage.”

Jules turned to Susan. “How bad is it? She hoped to be able to return to her home.”

“She insisted on going,” Susan said. “It was not a happy experience. Apparently, the rumours had arrived first. Thank goodness I persuaded her to allow me to go with her. Her landlord has evicted her, and even the woman who runs the local dame school…”

“She believed the gossip?” Mia had spoken so highly of the woman.

Susan shook her head. “Not at all. But she depends on the money she receives from the parish and the wealthier parents.” She shrugged.

“It is the other two roles ascribed to her that have done the damage,” Aldridge explained. “Mutually conflicting, but when was the mob ever rational?”

One story said she was a member of the smugglers’ gang (and whore to one or more of those ruffians). “She fell in love with your pretty blue eyes and killed several of the smugglers, including her lover, to free you,” Aldridge explained. “The number of people she killed in order to get you out of your cell grows with each repetition of the story. The latest round has her father cast as the smugglers’ secret leader, and accuses her of parricide.”

Jules and his sister snorted in disgust, and the marquis quirked one corner of his mouth in a twisted smile. “People are idiots,” he agreed.

“The other story has her providing entertainment at Aldridge’s party,” Susan added. “Some have to invent a whole new messenger to tell Aldridge about the smugglers, and some knit the two stories together to say she sold herself to Aldridge in return for help to rescue you. Either way, she purportedly accompanied the Marquis to the rescue, on his horse, semi-clad.”

“Partly true,” Aldridge conceded. “Not the semi-clad bit, obviously, but she did come on my horse.” At identical glares from Lord Henry and Jules, he held up defensive hands. “She would not take no for an answer, and I certainly couldn’t leave her at the castle until my guests had departed. Not those guests.”

“Jules,” Father said gravely, leaving the point, “her father appears to have been her only family. She has been left near destitute and with her reputation in ruins. But she refuses the remedy that would save her.”

“I heard,” Jules said. “Marriage to me. Because of Kirana.” He met his father’s gaze, his own solemn. “Kirana and I have two children, Father, if all went well with her lying in. I cannot desert them. My life is in Madras. I am posted to the Far East fleet, and should have been on my way back days ago. In addition, Mia is a child—just fourteen. Her peculiar upbringing has made her mature in many ways. Even so, she is not ready for marriage.”

“Mia is…” Susan began, but Father waved her to silence, leaving Jules to finish his own arguments for and against.

He was thinking about what his life might look like with Mia as his wife. He could think of worse fates. As Aldridge had implied, she would be a magnificent woman when she grew up. “Can I leave her with you? If I marry her… Would you take her in as a daughter and look after her until I come home?” Which could be years from now, and anything could happen. He was going back into the war. He might die. Any of them might.

Yes. He would marry Mia and let the future look after itself.

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Tea with a willing deputy

Today’s post is an sneak preview of the novella I’m writing for the Belle’s next anthology, due out in February. Matilda is Her Grace’s ward.

Matilda had apprenticed to her guardian at enough major events to be able to write lists of the possible problems with ideas on how to solve them, and by early afternoon, she was satisfied that, whatever the weather did, they could cope.

She visited the duchess again, and this time was invited inside. Her Grace was dressed, but lying propped up on pillows on a sofa in her sitting room, her eye swollen nearly shut by a large purple bruise. Reassured that Matilda was fully recovered, she claimed that she, too, was on the mend.

“I shall be perfectly well by the auction and ball, my dear,” she insisted, “but I know you will all fret if I get up too quickly. Indeed, I am still a little shaken, so I shall rest, and you shall be my deputy and run my messages.”

“Of course, Aunt Eleanor,” Matilda agreed, and explained what she had been doing. By the time she had displayed her list, the duchess had paled and was drooping on her pillows.

“Tell me what is most urgent for me to know,” Matilda said, “then I shall go away and let you rest.”

“Nothing, Matilda. You are doing an excellent job. Give me a kiss, my dear, and off you go.”

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You can’t please all of the people all of the time

 

Following on from last week’s discussion about the different ways of writing a historical romance, and particularly a Regency, the other morning I got two emails, one after the other, both about Unkept Promises. Unkept Promises is a different take on a historical romance – set mostly in Cape Town with a couple seven years married who haven’t seen one another since the wedding day. Set in Regency times against the background of the long war with Napoleon, it’s not so much a Regency as a storyabout two people drawn to one another despite their reservations, and about the importance of family.

The first said:

I am honored that you would consider me for an ARC of your upcoming release.  But unfortunately, I won’t be reading this book – I do not read books with unfaithful heroes/heroines  – I was completely hooked until I read the “dying mistress and children” – I am not naïve, I know men had mistresses and it seems like their marriage was never consummated and some might absolve him from breaking his vows based on that – but I am not in that number – that behavior is not something I want to read in my fictional romances.

The second was a review of the same book.

I admire Jude Knight’s rebellious author streak, for her novels are never run–of-the-mill plots. Unkept Promises is no exception, in which Mia and Jules’ encounter one another in the strangest of circumstances.

Whilst events unfold that lead to marriage, Mia is far from ignorant to Jules’ former life and the subsequent responsibilities he has elsewhere. Although their marriage is not unusual for the period, the circumstances of it require gentlemanly retreat in honour of her young years. In some respects Jules is a reluctant hero, though is most definitely a man of his period in history and has borne no guilt in acquisition of a mistress. After all, he is a bachelor when he meets Mia, and as a British naval officer in the years of the Napoleonic Wars he is well travelled. Nonetheless Jules unfailingly bears responsibility for all that his cohabiting with a mistress has entailed. Thus a long gap ensues from Jules sailing out of British waters 1805 to 1812, when Mia now all grown up takes ship to Cape Town (South Africa).

Initially her discovery is disheartening, and sadness prevails within his home, and most of all anger boils over and she takes command of the household. Upon on his return from sea hidden truths gradually emerge and soften her heart toward him. Strong minded she is and ultimately determined to make of the marriage she entered into with sense of due purpose. Even when things go awry back in England Mia’s stoicism and love wins through despite frightening and deadly experiences that threaten both her and Jules very existence, neither knowing if the other is safe and alive. As always a thoroughly enthralling read from Jude.

I write historical fiction with a large helping of romance, a dash of Regency, and a twist of suspense. Read me if you enjoy determined heroines and decent heroes, a story with a braid of plots that take unexpected twists and turns, and loads of characters. I don’t deliberately defy ‘The Rules’, but I don’t follow them, either. All I promise is that eventually we’ll get to the happy ending.

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Pets and other animals on WIP Wednesday

Today, I’m looking for excerpts with animals. I’ve started my contemporary again — or, at least, I am writing a new beginning about a week before the one I already had. I’m starting with my hero being tripped up by a cat right at the moment he meets the heroine and decides he wants to impress her. So I decided to focus on excerpts with animals today. Meet the cat on my cover, who plays a crucial role in the plot as the bringer of chaos. Meet him briefly, that is. He doesn’t stick around.

“Yes. I am Meg Fotheringham.” The deity behind the counter extended her hand for Patrick to shake. Patrick stepped forward, his eyes locked on hers, determinedly not allowing them to slip to the glories outlined by her apron. Don’t stuff it up, Patrick. Smile. Say something normal. And then he was falling, crashing into the baskets and cake stands clustered on the counter.

Patrick, winded by the sharp blow to the chest, was barely conscious of a large tabby cat that shot out from under his feet and through a cat door at the back of the room.

“Are you all right?” Ms Fotheringham asked, as she hurried around the counter to help him back to his feet. “That dratted cat!”

Patrick was trying to draw in enough air to breathe, while surveying the chaos his fall had made — crushed chocolate cake, scattered buns and cupcakes, broken gingerbread cookies.

“I’m sorry,” he managed.

Ms Fotheringham frowned at the mess. “Not your fault,” she assured him. She was still holding his arm and now she nudged him towards the nearest chair. “Please sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea or coffee. You were looking for me? No, never mind. Get your breath back first.”

Tea sounded wonderful. The long bus ride, the shock of his new landlady’s youth and loveliness, the fall — combined, they’d left Patrick limp as a dishrag, no better than he’d been when the glandular fever had been raging full force through his system.

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Tea with Rand Wheatley

Randolph Baldwin Wheatly—plain mister though he boasted an earl and a duke among his nearest family—prowled, ill at ease, in the anteroom of the Winshire Mansion waiting for the duchess’s favor. She was, he had been told, engaged in some sort of charity project, one of her innumerable works, but she would see him.

The more he paced the more foolish his errand seemed. He had been here on more vital errands before, and yes, he had been summoned for a chastising from Her Grace more than once in his life. His purpose today might puzzle or confuse the lady, although if you had asked him a year ago he would have said he doubted anything could do that.

“Mr. Wheatly, Her Grace will see you now,” the young lady who had greeted him announced.

Rand cleared his throat and tugged on his formal waistcoat. Even properly dressed with his hair trimmed by the earl’s valet he suspected he still looked more mountain man than proper English gentlemen, the result of too many years in a reclusive cabin in Upper Canada. What can’t be fixed must be endured. The duchess will have to take me as I am.

“Rand, this is a surprise.” A few graceful movements on the duchess’s part and he found a delicate porcelain cup in his hand, the aroma of tea tickling his nose. After a few months in England he’d become used to the stuff again.

“How can I help you?” Her Grace asked. “I thought your efforts in Bristol went well. Are congratulations in order?”

“No she’s— You mean the investigation? Yes. The entire operation has been shut down and the Duke of Sudbury is seeing to the conspirators.”

“But your personal endeavors…” the duchess peered at him sympathetically.

“Meggy is at Songbird Cottage, if that is what you wish to know. Charles is nearby watching over her while I keep my distance. I can’t guess the outcome.”

“Sadly, we often can’t. The future always includes surprises.”

“Actually,” he said, “The future is what I came about. You will think me fanciful, but my sister Catherine thought you might help.”

“What exactly does the Countess of Chadbourn think I can tell you about the future? I am not an oracle.” She seemed amused.

“Since returning from Bristol, I’ve had nightmares. Armies moving over a hellish landscape scraped clean of vegetation, trees with no branches or leaves on them, andmen lying in holes in the ground. The guns and the cannon are like nothing I’ve ever seen before, as if factories will begin to mechanize war beyond our understanding. I fear I’ve seen a Great War in our future.”

“Nightmares indeed!”

“Do you believe it is real?”

“If it is, don’t fear it is the entire future. Remember the past contains its share of death and destruction as well, and yet mankind lumbers on. Love, faith, and family see us through.

“That’s the other thing,” Rand said. “There’s one man in particular. I heard someone call him Canadian. He has courage, determination, and strength yet he battles despair in the midst of it all. There’s a woman who gives him hope to go on I think.”

A beatific smile came over the old woman’s face. “Love, faith, family,” she repeated.

“The thing is, he looks like me,” Rand said. “He’s a Wheatly. Could he be my son or grandson?”

“Or a great-great if your dreams are true, but yes, I think so,” she mused. “Do you see what that means?”

He had no idea what she tried to tell him. His face wrinkled in the attempt to puzzle it out.

She signed deeply. “Don’t be dense, Rand, you’re a bright boy. It means you will return to Canada, and you will have a family there.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want one of mine to endure that horror.”

“We can’t protect the ones we love, Rand. Besides, you didn’t see the end. You have to believe he comes through it. You have to have hope.”

Rand Wheatly’s story, including the doings in Bristol and the outcome of his love for Meggy is told in The Renegade Wife.

As to that great-great grandson, Harry Wheatly will face the Great War in 1914. Christmas Hope tells his story.

About Christmas Hope

After two years at the mercy of the Canadian Expeditionary force and the German war machine, Harry ran out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters color among the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son, hope ensnares him. Through three more long years of war and its aftermath, the hope she brings keeps Harry alive.

Rosemarie Legrand’s husband left her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation when he died. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier, but Harry’s devotion lifts her up. The war demands all her strength and resilience will the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going?

When the Great War is over, will their love be enough?

There are links and an excerpt here:

Christmas Hope

About the Author

Award winning author of historical romance usually set in the Regency and Victorian eras, Caroline Warfield reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the world. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart, because love is worth the risk.

Carol Roddy – Author

 

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Historical Modern, Historical Traditional, and Historical that happens to be Regency

Zombie hunters

A category all its own

 

As you know, I’ve thinking about how to categorise what I write. I’ve also been talking with a friend about the apparent great divide in what historical fiction readers, particularly Regency era readers, like to read.

We’ve noticed that some readers are passionate about stories where the heroes and heroines behave in ways they understand — like modern men and women — and even totally reject stories where heroes and heroines follow the dictates of the time. Other readers are the opposite. They will be very hard on an author whose heroes and heroines don’t behave as they think a Regency-era person would have.

I read and enjoy both kinds. All I ask is a good writer and a convincing story, and I know I’m not the only one. But in the interests of those who are disappointed by the wrong book, perhaps we need some new genre segments so that readers can find what they want.

Here’s my attempt at some definitions.

Historical modern

This describes a large group of popular Regencies and many Medievals. The focus is on the romantic relationship. Any subplots are completely subsidiary to the romantic plot. The heroine thinks, talks, and often acts like a modern woman. She is sometimes castigated or shunned for this, but she has support from either family or a close knit group of friends. The hero respects and supports the heroine’s right to be an independent thinker and to act according to her principles, even if this brings her straight up against those who hold a more traditional line. The landscape abounds in dukes and other peers, and even seamstresses of dubious origins can expect to marry one.

I love these. At their best, they are perfect escapist reading. Every heroine is beautiful in the eyes of every charming hero, and they are all charming. Cinderella will go to the ball. Marriages of convenience prove to be love matches, and rescued chimney sweeps (every heroine is charity personified and an environmentalist as well) go on to join the household of happy servants whose lives revolve around our lovely couple. The best authors provide reasons why this particular man has missed the misogyny and arrogance of his class, and why this particular woman is better educated and less restricted by her social conditioning than hers.

If you haven’t read Tessa Dare, Eloisa James, Sophie Jordan, Sally MacKenzie, Katherine Ashe, Lisa Kleypas, Courtney Milan or any of their peers, now’s good! Suspend your disbelief and settle in for a gay romp.

Historical traditional

Do you like your story to focus mostly on the romance, but for your characters to be truer to the historical setting? This segment of the historical romance genre gives us heroes and heroines who act within the constraints of their Society, but who nonetheless give us a charming story and a happy ending. Expect a focus on Society and on events such as morning calls, balls, house parties, and other entertainments.

Again, I love them. Expect a lovely light touch, delightful heroines, and a variety of heroes not all of whom carry high titles. In these books, our heroines might defy Society, but they pay the price. Or, they hide their real selves in order to fit in.

Try Candice Hern, Mary Balogh, some of Carla Kelly, Jo Beverley, Edith Layton, Carola Dunn, Anne Gracie. These were where I started. I read every traditional historical I could find, and only later moved outside of that genre..

Historical that happens to be Regency

I think this is what I write. In one of these, the historical events, whether fictional or non-fictional, are true to their times and have a strong presence in the book, often even shaping the plot. In such books, the romance plot line is still important, but might not be the only important plot line. The characters act according to their times, though of course some people in every time have been forward (or backward) thinking, and personal circumstances can shape a person to stand against social expectations.

They tend to be grittier and more confronting than the other two types, and you come out of them thinking again about attitudes and events you thought you understood. If you haven’t read Caroline Warfield, you’re missing a treat, though her Victorian series is stronger in this than her Regency series. That said, most of the other authors I can think of are writing Victorian, too. Meredith Duran, anyone? We could apply the same segmentation to other eras, I guess.

Historical modern can overlap into Historical that happens to be Regency. One of my all-time favourites is Grace Burrows’ Captive Hearts series. Out of era, but Elizabeth Hoyt’s Maiden Lane series and Jessica Cale’s Southwark series are both in this part of the spectrum. I’d put much of Mary Jo Putney in here, too.

Historical traditional can also overlap. Carla Kelly does this wonderfully well.

Which one has the steam?

The simple answer is: all of them. I’ve read authors in each of my segments who write at the ‘sweet’ end of the scale, and authors whose characters set flame to the pages. The same applies to cursing, expletives, and rude words for anything to do with copulation. Violence? You’ll find that across all segments, too.

I’d love to do a diagram, but I’ve run out of time.

Your turn to comment

What do you think of these categories? Do you agree with where I’ve put certain writers? Can you think of others? Do you read them all? Which do you prefer?

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Spotlight on The Herald’s Heart

My review of The Herald’s Heart: A gem for lovers of the medieval

In The Herald’s Heart, Rue Allen has given us a medieval novel that is out of the ordinary, with an unusual plot, strongly drawn characters, and gothic overtones, including a mad anchoress and a haunting.

Three people are out for revenge — or is it justice? — for the crimes of one man, and him an untouchable feudal lord. Their plots conflict: the hero and heroine, in particular, can’t both achieve their goals. A win for one is a loss for the other. 

The hero is a King’s herald, sent on a mission to call the lord to account. He has his own reasons for relishing the king’s work. The heroine is a great lady and heiress brought low and reduced to scraping a living amongst people who regard her as mad. 

I found the hero’s insistence on continuing to call the heroine a liar long after her main claim was proven to be annoying, but his eventual capitulation and grovelling were satisfying.

More would give away plot points you really ought to read for yourself, but I can’t resist telling you that the murder weapon might just be the most unusual one I’ve ever heard of, and depended on intimate knowledge of the victim and his own co-operation.

Rue tells us about her book

Jude, thank you so much for the opportunity to share The Herald’s Heart with your followers. Please allow me to explain a little bit about the inspiration for The Herald’s Heart. At the time I was drafting this story, identity theft was a major news story (yes, the book is that old). I knew that proving one’s identity in the middle ages was difficult, if not nearly impossible. It was the job of the royal heralds to visit every noble household, verify identies, record any changes, and if it was important, accept copies of the records about the local yeoman population. A herald was essentially a census taker, and the information was used for the same purposes as a present day census: to assign taxes, to draft soldiers and sailors, and maintain identies.

Imagine, if you will, having to rely on the hand written record of a man, who may no longer be alive, to verify that Sir So-and-so of Somewhere in England actually was the person he claims to be. What happened when two claimants to a title appeared whom no one had ever seen before? No wonder medieval kings and queens required that their nobles show up at the royal court on a regular basis.

When the royal summons was ignored, as it was in The Herald’s Heart, the king (or queen) would dispatch a herald to record the truth of things and perhaps carry a message to the delinquent noble that his royal master was not pleased. Appearance at court alone would prevent any dire consequences.

You’ll note that I just said the herald might carry a message. That was in some respects their major job, especially in time of war. But The Herald’s Heart is inspired by the census taking aspect of a herald’s work. I had  a wonderful time writing this story and pray you will enjoy it when you read The Herald’s Heart. Please leave a comment letting me know if the story interests you or not.

The Herald’s Heart is available for pre-order now through this Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bowW2A. The book is set for general release on September 2, 2019. If you would like to know more about The Herald’s Heart, you may find an excerpt here https://www.rueallyn.com/hh-excerpts-and-links/

Blurb:  

As one of King Edward I’s heralds, Sir Talon Du Quereste imagined he would someday settle on a quiet little estate, marry a gently bred damsel, and raise a flock of children. The wife of his daydreams was a woman who could enhance his standing with his peers, and certainly not an overly adventurous, impulsive, argumentative woman of dubious background.

When her family is murdered, Lady Larkin Rosham lost more than everyone she loved—she lost her name, her identity and her voice. She’s finally recovered her ability to speak, but no one believes her claim to be Lady Larkin. She is determined to regain her name and her heritage, but Sir Talon Du Quereste guards the way to the proof she needs. She must discover how to get past him without risking her heart.

Meet Rue Allyn

Award winning author, Rue Allyn, learned story telling at her grandfather’s knee. (Well it was really more like on his knee—I was two.) She’s been weaving her own tales ever since. She has worked as an instructor, mother, sailor, clerk, sales associate, and painter, along with a variety of other types of employment. She has lived and traveled in places all over the globe from Keflavik Iceland (I did not care much for the long nights of winter.) and Fairbanks Alaska to Panama City, Panama and the streets of London England to a large number of places in between. Now that her two sons have left the nest, Rue and her husband of more than four decades (Try living with the same person for more than forty years—that’s a true adventure.) have retired and moved south.

When not writing, enjoying the nearby beach or working jigsaw puzzles and singing along with her playlist, Rue travels the world and surfs the internet in search of background material and inspiration for her next heart melting romance. She loves to hear from readers, and you may contact her at Rue@RueAllyn.com. She can’t wait to hear from you.

What Rue likes best about the belles is their can-do spirit. “This group isn’t afraid to try anything the publishing world can dish out. The only other place I’ve found such completely supportive energy is with my fellow sisters-in-arms, both active duty and not.”

Social Media Links:

FB– https://www.facebook.com/RueAllynAuthor/

Twitter– https://twitter.com/RueAllyn

RAmblin’ Author Notes, blog— https://www.rueallyn.com/blog/

Amazon– https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI

Email– Rue@RueAllyn.com

Goodreads– https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI

Pinterest– https://www.pinterest.com/RueAllyn/

Author pic: See attached.

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Tea with a tohunga

Tuhoto Ariki, Tohunga who predicted disaster before the Tarawera eruption

The old  man waiting in Eleanor’s parlour was unlike anyone she had seen. Old? The man was ancient. He had ignored the chairs scattered around the room, and sat on the hearth rug before the fire, but he looked around as she entered the room.

“Tuhoto Ariki?” she asked, unsure of how to pronounce the unfamiliar name that had appeared in her appointment diary.

He gave a smile of considerable sweetness, distorted though it was by the tattoos that covered his face. His return greeting was in a fluid and musical language that she did not know, but whatever alchemy presented people from other times and places in her parlour also translated their words, so that her ears heard a foreign tongue, but her brain understood the meaning.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am he, and this is a strange dream. Am I in the land of Queen Victoria? Perhaps you are she?”

Eleanor took a seat on the chair closest to the old man. “Our queen is Queen Charlotte, the wife of King George. I am the Duchess of Haverford. May I ask where you come from, and what year?”

She could make nothing of his answer. He spoke of a canoe, a mountain, a river. He talked about the generations since that ancestral canoe first arrived, but none of the names he mentioned translated into anything Eleanor could understand. In return, she told him a little of the United Kingdom in her time, but that got them no further.

They were interrupted by the procession of maids, bringing the makings for tea and plates of refreshment. Tuhoto Ariki accepted tea, asking for sugar but refusing the milk.

“I am trapped in my house by the ash from the taniwha’s fire,” he explained. “My throat is parched, back in my life. I like your pretty room better, though it is cold, Duchess of Haverford.”

“Trapped in your house?” Eleanor queried.

“I warned them, the foolish young men. You are greedy, I told them, and the gods are angry. You take too many visitors to the sacred places. ‘The visitors make us rich,’ they said. ‘The carvings in Hinemihi, our meeting house, have gold coins for eyes.'” He shook his head. “They did not listen. Even when the phantom canoe came, they did not listen.”

Eleanor leaned forward. “Tell me about the phantom canoe.”

“They appeared out of nowhere. A canoe the like of which has not been seen on the lake in half of my lifetime. They were dressed for a funeral, chiefly spirits who paddled a short distance and faded away like mist. ‘We shall be overwhelmed’, I warned the villages, but no one listened to me. Then the taniwha under the mountain awoke and the sky split apart with its fire. Who knows how many will survive? Te Wairoa, the village of the meeting house with the golden eyes, is buried and me with it.” He took another great gulp of his tea, and then faded away like the phantom canoe, leaving nothing behind but a cup and saucer tumbling from the air to land on the hearth rug.

Tuhoto Ariki is an historical figure. The events of which he speaks, culminating in the eruption of Mount Tarawera, form the background for my story Forged in Fire, in the Belles’ collection Never Too Late and my own collection of New Zealand based stories, Hearts in the Land of Ferns, Love Tales from New Zealand.