Fire & Frost

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Will you be my Valentine?

The St Valentine we remember on this day was probably a Roman martyred for being a Christian sometime in the 3rd century. (There are at least two other candidates: one a bishop in Terni, and one who lived in Africa.) Legend has it that St Valentine performed secret marriage ceremonies for soldiers during a time they were not permitted to marry, and that he sent a letter to his jailer’s daughter signed ‘From your Valentine’.

February 14th has been associated with St Valentine since at least the 5th century. February 14th was also considered the start of Spring in Europe, and one tradition holds that it is the day the birds choose a mate. This tradition may go back to a Roman Spring Festival, celebrated from February 13th to 15th. Whichever came first, by the Middle Ages, when the French and English became devoted to the concept of courtly love, St Valentines became a day for people to declare their love.

In parts of Sussex Valentines Day was called ‘the Birds’ Wedding Day’ until quite recently. In Hamlet, Shakespeare mentions the tradition that the first man an unmarried woman sees on Valentine’s day will be her husband, when Ophelia sings:

Good morrow! ‘Tis St. Valentine’s Day
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your valentine!

Other traditions and superstitions associated with  Valentine’s day include:

  • if the names of all a girl’s suitors were written on paper and wrapped in clay and the clay put into water, the piece that rose to the surface first would contain the name of her husband-to-be
  • if unmarried women pinned four bay leaves to the corners of their pillow and ate eggs with salt replacing the removed yokes on Valentine’s day eve, they would dream of their future husband
  • if a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine’s Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a rich person.
  • in Wales wooden love spoons were carved and given as gifts on February 14th. Hearts, keys and keyholes were favourite decorations on the spoons. The decoration meant, “You unlock my heart!”

Valentine cards have been made since at least the 17th century, though the explosion in the number waited till the invention of a steam powered printing press and the penny post in the mid 19th century.

Happy Valentine’s day.

Do enjoy it with five tales of a love to warm your heart in the Bluestocking Belles’ latest collection, Fire & Frost.

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Tea with the dowager Lady Hamner

“And just like that,” the Countess of Hamner said, with a contented sigh, “I am now a dowager.”

The wedding was over, the wedding meal eaten, the wedding guests gone home, and the wedded couple on their way to one of Aldridge’s smaller estates, which he had placed at their disposal for the next month. The Duchess of Haverford echoed her friend’s sigh. “I thought it went off very well, Clara, do you not agree?”

“Very well, Eleanor. They will be happy, I think.”

They shared a smile. Clara’s son and Eleanor’s ward had exchanged their vows at Haverford House, before the Haverford chaplain and a small congregation of close friends and family. The bride had been even more beautiful than usual, her joy as her half brother escorted her to her groom illuminating the old chapel for more effectively than the hundreds of candles deployed for the occasion. As for Hamner, his love for his new bride was in every movement, as he took the hand she offered him with gentle reverence, and angled his body towards her, offering himself without words as her shelter and support for the rest of their lives.

Eleanor poured her friend a cup of tea. After the last few weeks of working together to organise the wedding, each knew the other’s preferences without asking. “If I can just get Jessica settled,” Eleanor said, “I can relax for a while. It is another five years before I need to consider launching Frances.”

“What of Aldridge?” Clara asked. “He will need a bride.” Since news leaked about Haverford’s impending demise, the poor Marquis had been looking ever more and more hunted.

Eleanor shook her head. “I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that I am to offer no help unless it is asked for.” She looked down at her hands, her hesitation so obvious and so out of character that Clara raised her eyebrows.

“I am a safe listener, if you would like one. Or we can speak of something else, if you prefer.”

Eleanor clasped the hand Clara offered. “It is just that I have interfered before, my dear, and Aldridge feels that I put the duchy and its welfare ahead of his happiness. I cannot say he is wrong. I fear that I have hurt him, though all I intended was to protect him. You do believe that, do you not?”

“No one can doubt that you love your son, Eleanor,” Clara insisted.

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The wedding follows (by a matter of six weeks) the end of Melting Matilda, a novella in the newest Bluestocking Belles collection,  Fire & Frost. Aldridge’s love story is slowly coming together inside my computer as we speak.

 

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Happy Book Birthday to Fire & Frost and the proud Mums

And check out the reviews! To quote just one of the more than 25 already posted on Goodreads:

Absolutely fantastic anthology Ladies, as always truly wonderful reads and revisiting some old friends on the way.I truly enjoyed each story, there are lots of amazing twists and turns throughout each story contributed, and the dear Belles as always do not disappoint.

Thank you all this anthology been a complete joy to read. (Gwessie Tee)

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: Lord Ethan’s Courage

I love all five Fire & Frost stories, but this is my favourite.

When a lovely—but foolish— young woman marches into an insalubrious alley full of homeless former soldiers, Ethan Alcott feels something he thought dead stir to life: his sense of honor and will to live. Her innocent efforts to ease the suffering of men might have touched his heart if she hadn’t put herself in danger to do it. Someone needs to take her in hand.

Lady Flora Landrum chafes under her brother’s restrictions, but she’s willing to compromise if they can join forces to join in the Duchess of Haverford’s charity efforts. When she discovers that the mysterious one-armed ruffian she encountered in a back alley is Lord Ethan Alcott, son of the Marquess of Welbrook, her astonishment gives way to determination to make the man see reason.

Courage takes many forms. As Ethan comes to admire Flora’s, perhaps he can recover his own.

And here’s an excerpt:

Flo heaved a sigh of exasperation and closed the distance between them, grabbing his shoulders, and meeting his lips with her impatient ones. After a heartbeat he returned the kiss with an achingly tender one, using his damaged arm to pull her close while he feathered his graceful fingers across her cheek.
“Much better,” she sighed against his neck, “But know this. I can wait out my mourning and your illness, but do not ask me to be patient.” She spat each of the last words out one by one. “I am not a patient woman when I know what I want, Ethan Alcott, and I want you.”
He kissed her again, this time deeply, passionately, possessively. When she moaned and pulled him closer, he pulled back, tipping his forehead onto hers. “Your brother believes you deserve a Season. I agree. If you still want this in a year…”
“God save me from men and their honor,” she muttered into his cravat. “I’m not promising an entire year. My time of mourning ends September third. I expect to see you at Chadbourn Park that very day.” She grabbed his lapels and gave him a shake.
“I will court you properly,” he swore.
She rolled her eyes. “If you insist, you may make it a courtship, but Ethan, don’t be too proper.” Then she kissed him again, and he forgot to reply.

Meet Flo:

“War is an ugly thing. It demands inhuman amounts of courage, and can be soul destroying.”
“You mean they may have turned coward? They bring shame home with them?” Flo asked, trying to think it through.
“Sometimes, yes. But war can strip off the veneer of civilization. Men are driven to savagery of which they didn’t know themselves capable.”
“But not all of them surely, and the war is necessary, is it not?” Flo asked. “The Corsican is a beast, and if they don’t defend us what will happen?”
“Necessary, perhaps, but the longer it goes on the more it eats at them. They see and do things they can’t talk about at home—both on the battlefield and off.”
Flo mulled that thought over for a while. Her companion’s sympathetic voice interrupted her reverie. “We’re not meant to know, and they’re not to be condemned by those of us who weren’t there.”
“No, I suspect not. Who knows what we would do in that situation? The women of Spain have suffered greatly,” Flo murmured. The papers spoke of hunger and disruption, but she could guess what undefended women on their own might face.
Lady Georgiana nodded gravely. “We can only care for them, while they heal.”
“Shame would be a terrible burden, would it not?” Flo remarked, not requiring an answer. The image of Ethan Alcott’s deeply sorrowful eyes came to her.
What had those eyes witnessed? Things he dreads his family knowing, I’ll wager.
Another thought came to her. Her sister never spoke to Flo about her marriage. Flo assumed it to be fear; now she wondered if it was shame, an even more debilitating emotion. Shame festers when hidden, she thought, and it brought Ethan Alcott to mind again.
How will we help him heal? she wondered. It didn’t occur to her to question the determination that she and Will between them would try to do just that.

And Ethan:

The cold had stiffened Ethan’s bones and numbed his injured stump until he thought he likely could not rise even if he wanted to—even if he had somewhere to go. He knew he should move lest the cold take his worthless life, but the ice around his heart seemed to have frozen all motivation as well.
Odd, he thought idly, that the cold of Mayfair could kill a man as thoroughly as the icy streets of the east end. His father’s garden smelled better, however, even with the flowers dead and the hedges withered and brown. His feet had found the garden with no conscious decision on his part after an hour or more of aimless wandering in the dark streets of London on the coldest night in Ethan’s memory. Now he hunkered between the cold stone of the garden shed and the unforgiving wall, unable to move.
The early morning sun rose weak and grey, but enough to pierce the fog and illuminate the place as if through a veil, and memory seized him. From his haven between the two walls he could see the edge of a stone bench, one he and Edmund used as a pirate ship or galloping steed as the mood seized them in boyhood. One of the balconies two stories up would open to his brother’s room, the other to what once was his. Memory left him with a hollow longing.
He had left Chadbourn’s rooms in a panic, thinking to get as far away from the overbearing Landrums as possible. They pushed him, brother and sister, to open his soul to his family, something he could never do. It would hurt them too badly. Yet, here he was. Perhaps the warmth and obvious affection of the Landrum family made him sentimental. Perhaps he’d allowed Lady Flora’s earnest plea—and her gentle gaze—to penetrate the protective shell he inhabited.
He tossed about for somewhere to go—anywhere but here—but found none. He knew he ought to return to the Albany, but he found it harder and harder to think clearly. Before he could make the effort to rise, the back door of the elegant townhouse flew open and a flash of blue pushed past two men and down the steps.
His heart stuttered at the sight of Lady Flora Landrum turning her head from side to side, searching the garden until she jarred her coiffure loose and one chestnut lock tumbled over her ear. A spark of warmth curled itself around his heart. The foolish chit. She’ll catch her death without a cloak.

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost: Melting Matilda

Fire & Frost is out in just over a week, and I’m really excited. I think this collection is the best the Bluestocking Belles have done yet! I’m going to be celebrating each of the novellas over the next couple of weeks, with excerpts and everything!

First up, my own novella, Melting Matilda.

Her scandalous birth prevents Matilda Grenford from being fully acceptable to Society, even though she has been a ward of the Duchess of Haverford since she was a few weeks old. Matilda does not expect to be wooed by a worthy gentleman. The only man who has ever interested her gave her an outrageous kiss a year ago and has avoided her ever since.

Charles, the Earl of Hamner is honour bound to ignore his attraction to Matilda Grenford. She is an innocent and a lady, and in every way worthy of his respect—but she is base-born. His ancestors would rise screaming from their graves if he made her his countess. But he cannot forget the kiss they once shared.

Here’s an excerpt:

For more than a year, Charles had kept to himself the fact that the Haverford Ice Princess kissed like a flame. As he abandoned his own granite facade for once and for all, he rejoiced in her heat. This time was even better than the last, and the best was yet to come. Though perhaps not here in a family parlor where her brother or sisters could walk in at any time.

“I hope you do not want a long betrothal,” he whispered, between kisses.

She broke off her attempt to completely unravel his cravat. “Not long,” she agreed.

Her fervent answer demanded that he kiss her again, losing himself so deep he didn’t know they were no longer alone until a voice behind him said, “I trust you are betrothed to my sister, Hamner, for it would be most inconvenient to start the evening’s celebrations by killing you.”

Meet my hero, walking in the fog.

Charles lifted his hat in greeting, and sensed rather than saw her shoulder’s ease. Did she think an assailant unable to ape good manners? Stride by stride he approached, and stride by stride she came into better focus.
His heart sank as he recognized her. Of all the females to need his help, it had to be the Haverford Ice Princess. Nonetheless, manners demanded that he lift his hat again, bowing. A slight bow, peer to commoner, but still a bow. He fiercely resented the necessity, telling himself that a female with her breeding — or lack thereof — should not expect such recognition from a gentleman, but the ward of the Duchess of Haverford had every right to be treated with respect.
Miss Grenford returned a small curtsey, though a quick darting look at the fog hinted that she no more wanted to be rescued by him than he wanted to play knight errant to her.
Matilda Grenford had been bedeviling Charles since she first made her entry to Society, side by side with her equally problematic sister. No. She was more problematic.
“Lord Hamner.” Just that, and in freezing tones. No explanation of her presence alone in the street. No pleas to see to her safety. No smile.
“Miss Grenford.” How he wished Miss Grenford were more like her sister so he could blame her, instead of himself, for the insult that had sunk him so low in her regard. He’d fought an unwelcome and inappropriate lust in her presence since he asked her to dance at her debut ball two years ago. It was, of course, only lust. He would have recovered long ago, he was certain, if she had been in his keeping, but that would never happen.
Besides, for all that he told himself he would tire of her, he could not imagine it. He would not take a mistress he could not give up. He had sworn on his mother’s grave that he would have no other women when he married. He would never do to his wife and children what his father had done; marrying a proper lady when his heart was with his irregular family.
To marry Miss Grenford was unthinkable. When he wed, it would be to a maiden of pure bloodlines, both maternal and paternal. He owed it to his name. He owed it to the heir he and his wife would raise to the dignities of his title, and to any other offspring.
To offer protection to a ward of the Duchess of Haverford was impossible. She behaved like a proper lady, whatever her appearance. If he compromised her, he would be honor bound to offer for her, and would do so without even the incentive of an angry brother. The Marquis of Aldridge would avenge insult to any of the Grenford sisters, and Aldridge was deadly with both sword and pistol, but Charles’s own sense of what was due a lady would propel him to the altar without such a threat.
Sometimes, he struggled to remember that would be a bad outcome.

And my heroine:

If the two of them made it out of the near-invisible city streets alive, Matilda Grenford was going to kill her sister Jessica, and even their guardian and mentor, the Duchess of Haverford, wouldn’t blame her. Angry as Matilda was, and panicked, too, as she tried to find a known landmark in the enveloping fog, she couldn’t resist a wry smile at the thought. Aunt Eleanor was the kindest person in the world, and expected everyone else to be as forgiving and generous as she was herself. Matilda could just imagine the conversation.
“Now, my dear, I want you to think about what other choices you might have made.” The duchess had said precisely those words uncounted times in the more than twenty years Matilda had been her ward.
When she was younger, she would burst out in an impassioned defense of whatever action had brought her before Her Grace for a reprimand. “Jessica is not just destroying her own reputation, Aunt Eleanor. Meeting men in the garden at balls, going out riding without her groom, dancing too close. Her behavior reflects on us all.”
Was that the lamppost by the corner of the square? No; a few steps more showed yet another paved street with houses looming in the fog on both sides. Matilda stopped while she tried to decide if any of them were in any way familiar.
Meanwhile, she continued her imaginary rant to the duchess. “Even in company, she takes flirtation to the edge of what is proper. This latest start — sneaking out of the house without a chaperone or even her maid — if it becomes known, she’ll go down in ruin, and take me and Frances with her.”
Matilda had gone after her, of course, taking a footman, but she’d lost the poor man several mistaken turns back. Matilda had been hurrying ahead, ignoring the footman’s complaints, thinking only about bringing Jessica back before she got into worse trouble than ever before. Now Matilda was just as much at risk, and she’d settle for managing to bring her own self home to Haverford House, or even to the house of a friend, if she could find one.
Home, for preference. Turning up anywhere else, unaccompanied, would start the very scandal Matilda had followed her sister to avoid. If Jessica managed to make it home unscathed, Matilda would strangle her.
In her imagination, she could hear Aunt Eleanor, calm as ever. “Murder is so final, Matilda. Surely it would have been better to try something else, first. What could you have done?”

Fire & Frost: released 4 February. Buy now!

Join the The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans in their pursuit of justice, charity, and soul searing romance.

The Napoleonic Wars have left England with wounded warriors, fatherless children, unemployed veterans, and hungry families. The ladies of London, led by the indomitable Duchess of Haverford plot a campaign to feed the hungry, care for the fallen—and bring the neglectful Parliament to heel. They will use any means at their disposal to convince the gentlemen of their choice to assist.

Their campaign involves strategy, persuasion, and a wee bit of fun. Pamphlets are all well and good, but auctioning a lady’s company along with her basket of delicious treats is bound to get more attention. Their efforts fall amid weeks of fog and weather so cold the Thames freezes over and a festive Frost Fair breaks out right on the river. The ladies take to the ice. What could be better for their purposes than a little Fire and Frost?

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A picnic by any other name…

Sometimes, you dodge a bullet by sheer happenstance. This week, Ella Quinn, in her wonderful resource on FaceBook, Regency Romance Fans, posted about the meaning of the term ‘picnic’ in Regency England, and I went back and did some more research.

I’d looked into it for the Bluestocking Belles new collection, Fire & Frost. The heroines of our five stories make baskets of food to be auctioned for the charity that is underpinning theme for the collection. The food is to be eaten at a Venetian Breakfast on the ice of the frozen Thames (a last minute change to take advantage of the unusually cold weather).

I knew, of course, that a Venetian Breakfast was an afternoon entertainment at which food was served. The ladies, in morning dress (anything worn before the change into dinner gowns in the early evening), and gentlemen of Society would have been familiar with the term ‘picnic’.

The term started in France as pique-nique, and referred to what we today would call a collaborative meal. Everyone either brought food or drink, or they paid something towards the costs. Pique-niques became very popular in Europe during the 18th century, and when people fled the French Revolution, some of them anglicised the term and started a Pic-Nic Club. The plan was to get together to eat, drink, gamble, and put on theatricals. Around 200 people joined, and the dramatist Sheridan saw it as competition for his own professional theatre. In 1802, the resulting spat spread across the newspapers, with cartoons and the lot.

Blowing-up the Pic-Nic’s or Harlequin Quixote Attacking the Puppets, vide Tottenham Street Pantomime, James Gillray, April 2

The kerfuffle popularised the term, probably because it sounded kind of catchy. I’m guessing people began to apply it to the outdoor entertainments that were already happening, where people all brought their own food and sat and ate together. Jane Austen used it in the outdoor sense in Emma, and Dorothy Wordsworth used it in letters to a friend, both close to the period of Fire & Frost (Wordsworth in 1808 and Austen in 1816). So I think we could stretch a point to say that our Regency heroes and heroines of the winter of 1813 to 1814 might be a little ahead of their times in planning an outdoor event and calling it a picnic.

However, we were saved by the collaborative original meaning of the word. Our ladies are preparing baskets to share with the successful bidder at the auction. Hurrah! Picnic baskets.

In time, the outdoor sense outlived the joint meal sense. Meanwhile, I’ve sent a couple of line edits to make sure the picnic pedants (myself among them) don’t trip over an anachronistic name for a social practice. Phew!

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Reference: https://www.historytoday.com/archive/historians-cookbook/history-picnic

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Tea with the Ladies

Today’s Monday for Tea post is an excerpt from Melting Matilda, which is now available on pre-order in the box set Fire & Frost. The duchess is holding a meeting of her Ladies’ Society.

They dropped the conversation as they entered one of the less formal parlors, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier had left her position to marry, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jessica and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few as two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Miss Fairley rose to her feet and waited for Mrs. Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs. Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Miss Fairley,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Miss Fairley explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs. Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“Could the auction prize include a dance at the ball later?” Jessica made the suggestion. “That way, gentlemen who have bought a basket will also be obliged to buy a ball ticket.”

The suggestion was met with a hum of approval.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fournier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Spotlight on Fire & Frost

 

I’m thrilled to be able to tell you about the Belles’ next box set, Fire & Frost. We revealed the cover yesterday, and within a week the final versions of our stories are due to the editors. It is released on 4 February 2020, but the gestation of a box set is a long process. We started in February this year. My story is called Melting Matilda and it’s a novella associated with the Children of the Mountain King series.

Fire & Frost

Join the The Ladies’ Society For The Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans in their pursuit of justice, charity, and soul searing romance.

The Napoleonic Wars have left England with wounded warriors, fatherless children, unemployed veterans, and hungry families. The ladies of London, led by the indomitable Duchess of Haverford plot a campaign to feed the hungry, care for the fallen—and bring the neglectful Parliament to heel. They will use any means at their disposal to convince the gentlemen of their choice to assist.

Their campaign involves strategy, persuasion, and a wee bit of fun. Pamphlets are all well and good, but auctioning a lady’s company along with her basket of delicious treats is bound to get more attention. Their efforts fall amid weeks of fog and weather so cold the Thames freezes over and a festive Frost Fair breaks out right on the river. The ladies take to the ice. What could be better for their purposes than a little Fire and Frost?

Her scandalous birth prevents Matilda Grenford from being fully acceptable to Society, even though she has been a ward of the Duchess of Haverford since she was a few weeks old. Her half-brother, the Marquis of Aldridge, is convinced she will one day be wooed by a worthy gentleman, but Matilda has no such expectations. The only man who has ever interested her gave her an outrageous kiss a year ago and has avoided her ever since.

Charles, the Earl of Hamner is honour bound to ignore his attraction to Matilda Grenford. She is an innocent and a lady, and in every way worthy of his respect—but she is base-born. His ancestors would rise screaming from their graves if he made her his countess.

When his mother and her guardian begin collaborating on Her Grace’s annual charity fundraiser, neither Charles nor Matilda sees a way to avoid working together. And neither can forget the kiss they once shared.