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Spotlight on Storm & Shelter: Mary Lancaster and Cerise DeLand

Today, I begin a series of posts about the stories in the Bluestocking Belles anthology — or, as you’ll find, Bluestocking Belles and Friends.

Eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas, all set around one storm, and at least in part a single village. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Storm & Shelter.

As editor-in-chief, it was my job to suggest an overall order that make sense, and I was fortunate that one was obvious as soon as I finished my first read through. The stories appear in the order of the first appearance of the protagonists in Fenwick on Sea, our fictional village (or the outside protagonist, if one is already a resident).

As it happened, that meant starting with Mary Lancaster’s heroine on board a ship that was fast sinking off our coast. Such a great place to start. And ending with a Grace Burrowes couple finding their unexpected happy ending.

This week, I’m showcasing the first two stories, so read on for blurbs and an excerpt from An Improbable Hero and Lord Stanton’s Shocking Seaside Honeymoon.

An Improbable Hero: By Mary Lancaster

A runaway heiress, a mysterious stranger.

When Letty’s ship founders in a violent storm, she forges a rare bond with her rescuer.

Simon is a troubled man on a final, deadly mission—until the spirited yet soothing Letty makes him question everything. Hiding in plain sight among the refugees at The Queen’s Barque, Simon is more than capable of protecting them both. But when the floods recede, can either of them say goodbye?

Excerpt:

The sea heaved around her, carrying her and her companion where it willed.

“What’s your name?” she panted, because they seemed to be tying each other to life.

His head turned in the darkness. There was a distinct, baffled pause. “Simon.”

“Letty.” She even risked sliding her hand across to touch his.

It was as close as they could come to shaking hands. A sound like laughter escaped him, though it might just have been a gulp of breath. “Honored to live or die with you, Letty,” he said.

Lord Stanton’s Shocking Seaside Honeymoon: By Cerise DeLand

She is so wrong for him.

Miss Josephine Meadows is so young. In love with life. His accountant in his work for Whitehall. Her father’s heir to his trading company—and his espionage network.

Lord Stanton cannot resist marrying her. But to ensure Wellington defeats Napoleon, they must save one of Josephine’s agents.

Far from home, amid a horrific storm, Stanton discovers that his new bride loves him dearly.

Can he truly be so right for her?

And she for him?

Excerpt:

“Stanton is what you want, isn’t he?”

She arched a wicked brow at her father. “Well you know it, too!”

“Indeed. I’ve watched you eye the poor fellow like a starving woman over a tasty treat.”

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Research in the background

River Alde near Aldeburgh Suffolk, one of the sources for Storm & Shelter’s fictional village of Fenwick on Sea

Research helps me to keep my fictional world contract with my readers. All fiction requires readers to suspend disbelief—to accept the reality of the story while they are reading. The writer’s part of the contract is not to jar the reader out of that disbelief.

Since I write historical fiction, that means creating historical worlds that are a recognisable simulacrum of the setting I’ve used and people of the type I’ve use in that particular place and time. And that means research.

In my Children of the Mountain King series, research took me to Iran in the (European) eighteenth century. The fall of one dynasty and the rise of another became part of the plot. So did the Kopet Dag Mountains north of Iran, and the Silk Road, some arms of which pass through those mountains.

I watched movies, documentaries and YouTube clips to get the feel for those places, and read contempary and more recent books about them.

For the first novel, I also read up on Akhal Teke horses, the modern day descendants of the Turkmen horses that were famous for their endurance, faithfulness, and intelligence. The second took me into medical training in the Middle East and Central Asia, and required a close examination of smallpox symptoms, historical treatment and likely progress.

That second novel comes out in less than a fortnight.

Storm & Shelter, the anthology that comes out next month represented a different kind of challenge. Because all eight of us were writing stories set in the same village, using common characters and settings and the same storm, we needed a common body of research.

The story resource we came up with included:

  • a list of historical events in the time period of the stories
  • accounts of historical floods in the area chosen for our fictional village
  • images and descriptions of buildings typical of the area at the time of our setting
  • maps and floor plans adapted from real world originals
  • and more.

All of that needed research. Here, from our story resource, is the fictional setting that resulted.

The village of Fenwick on Sea lies scattered along a road that sprawls along the peninsula between a coastal beach and the river that was once its reason for being. An inlet still remains where the river was, a harbour for the fishing fleet and the occasional ship, blown of course by the irascable North Sea winds. The river itself is long gone, moving like a disgruntled lover to a more favoured town much further north.

The village sprawls across the boundaries that once could barely contain a bustling town, dreaming of past glories. The network of causeways that once criss-crossed the salt marshes has dwindled to a single road from more inland regions. The coastal road turns where once a bridge crossed the faithless river, to skirt the inlet and continue north until it eventually reaches Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

Many of the public buildings recall more populous times, not least the Norman church and the Tudor inn, The Queen’s Barque. Most of the cottages of the former town have tumbled to ruin, many now obliterated by the thrift of the surviving villagers, past and present, who have pressed their materials into use. The nucleus of the town comprises the church and its vicarage, the inn and two rows of cottages, one half-timbered with a slate/tile roof and one plastered with a thatched roof. One of the cottages has a general store on the ground floor.

A mere twenty families still eke out an existence fishing, farming, providing goods and services to one another, or all three. Most of the young men have gone to war in the navy or the army. Of those who remain, more than a couple support the local smuggling enterprises alongside their parents and grandparents.  The inn also serves as a brewery and a bakery. The village has a farrier and a general store.

The village also serves an even more scattered population of farms that combine crops and livestock, grazing cattle in the marshes and sheep on the sandy heaths. They grow grain, and particularly barley and wheat, but even the high demand for grain caused by the war has not helped to make them prosperous, as the landholdings are small, and distances to market across rough roads make selling their produce hard.

There is a local manor; a minor house of a peer who has many. Neither he nor his family have visited in many years. The house is half a mile from the village, on a knoll between the vanished river and the coast, and is kept in order by a staff comprising a housekeeper and half a dozen servants. The housekeeper regards herself as the highest ranked lady in the district, and the keeper of public morals, and has a cadre of supporters. The innkeeper’s wife forms the nucleus of those who oppose her pretensions. If the vicar had a wife, she would outrank them both, but even so, both ladies are more than willing to help him find one.

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Book blurbs in WIP Wednesday

My work in progress is making great progress! I’ve finished taking in the copy edits from the lovely Reina, given it a final proof, and made some changes to the cover. (It now says The Return of the Mountain King as the series title, for one thing.)

I’ve also rewritten the blurb, and that’s my excerpt for today. Next step, finalise the layout files and put them up in the retailers! Launch date is only a fortnight away.

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where her family’s wealth and questions over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When a smallpox epidemic traps her at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, was carried home from war three years ago, unconscious, a broken man. He woke to find his family in ruins, his faithless wife and treacherous brother dead, his family’s two girl children exiled to school. He becomes a near recluse while he spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling.

When an impertinent, bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the two girls, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Unable to stand by and watch the suffering, he begins to help with the nursing, while he falls irrevocably for both girls and the lovely Ruth.

The epidemic over, Ruth and Val part ways, each reluctant to share how they feel without a sign from the other. Ruth returns to her family and the ton. Val begins to build a new life centred on his girls. But danger to Ruth is a clarion call Val cannot ignore. If they can stop the villains determined to destroy them, perhaps the hermit and the healer can mend one another’s hearts.

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Tea with Captain Gilroy

Captain Lord Brandon Gilroy sent his card up to the Duchess of Haverford, and waited with what patience he could muster for Her Grace to decide whether or not to see him.

He needed to know whether his uncle was as well as he claimed in his letters, and the duchess (who, they claimed, knew everything about everyone) almost certainly knew.

Brandon wasn’t free to travel to Scotland to see the Duke of Cowal for himself, not with Napoleon on the loose again. Brandon had thought he was done with French spies and English turncoats, but he needed to leave on the morrow to hunt down yet another plot, this one on the North Sea coast south of Yarmouth.

“Her Grace will see you now,” the footman said, and Brandon followed the man up the elegant staircase and down a long hall.

He’d been here once before, not long after he returned from the voyage that saw him stranded with all his men, his ship taken by a pirate.

The usual feelings of anger and helpless lust swirled in his gut. Irish Red. He’d never known a woman like her. Which was just as well, of course. Who would want to marry a female who dressed as a man, captained a pirate ship, and defeated him in battle.

And why did the word ‘marry’ occur to him. Irish Red wasn’t the sort of woman a person like him married. He let out a short laugh. Nor the sort he bedded either, not if he wanted to leave the bed with all his male equipment.

The footman announced him at the door to the duchess’s private parlour, and Brandon stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Tea, Captain Gilroy?” Her Grace asked, waving to a tray that stood ready.

Over refreshments, he asked about his uncle. Apparently, according to one of the duchess’s many correspondents, the man was failing. “You should go to him as soon as you can be released from your current duty,” she advised.

Brandon nodded, wondering what Her Grace knew about his current duty. Far more than any civilian should, he had no doubt. Her next words hit him like a brick. “You will need to marry once you inherit, Captain Gilroy. Have you any thoughts about a wife?” Images of Irish Red flooded his mind. Ridiculous. He shook them off.

“Time enough for that when we’ve defeated Napoleon again, Your Grace,” he insisted. 

Brandon will meet Irish Red again sooner than he expects, in Rue Allyn’s novel Wait For Me, which you’ll find in Storm & Shelter. Buy links at https://books2read.com/u/b5k2pO

Wait for Me: Rue Allyn

Enemies by nature—Esmeralda Crobbin, aka the pirate Irish Red, and Captain, Lord Brandon Gilroy have met before.

Fate trumps nature—When a fierce storm creates a chance encounter and forced proximity, Brandon learns the pirate is a woman of serious honor and responsibility. Esmeralda discovers the captain is more than a uniform stuffed with rules and regulations. Both love the sea with boundless passion, but can they love each other?

Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection With Friends

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles’ project page. 

Only 99c while on preorder. Published April 13th.

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Spotlight on To Mend the Broken-Hearted

Novel 2 in the Mountain King series is on preorder, and will be published on 23 March, in just 16 days. My copy editor calls it ‘a wonderful, emotional, engaging read’. Two of the beta readers said it is the best yet. I can’t wait to find out what you think! If you’re on my ARC team, expect an email in the next four days letting you know it’s ready. If you’re not, you can preorder To Mend the Broken Hearted here.

To Mend the Broken-Hearted

Ruth Winderfield is miserable in London’s ballrooms, where the wealth of her family and the question over her birth make her a target for the unscrupulous and a pariah to the high-sticklers. Trained as a healer, she is happiest in a sickroom. When she’s caught up in a smallpox epidemic and finds herself quarantined at the remote manor of a reclusive lord, the last thing she expects is to find her heart’s desire. A pity he does not feel the same.

Valentine, Earl of Ashbury, hasn’t seen his daughter—if she is his daughter—in three years. She and her cousin, his niece, remind him of his faithless wife and treacherous brother, whose deaths three years ago will never set him free. Val spends his days trying to restore the estate, or at least prevent further crumbling. When an impertinent bossy female turns up with several sick children, including the girls he is responsible for, he reluctantly gives them shelter. Even more reluctantly, he helps with the nursing. The sooner they leave again the better, even if Ruth has wormed her way into his heart. She is better off without him.

Danger to Ruth brings him out of seclusion, and into a future he had not been able to imagine.

And here is an early meeting between them

Something out of place alerted the sentinel in Ruth’s brain developed when she and Zyba had been in the guard squads assigned by her father to escort caravans through bandit country in the mountains and deserts of her homeland. Simpler days, those, with the enemies hidden behind rocks rather than smiles and lies.

There it was again. A metallic scrape. Silently, she uncurled from her chair, reaching through the slit in her skirt for the dagger in the sheath strapped to her thigh. Against the grey of the night, a blacker shape climbed onto the window sill, pausing there to whisper. “Lady Ruth?”

Assassins do not usually announce themselves. She could probably acquit the intruder of malicious intent, which meant he was more in danger from the illness than she and her charges where from him.

“Go away,” she told him. “This room is in quarantine. We have four cases of smallpox.”

The man moved, coming fully into the room so she could see hints of detail in the far reaches of the candle light. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A determined chin caught the light as he pulled something from his pocket and sat on a chair by the window. The light also glinted off a head of close-cut fair hair. Lord Ashbury.

“I am aware. Four patients, one of them my responsibility. One exhausted doctor. You need help.” As he spoke, he lifted one bare foot after the other, rolling a stocking on each and then tucking the long elegant foot into a soft indoor shoe taken from his pocket. He was deft with his single hand.

“I don’t need more patients,” Ruth objected, less forcefully than she might if he had not moved closer so that the light touched half of his face, making the rest seem darker by contrast. Dark eyes glinted in the shadows cast by firmly arched brows. His gaze was intent on hers.

“I have had the smallpox, my lady, and I am not leaving, so you might as well make use of me. I’m no doctor, but I can follow instructions. You need sleep if you’re to avoid illness yourself.”

Her tired brain caught up with the comment about his responsibility. “You cannot think to nurse the girls.”

“What prevents me?” Ashbury demanded. “My amputation? I have one more hand than you can muster on your own. Their modesty? You and the maids can manage their bathing and other personal matters. I can free you up to look after them in that way by lifting and carrying for you. My dignity? I work my own fields, my lady. I am not too exalted to fetch and carry for the woman who intends to save my niece’s life.”

Ruth turned, then, and looked straight at him, and he moved so the lamp shone directly on his face. “You are not qualified,” she told him.

Ashbury shrugged. “True. I daresay half the world is better qualified than I. But I have done some battlefield nursing and I am here.”

“You cannot stay. I am an unmarried woman. You are a man.” A ridiculous statement. Here, isolated from the foolish scandal-loving world of the ton, who was to know? Besides, she would never put something as ephemeral as ‘reputation’ ahead of the needs of her patients.

He took another meaning from her objection, spreading his remaining hand to show it empty, and saying gravely. “I will do you no harm. I give you my word.”

Of course, he wouldn’t. Even if he were so inclined, he would not get close enough to try. Something of her thought must have shown in her face, because one corner of his mouth kicked up.

“I suppose you are a warrior after the fashion of that fierce maiden you have guarding the quarantine. You are three-times safe then, my lady, with my honour backed by your prowess and reinforced by the knowledge that any missteps on my part will anger your champions.”

Her spurt of irritation was prompted by Lord Ashbury’s amusement, not by the unexpected physical effect of his desert anchorite’s face lightened by that flash of humour. “I was more concerned about the impact on our lives if it is known we’ve been effectively unchaperoned for perhaps several weeks.”

He raised his brows at that and the amusement disappeared. “My servants are discreet and yours would die for you. Besides, you have your maid with you at all times, do you not? And I have my—” he hesitated over a word; “my charges,” he finished.

His niece and his daughter, Ruth thought, wondering what story explained his reluctance to say the words. No matter. He was determined. He was also right; she needed someone else to share the nursing, and now she had a volunteer. Her attraction to him was undoubtedly amplified by her tiredness. She would ignore it, and it would go away.

At the realisation she could finally hand her watch over to someone else, her exhaustion crashed in on her, and it was all she could do to draw herself together and say, “Come. I will show you what you need to do, and explain what to watch for.”

 

 

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Horses for hire

Land travel in Regency England required negotiating rough roads and weather on foot, or on an animal or a vehicle pulled by an animal. Anyone with the money could purchase a seat on a stage coach, or even the mail coach if speed was more important than comfort.

More money would get you a post chaise – a hired carriage that took you from the inn where you hired it as far as the owning company agreed to go. With your post chaise, you also got one or more post riders who worked for the owning company, who rode the horses or maybe alongside the horses, and took the post chaise back when you’d finished it.

Wealthy travelers preferred the convenience of their own carriage. Not only were private carriages likely to be better sprung and better fitted out with every convenience, but on a long trip the travelers wouldn’t have to change carriages when reaching the boundaries of a hire company’s territory.

With all three types of traveler on the road, a staggering number of horses were needed to keep them moving. Each team could manage perhaps 10 or 15 miles before tiring, depending on terrain and conditions, and then the carriage would need to stop and have the team replaced with a fresh one.

At the height of the period, an inn on a popular route might have up to 2,000 horses available for hire, or being boarded on behalf of wealthy travell\ers who preferred their own horses and could afford to send them on ahead for a planned journey.

In Storm & Shelter, floods and slips force many travelers to interrupt their travel at the coaching inn in Fenwick on Sea.  Storm & Shelter is the latest anthology of novellas from the Bluestocking Belles, this time with novellas from friends Grace Burrowes, Mary Lancaster, Alina K. Field. It is 99c until publication on 13 April.

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Internal dialogue on WIP Wednesday

It’s nice to give a character a friend to talk to, so readers can find out what they’re thinking. But now and again, we need to peek inside their heads. In today’s post, I’m including some thoughts that my character Aldridge would never share with anyone else. If you have an excerpt with internal dialogue that you’d like share, please feel free to add it to the comments.

Aldridge let himself into the Duke’s Study. The duke’s desk, a massive object of carved oak, stood in the bay window, its back to the view out over the pleasure gardens that descended from the house to the river. 

Aldridge had thought of taking it over; of moving it so it was at right angles to the windows so that he could enjoy the view while he was working.

He would certainly enjoy the extra space. His own cadet desk, tucked away in a corner near the door, was a quarter of the size. And, as each secretary in turn had pointed out, his father would never return to this room or even to London, and Aldridge was duke in all but name, rank, and title.

It was a final step he wasn’t willing to take until he had to. He would adopt his father’s desk when he took his father’s title. Refusing the first was, he knew, a symptom of his reluctance to assume the second. If the doctors were to be trusted, he’d be the Duke of Haverford within the next twelve months, and probably sooner rather than later. 

None of his secretaries or clerks understood. They thought he was lucky. But then, they and the rest of the population of England thought he was the Merry Marquis; envied him his wealth, his position, the hordes of women keen on an illicit relationship, even the maidens panting for a chance to be his duchess.

The reasons people wanted him had nothing to do with him. He could be a donkey on two legs, and they’d still praise him. The woman would still pant to bed him. The men would still court his favour. And if it was bad now, how much worse would it be when he was duke?

He was a title and a position, not a man. Even those who knew him best couldn’t see past the marquis, the heir. Just a clever automaton, smartly dressed, with a repertoire of motions and words to fool people into thinking he was a real person. On days like today, when he had given the one lady he wanted to attract yet another reason to despise him, when he’d been unable even to protect a boy who apparently bore his blood, he wondered if they were right.

He gave a short laugh. How the rest of the world would mock and marvel to know he was feeling sorry for himself. 

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Tea with the Earl of Monteith

The Earl of Menteith was a personable young man. Handsome, too, and large—he had taken one look at her small dainty chairs and seated himself on the sofa. Also worried about something, and wondering how much to tell her.

The Duchess of Haverford poured him a cup of tea and asked his opinion of the weather, the company in town, and the situation on the continent, with Napoleon banished to Elba without his wife and son, who had returned to her family in Austria.

He answered gracefully to each conversational gambit, but none captured his enthusiasm.

Since Menteith had asked to make this call, Eleanor would wait for him to introduce the topic. “Another cup?” she asked.

“Not for me, Your Grace.” He studied one large hand, then looked up to see her watching him. “Ye may be wondering why I asked to see ye.”

Eleanor inclined her head in agreement, raising her brows slightly to encourage him to continue. The slight Scots burr was delightful. With those looks and that voice, he must be very popular with the young ladies.

“They tell me ye know everyone in the Upper Ten Thousand. I hoped ye might have heard of someone I need to find.”

“I am happy to help if I can,” the duchess assured him.

“The thing is…” Menteith paused, then continued…”I’m not at liberty…” he sighed. “ That is, I do not want to discuss my reasons. I hope ye’ll still help me, Your Grace?”

“If I can,” she said, and then added, since his blunt honesty deserved hers, “if I think telling you will not cause harm.”

He was startled at the thought. “I mean no harm. To the contrary.” He bit his lower lip then blurted. “I am looking for the Comtesse de Fontenay. Or the Comte. Do ye know them, Your Grace? Can ye tell me where I might find them?”

Eleanor wrinkled her brow as she thought. The name de Fontenay rang a bell, but she could not quite recall… “Émigrés?” she asked.

“Perhaps. I am unsure.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a shallow shrug. “Probably.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. It was coming back to her now. The old scandal—but it had faded into oblivion when one of the key players died and the others behaved as if it never existed. Did Menteith know? Surely not; how would he have found out? But if not, why look for Madame de Fontenay?

She wouldn’t raise it with him. Only one person still living had the right to do that. If he was still living.

“I believe the Comte de Fontenay has an estate in Norfolk, Menteith. Or is it Suffolk?” Now what was the place called? “Bloodstone Moor? No. Hall comes into it somehow. Or is it Hill?” Ah yes! That was it. “Bloodmoor Hill. Look for Bloodmore Hill Manor, Lord Menteith. I’m sorry I cannot tell you anything more.”

Malcolm Comyn, the Earl of Menteith, seeks the truth of an anonymous letter that threatens everything he knows about himself. Stranded in Fenwick on Sea by a dreadful storm, he finds more than he expects.

The Comtesse of Midnight: Alina K. Field

A Scottish Earl on a quest for the elusive Comtesse de Fontenay rescues a French lady smuggler from the surf during a devastating storm, and takes shelter with her. As the stormy night drags on, he suspects his companion knows the woman he’s seeking, the one who holds the secret to his identity. When she admits she is, in fact, the Comtesse Fontenay, just not the one he’s seeking, she dashes all his hopes—and promises him new ones.

Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection With Friends

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

Find out more on the Bluestocking Belles’ project page. 

Only 99c while on preorder. Published April 13th.

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Spotlight on A Spirited Courtship

A Spirited Courtship

Magic and Mayhem, book 3

By Jane Charles

Released 2/16/21

Miss Diana Vail had thought she’d found love, but James Bryant, the Earl of Somerton, had only been toying with her affections. Had she not overheard the horrible truth, she might have succumbed to his practice seductions and been ruined for life. Thankfully, her reputation had been saved, though it left her wondering if she could ever trust her heart again.

James Bryant had once professed: If Noah could become a father at the age of five hundred, then I can surely wait to begin producing offspring until age forty. Those were words he’d successfully lived by until Miss Diana Vail stepped into a ballroom. With his vow quickly forgotten, James set out to court the most captivating woman he’d ever met. Then, without explanation, she set him aside.

However, three ghosts have different plans for Diana and James, and intend to bring about a love match. Will the stubborn pair be more than a match for their spirited matchmakers and be doomed to suffer from the ancient curse for eternity?

Spirited Courtship previously appeared in Beguiled at the Wedding, a Castle Keyvnor Anthology.

Amazon – BN – Apple Books – Kobo – Goodreads – BookBub

Meet Jane Charles

USA Today Bestselling Author Jane Charles lives in the Midwest with her former marine, police officer husband. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand, until one day, out of boredom on a long road trip, she borrowed her sister’s romance novel and fell in love. Her life is filled with three amazing children, two dogs, two cats, community theatre, and traveling whenever possible. Jane may have begun her career writing romances set in the Regency era, but blames being a Gemini as to why she’s equally pulled toward writing contemporary novels.

https://janecharlesauthor.com (website and newsletter)

https://twitter.com/JaneAcharles

https://www.facebook.com/JaneCharlesAuthor

https://www.pinterest.com/JaneAcharles/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4879172.Jane_Charles

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Ring vaccination and the eradication of smallpox

Lines snaked around New York streets when a 1947 outbreak of smallpox led to vaccination of 6 million people in less than a month.

The eradication of smallpox is the one undisputed success story in the long history of humankind’s fight against disease.

Undisputed, did I say? That smallpox is gone is beyond a doubt. No-one has seen it outside of a laboratory since 1977,  which makes the last case almost old enough to be historical, if one of us were to write a book about it. (Fifty years or more before the present day is usually suggested as the timespan for ‘Historical’, though we might want to review that in the light of how different the ’70s and ’80s are from the present.)

Yet some argue that vaccination was not the reason for the disappearance of the disease; that it was getting milder as the population grew healthier; that even at its height, the vaccination campaign only reached 10% of the populations of the countries were vigorous vaccination campaigns took place.

Some smallpox was always milder

Point 1: as I discovered when I researched smallpox for To Mend the Broken-Hearted, smallpox always came in two varieties. Variola minor had a death rate of 1%; variola major, on the other hand, killed 30% on average. It’s true that, by the mid-20th century, variola minor was the predominant strain in the United States and the United Kingdom. Nonetheless, variola major continued to scythe its way through communities in the rest of the world, killing 300 million people and occasionally making a visit to the supposedly safer countries, courtesy of international travel. Here are just two examples. An overseas visitor to New York started a massive vaccination campaign in 1947, after he infected 12 people. Two, including the visitor, died.  In 1962, a traveller from Pakistan started a smallpox outbreak in Wales.

Twenty-five people contracted smallpox, and six of them died, including a nine-month-old baby. [https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/empire_seapower/smallpox_01.shtml]

In the late 1950s, the World Health Organisation decided the only way to protect the world from such events was to eradicate the disease. Smallpox was ideal for the attempt. [https://www.historyofvaccines.org/content/articles/disease-eradication]

  1. It was easy to recognise. Patients develop a distinctive rash. Time from exposure to rash is short, so the disease usually can’t spread very far before someone notices it.
  2. Only humans can transmit and catch smallpox. Many illnesses have an animal species they can also infect, so the disease can hide there and jump back to humans under the right conditions.
  3. After surviving smallpox or being immunised, people are protected for a lifetime.

Ring vaccination

Which brings us to point 2. Carefully managed, 10% was enough.

The WHO strategy was to track down every contact of every smallpox case they found, and vaccinate them, thus putting a ring of immune people around the live disease. It’s as simple as that. With a disease that meets the three criteria above, you don’t need herd immunity across the entire population. You simply need to get rid of any case you find by ring-fencing it with people who can’t get smallpox, and therefore can’t pass it on.

Quarantine is essentially the same strategy: you take away any chance smallpox has to jump to a new human host, and the disease dies (at least in that vicinity) when those being treated either recover or die. Except that quarantine tends to  be expensive, time consuming, and leaky. Vaccines work better.

In 1977, the last patient in the world to catch smallpox outside of the lab was diagnosed in Somalia.

Ali Maow Maalin, a 23-year-old hospital cook in Merca, had never been successfully vaccinated. After his diagnosis, an intensive tracing and vaccination campaign led to 54,777 people being vaccinated in the next two weeks. The disease was cornered, with no vulnerable hosts nearby to spread to.