Bluestocking Belles

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Fire & Frost: it’s almost here

Hot mulled wine and a book on the wooden table. Fireplace with warm fire on the background.

In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples find a love to warm their hearts. Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.

Preorder now. Released next Tuesday.

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Charity events in Georgian England or the poor shall be with us always

Our view of Georgian life is often coloured by fictional accounts of high society, where ladies spent vast amounts on bonnets and gentlemen gambled away entire estates on an evening’s card game. Which is a fair reflection of a small part of society, come to that. But one in ten families lived below the ‘breadline’, and at times as many as two in five. Many people were precariously balanced on a knife edge where illness, accidents or old age could tumble them into starvation.

The Poor Law and parish-based support

The Poor Law was meant to make sure such unfortunates had the help they needed. Wealthy households paid a levy to the parish, and local overseers apportioned financial hand-outs, clothing and fuel, and bread to those who could prove they belonged to the parish and therefore had a right to its support.

Where the parish authorities were genuinely charitable, poor relief might tide a family through a bad patch so they could get back on their feet. But the idea that poverty was a character fault is not a 21st Century invention. Strident voices wanted the poor to suffer for their charity handout.

Workhouse to discourage the poor from seeking help

IN 1722, the first legislation passed allowing parishes to provide poor relief in specially built workhouses. By the end of the century, more than 100,000 people lived under their stringent and often dire regime.

The sexes were segregated, and the able-bodied set to work, with strict rules and routines. Some workhouses were pleasant enough. Others were no better than prisons, and many of the poor preferred to starve rather than be put in the workhouse.

They were overcrowded, and the people in them often overworked and underfed. Epidemics tore through them, and the deathrate for people of every age, and particularly for newborns, was brutal. Nearly 2,400 children were received into London workhouses in 1750. Fewer than 170 of those children were still alive in 1755.

Private charities

The parish levy wasn’t the only funding for the poor, though. Many landowners (and particularly their wives) kept to the age-old tradition of providing food and other items to those who lived on or near their estates, and some continued this one-on-one help in town. They also joined groups to provide help for those who needed it.

Private charities collected money for initiatives such as the Foundling Hospital in London, which cared for children whose mothers could not support them, the Marine Society, which trained poor boys for a life at sea, the Magdalen Hospital for Penitent Prostitues, various hospitals to provide free medical care, and educational initiatives. I particularly like the name of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of Poor, Infirm, Aged Widows and Single Women of Good Character Who Have Seen Better Days. The days of 140 character tweets were well in the future.

Benefits with friends

To raise money, these charitable groups used the time-honoured idea of offering tickets to an entertainment: balls, musical concerts, art exhibitions. Some charged a weekly subscription to support their work. Some solicited donations through pamphlets and direct approaches to possible donors. (Some people have suggested balls were a Victorian contrivance, but British newspapers contain advertisements for charity balls and assemblies, or reports on them, going back to the middle of the previous century.)

Groups would also get together to raise money for a friend in need; perhaps someone who had been injured or widowed. In the British Newspapers Online archive, I found a number of advertisements for events ‘for the benefit of Mr. Xxx’, which is, of course, where we get our term Benefit, to mean a charity event.

Women and charity

While men ran many of the great philanthropic institutions, charity was “the proper public expression of a gentlewoman’s religious energy”. [Vickery, 254] Many women joined benevolent societies (where members agreed to provide support for any of their number who fell on hard times) and a huge number of women founded or joined charitable groups that supported what they themselves would have called ‘good works’.

References

Porter, Roy: English Society in the 18th Century. Penguin, 1982

Uglow, Jenny: In These Times, Faber & Faber 2014

Vickers, Amanda: The Gentleman’s Daughter, Yale, 1998

White, Matthew: Poverty in Britain. https://www.bl.uk/georgian-britain/articles/poverty-in-georgian-britain

Fire & Frost

Fire & Frost is coming out Tuesday of next week, and since the five tales of find love in the depths of winter revolve around a charity event, I thought it was a good time to look at Georgian charities.

In a winter so cold the Thames freezes over, five couples venture onto the ice in pursuit of love to warm their hearts.

Love unexpected, rekindled, or brand new—even one that’s a whack on the side of the head—heats up the frigid winter. After weeks of fog and cold, all five stories converge on the ice at the 1814 Frost Fair when the ladies’ campaign to help the wounded and unemployed veterans of the Napoleonic wars culminates in a charity auction that shocks the high sticklers of the ton.

In their 2020 collection, join the Bluestocking Belles and their heroes and heroines as The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans pursues justice, charity, and soul-searing romance.

Celebrate Valentine’s Day 2020 with five interconnected Regency romances.

Melting Matilda by Jude Knight – Fire smolders under the frost between them.My One True Love by Rue Allyn – She vanished into the fog. Will he find his one true love or remain lost, cold and alone forever?

Lord Ethan’s Courage by Caroline Warfield – War may freeze a man’s heart; it takes a woman to melt it.

A Second Chance at Love by Sherry Ewing – Can the bittersweet frost of lost love be rekindled into a burning flame?

The Umbrella Chronicles: Chester and Artemis’s Story by Amy Quinton – Beastly duke seeks confident woman who doesn’t faint at the sight of his scars. Prefers not to leave the house to find her.

(This post was originally written when we were promoting Holly and Hopeful Hearts, a collection about an earlier Charity event organised by the Duchess of Haverford and the ladies of London Society. It was published by the wonderful Madame Gilflurt on her Madame Gilflurt’s Guide to Life.)

 

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: A Second Chance at Love

Next up, the lovely tale of Constance and her Digby. You might remember Constance. She was a secondary character in one of Sherry’s earlier stories. Lovely to see her get her happy ending at last.

Viscount Digby Osgood returns to London after a two-year absence, planning to avoid the woman he courted and then left. Surely she has moved on with her life; even married by now. A bit of encouragement from a friend, however, pushes him to seek the lady out. Can she ever forgiven him and give them a second chance at love?

Lady Constance Whittles has only cared for one man in her life. Even after he broke her heart, it remains fixed on him. Another man tries to replace him, but she soon learns she can never feel for him a shadow of what she still feels for Digby. One brief encounter with Digby confirms it; she is more than willing to forgive him. Can they truly take up where they left off?

Charity projects and a Frost Fair on the Thames bring them together, but another stands in their way. Will he tear them apart?

And an excerpt:

Digby opened his eyes. He felt as if he had been run over by a carriage. His vision was blurred. Where had his spectacles been placed? He fumbled around for them on the bedside table and slowly put them on. Once he could see clearly again, he took in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar room, but one thing was very familiar to him. Constance slept on the loveseat, a surprise to him. He watched as her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. She was stunning, even in sleep, and all he wanted to do was take her in his arms.
“Constance,” he whispered softly. His throat was raw, his voice raspy at best.
His lady’s eyes fluttered open, and her gaze fell on him. A smile turned up her mouth softening her features, and she threw the blanket off to rush to his side.
“At long last,” she cooed. “Your fever has broken.”
“Fever? What fever?” Digby looked down at his naked chest. In his gentlemanly modesty, he pulled the covers up to his chin, so as not to frighten the woman before him. “Uh… forgive my indecency.”
“You have been ill, my darling. I insisted you be brought to my aunt’s since it was closer than your own townhouse. Your parents have been sick with worry and have been here to check on you several times.” Constance motioned to a maid sitting near the door and began giving her instructions. “Janet, please see that a message is relayed to Lord Osgood’s parents informing them he is now on the mend.”
Digby ran his hand through his hair and winced, noticing the knot on his head. “And why is my head so sore?”
“You had an altercation with Lieutenant Abernathy after my fall through the ice. He is responsible for you hitting your head when you, too, fell. The doctor believed you would not have a concussion as your head injury was not that severe. We have been assured the sleeping you have done was due to a nasty bout of the flu. We took every precaution, however, in the event your illness was more severe.”
“You did?”
“But of course,” she said busying herself by fixing him a cup of tea. “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.”
He took the cup and sipped, peering at her over the rim. Looking about the room, he was again surprised to notice they were alone. “You… took care of me yourself?” he asked, afraid of what the young woman may have gone through while tending him.
She blushed, most becomingly he thought. “I did what I could, when my aunt allowed it, Digby, although my aunt protested that others could see to tending you and my reputation was at stake. I told her I did not care a fig for my reputation. My main concern was you were properly nursed by someone who loved you.”

The lovely Constance:

Her breathing elevated just seeing Digby again, and she moved behind the desk to try to calm her thoughts. Still… she could not prevent herself from taking in the sight of him. His black hair curling at the edges was slightly damp where his hat had not covered his head from the falling snow. A slight cleft in his chin had always fascinated her whenever they had been together in the past. His face reminded her of the sculptures she had seen in her aunt’s garden; classical and timeless. But it was his vivid blue eyes that were her undoing. He gazed upon her as though asking if he was assuming too much by being here. The silly man.
“Too long indeed. There are not many who would brave such inclement weather to venture outside,” she finally answered hoping her assessment of him did not appear rude. “What brings you into the bookshop today? We have a new mystery if that is what you are looking for.”
“Not today,” he said while continuing to stare at her.
“Then if you have not come for a book, you must wish for some tea after being out in the cold,” she declared as she raised her arm toward the tearoom. “Feel free to pick any table.”
“I am not here for tea, either, my lady.”
Her breath leapt into her throat. Could he possibly mean…? “Then whatever brings you here today, my lord.”
“You.”

And Digby, home again.

Richard motioned for a passing servant to refill their glasses. “What are you doing here, Digby?” he asked, before taking another sip of his brandy.
“I offered my services to the duchess in whatever capacity she may need. This event will benefit so many, and the monies raised are for a worthy cause,” he answered.”
“And…” Richard drawled. He hid a smirk, leaving Digby in no doubt his friend knew exactly why he was here.
“And I also accompanied Lady Constance Whittles and her aunt to attend the committee meeting.”
Richard laughed. “About time you made up with the lady. Saw her a couple times after you left town. She looked completely crestfallen.”
“It certainly was not my intention to hurt her feelings,” he said. He took another sip of the drink and felt the liquor burn down his throat. The distant murmur of feminine laughter echoed through the hallway and Digby attempted to hide a smile, knowing Constance was most likely enjoying herself. “Perhaps one of the woman here might be of interest to you?” Digby hinted, taking another sip of his drink. “The de Courtenay sisters arrived. Lady Constance was having a pleasant conversation with Miss Miranda before their meeting started. From what I overheard, she is still available.”

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: My One True Love

The second story in the Bluestocking Belles collection, Fire & Frost, is Rue Allyn’s charming My One True Love.

Major Arthur Trevor PenRhyddyrch, Earl of Trehallow, returned to Wales from war and found his best friend gone. No one would speak her name let alone tell him where she might be. Then he found her in the frosty London fog of January 1814 only to lose her in the next moment.

When Miss Mary Percival Cummins saw Trevor in the fog, she ran. She knew he would hate her once he heard what others said, and the memory of their friendship was too dear for her to survive knowing he despised her.

But fate and the Duchess of Haverford had different plans. Her Grace knew, if they did not, that these two friends deserved the happiness of finding their one true love.

An excerpt

Trevor blinked. Percy had used his given name. Without any hesitation or prompting. Nor was she subdued and reluctant as she had been when the evening started. What had changed? He doubted anything in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice had inspired his love to drop her unnecessary shame. He did agree, however, that Kean’s performance was inspiring. Perhaps she was simply transported out of the personal darkness that suppressed her naturally buoyant and intrepid spirit.
Regardless of the cause, he was pleased and happy to see again the inner fire that had always shown bright and strong in his best friend. Pray heaven they encounter no one rude enough to cause his love to sink back into unwarranted guilt. He helped her rise and escorted her from the box. Jessica had been correct. It seemed the entire audience had come for refreshments and to discuss the performance thus far. Everywhere he turned he heard Kean, Kean, Kean as well as stellar, immortal, truly gifted, and many other accolades. No one spoke Percy’s name. No one noticed her enough to turn aside and give the cut direct.
Her Grace had been right to insist that Percy attend tonight’s performance.

Meet the heroine.

She did not want him knowing where she lived. She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her fingers clenched in her lap.. She dared not look at him. One glance at the concern in his deep brown eyes, might have her betraying all good sense and throwing herself into his arms to weep out her troubles. He would feel honor bound to solve all her problems. She could not allow that.
“For the coachman,” he continued.
“Haverford House,” she blurted. She did not have to go inside, and if Trevor insisted on seeing her as far as the foyer, she would let him. The footmen were all familiar with her comings and goings. No one would question her if she left through the kitchen the minute Trevor left through the front door.
But Robert Burns had been right in his poetic address To a Mouse,. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.” Her plans went awry the moment she crossed the threshold. There, in the midst of the foyer, stood Jessica and the duchess herself.
“Trehallow, my lad,” the duchess said. Jessica followed, crossing to where Trevor and Percy stood just inside the now closed front door. “What a pleasant surprise, and you’ve brought our Miss Cummins back home with you. We had begun to worry about you, dear.” The duchess—who did not prevaricate–lied through her teeth. “Go on up and change. We shall wait dinner until you come down.”
Jess took Percy by the arm and compelled her to walk to the stairs. There she spoke a few quiet words to a nearby footman. Percy was being whisked away up the stairs before she could blink. What was Her Grace thinking?
“You will join us for dinner, Trehallow. I insist,” Her Grace decreed.

And her determined hero.

He and Percy walked in silence nearly half the length of the promenade, the only sounds coming from the crunch of straw on the frozen ground beneath their feet and the low murmur of the other couple’s voices.
He wanted to ask her what happened. Why she had become this silent almost shy person, when that was so alien to the lively, curious, intrepid Percy he remembered. But he could not find the words.
“How have you been, Percy?” was all he could manage.
“Well enough with the duchess’s patronage.”
Was she completely dependent on the duchess? That would not sit well with the Percy he had known. “I was sorry to hear of your parents’ passings. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”
She shrugged. “I prefer not to speak of it.”
So she would not talk about her family. “How did you come to know the Duchess of Haverford?”
“Jessica and I were at school together. She insisted I come to her and the Duchess after… after my father died. Mother was too ill to travel, so I came by myself. Her Grace has been all that is kind and helpful. Mother remained at Cummins house under the care of my cousin Donald. I hoped she was well cared for, since I could not be there to see to her comfort myself.”
Which implied that, without the Haverford’s help, Percy might not have been able to provide for her mother at all.
“I am very sorry I was not there to help, Percy. But surely your cousin gave you and your mother a home?”
Percy looked at him, her expression hard, her lips pressed together. “As I said earlier, it is not a time I care to discuss.”

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Declarations of love on WIP Wednesday

My hero in my current WIP has finally faced up to his feelings, so this week, I’m seeking excerpts where the hero (or, if you prefer, the heroine) declares their love. Mine is from my Fire and Frost novella which is the title of the next Bluestocking Belles’ anthology of new stories.

She invited him to serve himself, while she fixed him the coffee that he asked for. As he filled his plate, he asked, “If we are not to stand on ceremony, I wonder if I might beg you to call me Hamner. Or even, should you wish it, Charles.”

Matilda paused, his cup in her hand, then gathered her scattered wits and passed it to him. “You are very kind, Lo– Hamner.”

He shook his head. “Not kind at all. You called me pompous, Matilda. You had the right of it, but I am trying to amend. May I call you Matilda?”

Matilda cast a glance at the maid, but she had her head bent low over her mending and was did not appear to be taking any notice of them.

“Just when we are alone,” Hamner cajoled. “Or am I being an idiot again? I thought… I hoped that you might be coming to care for me as I do for you.”

“I had no idea.” Matilda lifted her chin, her lips firming as she remembered last year’s tears. “Have we not travelled this path once before, my lord? You made your opinion of me clear at that time, did you not?”

His clear blue eyes met hers. If she did not guard her heart, he would break it all over again, but he sounded sincere. “I was a fool, and worse than a fool. A pompous prig, you said, and that hurt. Because you were right.”

“You kissed me then spurned me and proposed to another woman,” she reminded him.

“Ah.” The colour rose in his face and he looked down at the coffee cup, dwarfed by his large capable hands. “You are Lady Felicity’s friend. Of course, you know about that.”

“What? You hoped to deceive me?”

“Not that!” The cup clattered as his hands shook, and he put it down on the side table. “I hoped I could explain it before you knew what an ass I had been. To burn for one woman and propose to another, as if they were interchangeable? My mother tells me I deserve for you to send me away and never speak to me again, but I hope to convince you that I have learned from my stupidity.”

Almost without her volition, Matilda’s head shook, slowly, more in disbelief than negation. “You despise the circumstances of my birth. You do not believe I would reflect credit to your name. Your words, Lord Hamner.”

Hamner leaned forward as if he would grasp her hands, but stopped short of reaching for them. His voice vibrated with passion. “Do I regret that your birth has barred you from all the respect you deserve? Yes. You are the daughter of a duke, raised by a duchess, and a lady of uncommon intelligence, grace, and ability. You act always with propriety and dignity. You should take precedence with others of your rank, and I am indignant that you cannot. You would grace the name of the highest in the land. I was an ignorant fool to think otherwise, and an uncouth lout to say what I did. Though I hope my actual words were kinder, Matilda.”

“Perhaps.” She pursed her lips. “However, you agree that I took your meaning. As an apology for that kiss—I was humiliated, Charles, and I do not see how you expect me to forget it.”

She only realised that she had slipped into calling him by his given name when his eyes lit up, but he did not capitalise on the error. “Not forget. But may I hope for forgiveness? In time? Give me leave to prove my sincerity by my devotion? I mean marriage, Matilda, in case you are in doubt. Yesterday, I saw you in danger, and I knew I could not be happy without you. I spoke to your brother, but he said some of what you have said, and told me that I would need to make my own petition to you. The choice of whether I am permitted to be your friend and your suitor is entirely yours.”

“I do not know how to answer you.” Hamner opened his mouth again, but Matilda held up her hand. “Enough. Lord Hamner, I shall think on what you have said, but we shall not speak of it again today.”

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Tea with the ladies, again

Lady Fortingham had been in Bath for the past month, and was keen to put the worst possible construction on every social interaction she had observed. Mrs Westinghouse and Lady Ramsunn, with many sideways glances at their hostess, offered alternative interpretations without much enthusiasm. If they were not trying to curry favour with Eleanor, they would be joining their bosom bow in tearing reputations apart without concern for mercy, justice, or truth.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, Eleanor considered not being ‘at home’ when these old acquaintances called, and yet again rejected the notion. Knowing what Society’s worse gossips were saying helped her mitigate the damage they could cause.

At least Lady Fortingham seemed to have no inkling of the twin scandals that threatened the House of Haverford, and Eleanor found some respite from her own worries in considering the interests of others. She had always believed that her position as one of the premier ladies in the land required her to set an example to Society, and she had carried out that duty as well as she could.

“He compromised her, of course. Ran off with her in a carriage borrowed from her mother’s lover, if you can believe it. I don’t know what pressure was brought to make the man marry her, but—”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor said, firmly. “Lady Emilia Lloyd-Marshall has always been a woman who knows her own mind, and the Chevalier is besotted with her, by all accounts.”

“She must have had her parents’ blessing,” ventured Mrs Westinghouse. “They seem very pleased with the match, and the Chevalier…”

“Bah. He is nothing but an imposter! An actor! It is an outrage—”

Eleanor interrupted again. “You are mistaken, Lady Fortingham. Lord Somerton vouches for the Chevalier. Yes, he made his living as an actor — a very fine one, as I well remember — but many French aristocrats were reduced to such measures when they reached our shores. He is a distant connection of the Somertons, and I trust that you will remember that fact.”

Lady Taffy, as Society insisted on calling the poor girl, had found a man who treasured her just as she was. Intelligent, capable women whose beauty did not fit the fashionable mold had a hard time of it, and Eleanor was delighted she had made the match she wanted, whatever Sebastian’s origins.

The silly harridan was silenced for a moment, giving Mrs Westinghouse the opportunity to say, “Lord and Lady de Courtenay are reconciled, I’ve heard. Were they at the Valentine’s Day Ball, Lady Fortingham?”

“They were.” Lady Fishingham puffed out her chest. “And so was Mrs Bouchard! I saw Lady de Courtenay speak with the widow. Saw it with my own eyes! I could not hear what they said, but I saw how upset that poor little girl was. That is what comes of trapping a rake into marriage. He is back with his mistress again; you mark my words.”

“That is not what I have been told,” Mrs Westinghouse argued. “Lord and Lady de Courtenay seemed very pleased with one another, I have been told, and he has brought her here to London with him. Furthermore, Mrs Bouchard has not returned to London. I am told she has gone to the Continent!”

Excellent. Eleanor had been concerned about dear Celia — and Adrian, that naughty boy, who loved his young wife far more than he had been prepared to admit. She would invite them to her next ball, so that the whole of Society could see for themselves how the pair were together. Better invite them to tea here, first.

“The Beast has also wed,” Lady Ramsunn observed.

“If, by the ‘Beast’, you mean the Earl of Wayford,” Eleanor said, coldly, “I understand he had married his childhood sweetheart.”

“Charis Fishingham is a nobody,” Lady Ramsunn snorted, “and her mother is an encroaching mushroom.”

“Charis, the Countess of Wayford, is the wife of an earl,” Eleanor responded, “and I understand her younger sisters are delightful.” Another note to herself. She would invite, not just the Wayfords, but also the Fishingham sisters, to her ball. Two of them were out, she had heard, and the youngest was of an age to visit with her own schoolroom daughters.

“Surely Your Grace does not countenance what Wayford did to his own mother?” Lady Fortingham inquired, sounding shocked.

If Lady Fortingham knew all, she already knew what the dowager had attempted. The woman was clearly either mad or bad, and probably both. “Do you countenance what the dowager Lady Wayford tried to do to her son? And to her son’s intended?”

Lady Fortingham flushed and changed the subject.

“What of this match of Dr Hartford’s? The girl will drive him mad inside of a week. Lady Ross is all cock-a-hoop about it, claiming all credit for her Umbrella. Ridiculous. Just because a few matches have occured when Lady Ross was around! This one will prove that the magic is all in Lady Ross’s head, for two more different people, you could not hope to meet.”

“I think Emma Fortingham is a delightful young woman, and just the person to complement Dr Hartford’s nature. You are right that they are very different, Lady Fortingham, but those very differences are what they need. He will provide stability and the voice of reason. She will give his life a lightness and joy he lacks.”

Another couple for her ball. Yes, and she would invite the d’Aubbusons (more properly the Virtues, but she would not share that particular secret), too.

She would love to invite a fifth couple who had found happiness in Bath this past month, but they would not thank her. It had once been Esther’s milieu, but a certain Viscount had destroyed that for her, the cad. Now, the dear girl had found happiness, but not in her own class. Just as well. She would face all kinds of censure if she appeared where these harpies could tear her to pieces.

How could she help the kind sergeant who had saved Esther and her baby? Ah, yes. She had it. She would instruct all of her housekeepers, in every Haverford residence, to order their candles from March Candle Works.

Such an order would only hold until Aldridge took a bride, which he showed no sign of doing, even though dukedom was about to descend on his shoulders. He had spent more than two years in pursuit of a woman who repeatedly rejected him, and who had now disgraced herself with another man. Aldridge was refusing to believe it, and Eleanor herself had doubts.

Not that the Haverfords couldn’t face down such scandal. After all, they had much practice. But the ensuing furore would tear the new marriage apart unless they were deeply committed to one another. Given Lola had refused Aldridge and Aldridge had responded by diving deep into dissipation, Eleanor could not be confident that theirs was a love to grow deeper in the face of opposition.

That prompted another thought. What would Aldridge do if she told him that she was adamantly against the match? And what of Lola? What was it she really wanted? Opposition might be just what these two needed.

She set the thought aside to ponder until she got rid of these guests, but it cheered her mightily. Yes. At least one of the scandals on their doorstep might yet work to give her beloved son the happiness that had so long eluded him.

The gossip was all about the heroines from Valentines from Bath. See the Bluestocking Belles’ website for more details and buy links.

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Spotlight on Follow Your Star Home and Paradise Regained

 

Released today.

Denmark 839

A Yule Love Story  by Nicole Zoltack

Life and love are never simple when a banished king must turn to a simple healing woman to survive

Kopet Dag Mountains, 1794

Paradise Regained by Jude Knight

In discovering the mysteries of the East, James has built a new life. Will unveiling the secrets in his wife’s heart destroy it?

Scotland, 1807

Somewhere Like Home by Lizzi Tremayne

Highlands to Waterloo—can love prevail over fate?

England, 1814

The Umbrella Chronicles: James and Annie’s Story by Amy Quinton

Prodigal duke seeks professional matchmaker for matrimonial assistance. Prefers foolproof plans in 10 parts. Magical solutions accepted. Missteps likely.

Scotland, 1869

A Wish for All Seasons:A MacKai Family Novella by Rue Allyn

The past keeps Caibre and Aisla apart. Only Love and forgiveness can give them a future.

Wales and France, 1919

The Last Post  by Caroline Warfield

The Great War is over, but how can they marry if he can’t find her?

San Francisco 1922

A Fine Chance  by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

All he needs is a fine chance.

Scotland, 1170 & USA Present Day

One Last Kiss: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time Novella by  Sherry Ewing

Sometimes it takes a miracle to find your heart’s desire…

*Buy Links

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H4ZY517

Barnes & Noble: https://bit.ly/2y0SJbd

iBooks: https://apple.co/2ObkLLj

Kobo:  https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/follow-your-star-home

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/894110

 

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Tea with a purpose

 

Her Grace looked around her living room with a smile of satisfaction. Her protégées, many of them her goddaughters, made a formidable fighting force, and a fight was exactly what they had on their hands.

In one corner, the Countess of Sutton (formerly Sophia Belvoir until she married the heir to the Duke of Winshire) was writing a series of letters to other Society ladies, with the help of her sister Lady Felicity and her sisters-in law, Ladies Ruth and Rosemary Winderfield. On the settee by the fire, the Countess of Chirbury and Selby, wife to the duchess’s nephew, was dictating a letter to the editor of the Teatime Tattler, penned by her cousin-in-law, Mrs Julius Redepenning. All around the room, those the duchess had summoned had sharpened their nibs and flown into the battle of words over the forthcoming box set by the Bluestocking Belles.

Every woman in this room, and the fictional worlds they inhabited, owed their lives, their loves, their very existence, to one or more of those mysterious women. And the attempts to close down their next set of Christmas stories could not be tolerated.

It began with a letter from one styling herself ‘A Concerned Society Matron’. Salacious scenes of seduction? The woman must have a mind like a pig pen.

Lady Hultinford of St Brendan’s Priory responded with a strong attack on the forces of censorship, and there it should have rested.

But no. The next shot was fired by a cleric on a campaign to signing himself The Right Honorable the Reverend Claudius Blowworthey, although in Her Grace’s opinion, he was not Honorable, not to be Revered, and certainly not Right.

Mrs Maud Goodbody, who described herself as a Christian and modestly well-educated, brought a cheer to the duchess’s lips with her sound rebuttal of Blowworthy’s opinion. Her Grace had immediately sent a donation to the Chapel of the Faithful, which Mrs Goodbody attended.

But just today, the ‘Concerned Society Matron’ burst into print again. While Mr Clemens was quite correct in allowing both sides to have their say, the duchess did think the latest letter was a waste of paper and ink.

Enough was enough. The Duchess of Haverford and her troops were going to war.

To find out what all the fuss is about, see the Bluestocking Belles’ latest joint project, Follow Your Star Home.

To join in the debate, comment on any of the Teatime Tattler posts in the links above, and watch for more to come.

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Bullies, blaggards and other nasties

Some books have real villains, with evil in their hearts and mayhem in their wake. In others, the trials our protagonists face come from circumstance, or perhaps from careless, overbearing, or self-centred relatives. I’m inviting you to put an excerpt in the comments when we see your hero or heroine having a bit of a hard time at someone else’s hands. An ex-mistress? An employee? A relative? Over to you.

This week, I’m sharing an excerpt from Forged in Fire, my 2017 Bluestocking Belles holiday box set novella. My Mrs Bletherow is not a villain, precisely. But she is certainly no sweetheart.

Mrs Bletherow was castigating her poor companion again, oblivious to her audience.

Every group was different, and most groups had someone who was troublesome. Tad Berry could cheerfully handle the drunkards, the would-be Casanovas, the know-it-alls. But he hated bullies. His muscles burned with the effort it took to keep from rescuing the Bletherow hag’s drab shadow. Not his place. She was a free adult woman, and if she chose to stay with an employer who treated her so poorly, it was nothing to do with him.

His partner nudged him. “She don’t run out of steam, that one, eh?”

“Miss Thompson should tell her to go soak her head, Atame. Old crow.”

Tad and Atame had met them in Auckland two days ago, eight tourists seeking to view what Rotorua billed as the eighth wonder of the world. Tomorrow, they’d make their way to Te Wairoa, and the day after the locals would convey them to the Pink and White Terraces, dimpled with hot pools and cascading down their respective hillsides to a peaceful lake.

All through the boat trip to Tauranga and the coach journey to this Rotorua guest house, Mrs Bletherow had found fault with everything Miss Thompson did or failed to do. She had brought her employer the wrong book, failed to block out the sun, been too slow in the queue for food, put too much milk in Mrs Bletherow’s tea. Tad wouldn’t have blamed Miss Thompson for adding arsenic.

The withered wiry maid was as sour as her mistress, and attracted none of the old harridan’s contempt. She stood now at Mrs Bletherow’s elbow, nodding along with the woman’s complaints. “You knew we would be dining properly this evening. You deliberately packed the green gown in the large trunk. You must go and find it this instant, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Thompson said.

“See that you are quick. Parrish shall attend me in my room, and I want my gown by the time I am washed.” Mrs Bletherow sailed up the stairs, Parrish scurrying along in her wake.

Tad unfolded himself from the wall as Miss Thompson approached, her rather fine hazel eyes downcast. She began apologising while she was still several paces away. “I am very sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Berry, but I need to ask you to offload another of Mrs Bletherow’s trunks.”

“Of course, Miss Thompson. If you tell me which one, I shall bring it up to her room.”

She looked up at that, her brows drawing slightly together. “I am not sure, Mr Berry. I know which one it should be in, but Parrish finished the packing. May I come with you?”

He nodded, though the stables were no place for a lady. And Miss Thompson was a lady, and of better birth than the Bletherow, unless he missed his guess. Which, come to think of it, might be part of the reason for her ill-treatment. Not that a bully needed a reason, beyond opportunity and a suitable victim.

They needed to unload half the luggage before uncovering the trunk Miss Thompson wanted, and then it proved to be the wrong one.

Tad brushed off Miss Thompson’s apologies. “No matter. We shall just try the others.” But the gown was not in the smaller trunk, any of the leather bags, or even the hat boxes. They had offloaded all Mrs Bletherow’s baggage and even the single trunk holding her own spare wardrobe and a second belonging to Parish, and Miss Thompson had unlocked and hunted through them all.

“If this is everything, Miss Thompson,” Tad said at last, “I fear the garment has been left behind at a previous stop.”

“Do you, Mr Berry?” Tad’s hands on the straps he was rebuckling stilled at the bitter undertones in the lady’s voice, and he looked up. They were working by lamplight, but he could see well enough. Blazing eyes, thinned lips, skin drained of colour but for two hectic spots of colour high on her cheeks. Miss Thompson was quietly furious. “Perhaps you are right. I apologise for putting you to all this trouble.”

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Travel on WIP Wednesday

We historical writers have history on our side when it comes to putting our heroes and heroines in close proximity for long periods. Our own ease of travel, with cars, trains, buses, and airplanes makes it a feat of the imagination to envision day-long trips to the shops, week long trips to house parties, and trips lasting months to places further afield.

This week, I’m looking for posts about journeys. Mine is from my story for the Bluestocking Belles’ 2017 Christmas box set. I’d love you to post yours in the comments.

Mrs Bletherow was castigating her poor companion again, oblivious to her audience.

Every group was different, and most groups had someone who was troublesome. Tad Berry could cheerfully handle the drunkards, the would-be Casanovas, the know-it-alls. But he hated bullies. His muscles burned with the effort it took to keep from rescuing the Bletherow hag’s drab shadow. Not his place. She was a free adult woman, and if she chose to stay with an employer who treated her so poorly, it was nothing to do with him.

His partner nudged him. “She don’t run out of steam, that one, eh?”

“Miss Thompson should tell her to go soak her head, Atame. Old crow.”

Tad and Atame had met them in Auckland two days ago, eight tourists seeking to view what Rotorua billed as the eighth wonder of the world. Tomorrow, they’d make their way to Te Wairoa, and the day after the locals would convey them to the Pink and White Terraces, dimpled with hot pools and cascading down the shores of a peaceful lake.

All through the boat trip to Tauranga and the coach journey to this Rotorua guest house, Mrs Bletherow had found fault with everything Miss Thompson did or failed to do. She had brought her employer the wrong book, failed to block out the sun, been too slow in the queue for food, put too much milk in Mrs Bletherow’s tea. Tad wouldn’t have blamed Miss Thompson for adding arsenic.

The withered wiry maid was as sour as her mistress, and attracted none of the old harridan’s contempt. She stood now at Mrs Bletherow’s elbow, nodding along with the woman’s complaints. “You knew we would be dining properly this evening. You deliberately packed the green gown in the large trunk. You must go and find it this instant, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs Bletherow,” Miss Thompson said.

“See that you are quick. Parrish shall attend me in my room, and I want my gown by the time I am washed.” Mrs Bletherow sailed up the stairs, Parrish scurrying along in her wake.

Tad unfolded himself from the wall as Miss Thompson approached, her rather fine hazel eyes downcast. She began apologising while she was still several paces away. “I am very sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Berry, but I need to ask you to offload another of Mrs Bletherow’s trunks.”

“Of course, Miss Thompson. If you tell me which one, I shall bring it up to her room.”

She looked up at that, her brows drawing slightly together. “I am not sure, Mr Berry. I know which one it should be in, but Parrish finished the packing. May I come with you?”

He nodded, though the stables were no place for a lady. And Miss Thompson was a lady, and of better birth than Dame Bletherow, unless he missed his guess. Which, come to think of it, might be part of the reason for her illtreatment. Not that a bully needed a reason, beyond opportunity and a suitable victim.