amnesia

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Toil and trouble on WIP Wednesday

I’m adding to my Maggie’s Wheelbarrow, and turning it into a Christmas story, for the Bluestocking Belles Christmas Collection. Here’s one of the new additions.

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The hope of soon being reunited with Will, or at least reaching his mother, had kept Maggie moving along the winding roads from Portsmouth to the first village of Ashton. When that proved to be the wrong place, she changed her strategy. Winter was coming. Even now, the heat was gone from the long evenings as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. If she had to find lodgings for herself and the children during the winter, then she must make more than the few coins she had picked up on her way north.

Having made the decision between one village and the next, she put it into practice at the first opportunity, asking at both inns and the three major houses if there was any work available.

One of the inns took her on to clean rooms and empty slop pails. For one week, she told them. After that, she said, she must be off once more on her search. With Eva on her back and Billy tagging behind, she managed the heavy work with ease, and a week later set off the next Ashton with several more shillings in her purse and a warmer coat for each child to keep them comfortable in the sometimes cold wind.

The second Ashton was as disappointing as the first, but Maggie got two night’s work at the inn, and on the strength of that was offered temporary work at the great house, where they needed extra servants during a house party. At first, she thought she’d have to turn the job down, though the wages were excellent. But another woman overheard her telling the hiring steward about her children.

“I reckon they could stay with me Ma,” she said. “She’s looking after me own young uns, while I earn a few coins, so two more wouldn’t matter to her none, and she could do with the pennies.” The woman introduced herself as Frannie, and offered to take her to visit her mother immediately.

“If she could put you up for at night,” said the steward, “I shall add two shillings a day to the wages, for where I could find you a bed, I do not know. Mind you, you’ll have to be at your post by five in the morning, and will not be home until after the guests have had their dinner.”

Frannie’s mother proved to be a kind woman whom Eva took to straight away, and the other children were twins of Billy’s age, so Maggie went off to work the following morning with a light heart. If she saw out the week of the house party, she would earn the princely sum of twelve shillings! Two shillings of that would go Frannie’s mother, but ten shillings would feed her little family for weeks, if she was careful.

It was hard work and long hours, but in some ways, it was also a holiday. No walking for hours with Eva on her back and the wheelbarrow before her. No need to find dry spaces through the day to feed the children or to change a wet clout. And she enjoyed the walks with Frannie in the pre-dawn quiet and the velvet dark of the late evening.

After the first three days of the house party, the servants settled into a routine—those who belonged to the house, the temporary hires, and servants of guests all learning what they could expect from one another. Hearing how some of the guests behaved toward the servants, Maggie was pleased to be working where she didn’t see them.

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Spotlight on Beguiled by the Highlander

Daughters of the Isle, Book 1

Pre-order – Release date 3rd June 2025

She fell for an enigmatic stranger from the sea—and then he broke her heart

Isolde MacDonald knows exactly what she wants, and wedding the arrogant Highlander, William Campbell—who will do anything to claim her land— is most definitely not it. Fiercely proud of her heritage, she’s bound to her beloved isle through an ancient prophecy of her foremothers and is certain no Campbell will understand her bond with her land or her love for her sword.

She doesn’t need a man to make her life complete—until a stranger with no memory of his past washes up on the beach and steals her heart.

He can’t recall his own name—but he’ll do anything to win her heart

When he’s attacked on his own ship and tossed overboard during a storm, he awakens with no recollection of who he is. But of one thing, he is sure. The beautiful Isolde MacDonald, with her independent spirit and skill with her sword, is the only woman he wants.

But when his memory returns, the truth threatens to destroy them both

To win her, he must discover the truth. But there’s more at stake than an ancient prophecy, and if they can’t put the past behind them, they just might lose everything.

BUY LINK
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F2SNRCZD

EXCERPT

Isolde entered the solar, where he was lying on the floor before the fire. Several oil lamps lit the chamber, and for the first time she got a good look at her stranger from the sea.

The breath caught in her chest, an inexplicable constriction, as she gazed, entranced, at the vision before her. Even battered and grazed from the savagery of the storm-tossed sea, his starkly chiseled features were utterly compelling.

His torn shirt revealed tantalizing glimpses of his broad shoulders, and the drenched linen molded his impressive biceps like a second skin. Her mouth dried and she took a hasty step back, lest anyone noticed her indefensible reaction to an unconscious man.

Heat blasted through her, burning her cheeks, but thankfully everyone was focused on their unexpected guest. She swung about and threw another slab of peat onto the fire, but the reprieve did little to calm her racing heart.

She took a deep breath. Whatever foolishness was gripping her, she would not allow it to distract her from her duty. She was the eldest daughter of Sgur Castle, and she would never give cause for anyone to question her integrity.

“I’ve never seen this man before,” her grandmother pronounced, and Isolde gave a silent sigh. She could procrastinate no longer.

“Whoever he is, we must tend the wound on his head,” she said, as she returned to her grandmother, who was on her knees beside the man. “And ensure he has no other injuries.”

“No bones appear to be broken.” Her grandmother stood and gave Isolde an inscrutable look. “Have the maids dry him while ye attend to his head.”

One of the maids brought warm water, and Isolde steadfastly kept her eyes on her task of cleaning the gash on his head, and not at his expanse of naked chest as the maids vigorously rubbed life back into his chilled body.

The wound did not look too bad and fortunately was no longer bleeding. Likely they could thank the sea water for that, otherwise the poor man would’ve been at the mercy of her sewing skills as she stitched his head together.

She rolled back on her knees and focused on his face as the maids finished their task and wrapped thick blankets around him. Now he was dry, they could move him into the box bed, but she had to confess she was a little concerned he was still insensible.

“Can ye hear me?” She leaned closer and frowned when her whisper elicited no response. Trepidation licked through her. Certainly, he wasn’t dead, but suppose he never awoke again?

It was foolish to think she could wake him from oblivion when the journey from the beach, and the less than gentle ministrations of the maids, hadn’t evoked even a groan from him. But she had to try.

She grasped his shoulder through the blanket and gave him a good shake. “Wake up. Ye’re safe now, but ye must open yer eyes.”

His impossibly long black lashes flickered, and for a reason she could not fathom, she held her breath, as he slowly did as she had bid him.

His eyes were a captivating swirl of blue and gray. Like a stormy sea.

How apt.

She scarcely had the wits to chide herself for such a fanciful notion.

Instead, she smiled at him. A comforting smile, to assure him all was well.

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse. There was no reason for the sound of it to send delicious shivers along her arms.

“Sgur Castle. We found ye on the beach. Tis lucky ye’re alive.”

Confusion clouded his eyes. “The beach?” he echoed, as though he had never encountered the word before.

“Aye. We can only guess ye went overboard during the storm. Although we found no shipwreck,” she added hastily, but now the thought had occurred to her, they would need to search at daybreak for any wreckage.

He gazed at her as though he was unaware of anyone else in the chamber. It was a novel sensation and undeniably thrilling. “Who are ye?” he whispered.

“Isolde MacDonald.” She refrained from giving him her full title. Besides, she’d already told him he was at Sgur Castle. “What is yer name?”

His lips parted, and then an expression of disbelief, no, horror rippled over his face, and he struggled to sit up, the blanket falling to his lap, revealing his breathtaking chest. By sheer force of will, she refused to look and instead gave him an encouraging smile.

“I can’t . . . I cannot recall.” The words sounded as though he’d ripped them from the bowels of hell itself.

Her smile slipped. “What?”

He sucked in a jagged breath, his fierce gaze never leaving hers. “I don’t know who I am.”

Meet Christina Phillips

Christina grew up in England and spent her childhood visiting ruined castles and Roman remains and daydreaming about Medieval princesses and gallant knights. When she wasn’t lost in the past, she was searching for magical worlds in the backs of wardrobes and watching old Hammer Horrors from the safety of behind the sofa. She now lives in sunny Western Australia with her high school sweetheart and their two cats who are convinced the universe revolves around their needs. They are not wrong.

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Amnesia on WIP Wednesday

Today’s excerpt is from the story I’ve just written for my next newsletter, which I’ll be putting out in the next few days. It uses the amnesia trope, and is set in the same part of the UK, and a few months after, the storm in the Bluestocking Belles collection Storm & Shelter. Indeed, the storm in question sets off the events of the story, and the seaside village of Fenwick-on-Sea comes in for an honourable mention.

All day, Abbey had been following a cart across the field and the rickyard and back, one of three men using pitchforks to lift the hay from the windrows into the cart and then from the cart onto whatever rick was being built. It was one of the skills he had discovered when he was well enough to be put to work. It was exhausting work, but still gave him time — too much time — to think about his dreams.

Were the dreams about his past life? He did not know. He did know he always woke feeling as if he had left something undone and time was running out.

He could no more remember what task he was neglecting than he could remember his own identity.

His ability to build a hay rick was a clue, he supposed. He could plough and scythe, too. And milk a cow. And groom and ride a horse.

He could also read and write. He spoke — or so they told him — like a gentleman. His mind was stuffed with all sorts of knowledge that the farmhands around here found surprising. It was something of a game for them, to ask him a question out of the blue. Name the kings of England. He could do that, yes, and recite the dates, too. He knew the dates of key events in English history. He could finish the verse of popular song if someone called out the first line. He could do it for poetry too, as the local squire discovered.

The squire suggested he might have been the son of a wealthy farmer, sent away to school but still accustomed to helping out on the land.

Abbey wondered why he could access so many facts and skills, but not know who he was, where he was from, or how he arrived on the beach at Dunwich more than half drowned, with a broken arm and a great bleeding wound on his head.

There had been a great storm that had swept all of that coast, cutting Dunwich off from the roads inland and to villages north and south. At a guess, he had been washed overboard from a ship, or had been aboard one of several that had foundered. Nobody knew. The squire made enquiries when he took Abbey into Ipswich to be examined by a doctor. He even sent letters to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

No one had reported losing a man of Abbey’s description and name. If Abbey was his name. It had been the first word on his lips when he recovered consciousness, or so they told him. It didn’t feel as if it fitted, but he had no other name to offer.

The doctor said his memories might come back a few at a time, or all at once, or never. Abbey, still shaky on his legs from his long recovery and with no clues to his own identity, accepted the squire’s offer to return to Dunwich.

He worked on getting fit. He worked on any task he was given as a return for the care and kindness he had been shown. He bludgeoned his mind for the least hint about his past, but all he gained was a headache.

The dreams had started six weeks ago. At first, occasionally but now, every night. They faded as he woke leaving an impression of warm brown eyes, of someone calling for him to come home. Each night, the sense of urgency increased. He had something he needed to do. Quickly, before it was too late.

He had no idea what it was or why it was important.

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Tea with Hopkins

Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, hadn’t wanted to speak of matters that should remain private, but the rumors had reached the ears of Her Grace. If it were anyone else, he’d tell them to go hang, but this was the Duchess of Haverford, and perhaps she could help still the gossiping tongues come spring.

He pulled at his tight cravat. Nerves he hadn’t experienced since he was a lad entering Eton for the first time coursed through him as he followed the livered footman to the parlor where Her Grace awaited him.

“Hopkins, thank you for joining me,” Her Grace greeted, as a cup of the most delicate porcelain was presented to him.

“It is I who should thank you for the audience.”

Her Grace’s eyes twinkled. “You are wishing me to Hades, my dear. But you shall forgive me. I have heard the rumors, and I mean to help if I can. But first, I must know the truth for myself.”

“Yes, well, the truth.” He resisted the urge to pull at his cravat again as he settled across from the Duchess of Haverford.

“Is your wife truly back from the dead?”

It was the question everyone asked and wondered about. Everyone presumed Elaina dead, but Tristan never gave up hope, even when urged to do so and told to marry again and provide a mother for his small children. “She is,” he answered simply.

“How? Where was she? We all assumed….”

“It was a reasonable assumption.” He took a sip of the tea. “My wife, Elaina, washed up on the shores of Alderney, where she remained for three years.”

“I am informed that she didn’t recall who she was, or where she came from.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered. “The only knowledge she possessed was her name because another sailor, who also was washed overboard, had heard it called out before the tragedy. He could only supply that she was on a merchant ship traveling from Saint-Malo, France to Plymouth.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. He’d not known of her presence before the storm struck and everyone had come up on deck to abandon the ship, which was soon to sink because of damage from the storm. For three years Elaina knew nothing else. When my brother, Harrison, visited Alderney and a man he hoped would be a business associate, and was introduced to her.”

“Did she remember your brother then?”

“No. Seeing his face, a man she’d known several years, stirred no memories.”

“Oh dear.”

EXCERPT:

Elaina took a deep breath. Fear clutched at her heart, as she followed Harrison into the inn and remained silent when he inquired as to which chamber his brother could be found, and then followed him up the stairs until they stood before a dark wooden door and knocked.

A petite woman with blond hair answered the door. “Harrison!” she cried, clearly happy to see the man.

“So, this is where my family is,” he announced and stepped into the set of rooms. Elaina didn’t follow and tried to breathe through the anxiety crushing her chest. “It’s a good thing that I stopped at my home and discovered the various notes, or we would have traveled directly home and missed you completely.”

“We?” a voice questioned.

“Yes, we,” Harrison cleared his throat. “And I’m happy to be the one to facilitate this reunion.” At that, Harrison stepped aside and held out a hand to her. “I found Elaina.”

She allowed Harrison to pull her into the parlor and glanced around at the sea of shocked faces.

“Oh dear,” the blonde woman sighed.

“Elaina is it truly you?” a gentleman with dark hair set a glass aside and slowly crossed the room, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe that what he was seeing was real.

She had no response as she studied his appearance from the dark hair to the brown eyes, aquiline nose, firm lips and strong jaw, hoping for a sense of familiarity, but he was just as much a stranger as everyone else in the room.

“I can’t believe you’re back. I hoped, prayed…”

Before she knew what was happening, the stranger pulled her into an embrace. “Elaina, thank God you’ve come back to me.”

His voice was heavy with emotion and all she could surmise was this must be her husband.

He pulled back and looked down at her, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a light misting in his eyes as if he were near tears. Had he loved her so very much?

“Where were you? What happened? We thought you’d drowned.”

Elaina quickly glanced at Harrison and hoped for his assistance.

“Tristan, there is something you must know.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “I’m certain you’ll explain all of the details,” he dismissed and took Elaina’s hand, drawing her further into the room.

“Elaina doesn’t remember who she is.”

He stopped and turned. “What?”

“She washed ashore after the shipwreck and never recovered her memory of who she is, where she came from or why she was even on a ship,” Harrison explained.

Tristan’s eyes widened, and he studied her again. “Is it true? You don’t know me?”

At that, the tears threatened, but Elaina blinked them away. Harrison had told her that Tristan was her husband and Elaina had prayed that once she gazed upon his face that her memory would return. Except it hadn’t. Everything about her life before she woke in Alderney was gone, an empty canvas, and now she feared that it would never return.

The Forgotten Marquis

For three long and lonely years, Tristan Trent, the Marquess of Hopkins, waited for his wife Elaina’s return. Eyewitnesses insist no one could have survived the storm that swept her overboard, but Tristan refuses to give up hope—even when he is trapped into a betrothal he doesn’t want and forced to declare Elaina dead.

Elaina Trent has no memories of her life before waking in Alderney surrounded by strangers, and three years of trying to recall an elusive history has left her life in limbo. Determined to have a future even though her past is gone, she accepts a marriage proposal and a promise for a new life. But when a man claiming to be her brother-in-law stumbles across her, Elaina has no choice except to end her engagement and return to a husband she no longer knows.

When Elaina and Tristan are finally reunited, she still cannot recall what they once shared. Can she begin anew with a gentleman she doesn’t even know and hope that love grows once again, or will they remain strangers forever?

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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 has authored romances set in the Regency era as well as Contemporary/New Adult.

JaneCharlesAuthor.com

Jane can be contacted at: janecharles522@gmail.com

Twitter: @JaneACharles

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