historical romance

by

Tea on the Ice

UPDATE: The prizes for the blog hop have been awarded, but please read on for flash fiction and historical tidbits. Prizewinners names at the bottom of the post. Comments always welcome.

***

It was going to work!

Maddie Forrest had called in so many favours and promised more, that if she’d been wrong, she’d be ruined in all the ways a disgraced former lady’s maid could be.

“The ladies will want somewhere they can sit down and warm their hands around a proper cup of tea,” she’d told her brother Will.  It was the first Frost Fair in a generation, and Maddie was sure they’d all come.

Will had scoffed. “Them proper ladies won’t even come down ’ere. Think they want to rub shoulders with the likes of us? Leave it to me, Maddie. This is our chance to make some real money.”

Maddie refused to listen. Will’s ideas about getting his hands on some cash were shady at best and mostly downright criminal. If she’s was going to get herself and little Nan out of London before Will found himself imprisoned or worse, she needed money, and the Frost Fair was her chance. Maddie knew what ladies liked. She’d been a favourite until she fell for the false promises of a black-hearted gentleman.

That, she thought, as she smiled a welcome at yet another group of fashionably dressed ladies as they entered her booth, was her biggest remaining risk, now that the Duchess of Haverford had made all her dreams come true by bringing some huge ton event onto the ice. She was counting on no one knowing her from her former life and spreading around the gossip that the hostess of this discreet and convenient booth was a fallen woman, dismissed without reference when found to be with child.

The chance was low. No one looked at servants. As she served tea and plates of tiny tarts and cakes, the ladies in their fine gowns and warm coats huddled around the braziers that she had begged from a friend in the Night Watch and ignored her, except to speak orders to the air with every confidence that their desires would be met.

A gentleman entered, escorting two ladies. Maddie took their cloaks and showed them to a table. The tent had come from the pawn shop, and she shuddered to think of the payment the pawnbroker would have demanded had she not made its hire fee in the first day on the ice. Yes, and enough to pay for the tables and chairs, too.

“I’ll think of something a fine woman like you can do for me,” he’d told her, his leer leaving no doubt about his meaning.

She didn’t need to worry about the pawnbroker now. She already had his fee wrapped in a package and hidden under her bed. And she’d arranged for her landlady to give it to the man the day after Maddie and Nan got on the stage and left town.

“What is your pleasure?” she asked the ladies who had just taken their seats. She rattled of the types of tea she had available; the foods that local bakers were supplying for her to sell on their behalf, with a small commission sticking to her pocket with every sale.

She was also being paid for supplying the booth two doors up, where the Ladies Society was giving pamphlets about the plight of those returned, and the families of the dead and injured. Yes, and the fortune teller’s booth, and the book tent. She was even making a few extra coins selling tea out the back of the tent made from the great folks’ leavings, with each steep fetching a progressively lower price. Even the chestnut seller could afford to bring her own mug to Maddie’s friend who was serving out the back, for a weak brew that cost her a farthing.

Maddie’s grin at her own success won an answering smile from the gent. He was a handsome fellow for an old man. “Can you also take tea – strong, black and sweet – to my two men outside the tent? They’re the ones in the red coats and large hats.” He handed over a half crown, and for that she would have served half a regiment. Maddie offered him change and her heart sang when he refused.

She poured the ordered tea into mugs for the lesser folk, and carried them outside. Her eyes widened. The men were barbarians of some kind, in red coats like banyans, almost knee length and richly embroidered, and bushy hats made out of sheep’s wool.

“Your master asked me to bring you this,” she told them. They thanked her like civilised beings, but her heart still thumped in her chest as she retreated inside, stopping in the entrance to allow a veiled lady to go first.

Before she could show the lady to a table, the gentleman with the barbarian servants stood and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the lady said. His Grace? The gentleman was a duke? He must be the Duke of Winshire, then. Maddie should have realised. The papers had been full of him for nearly a year, ever since he arrived back in England with an army of barbarians, including his own foreign born children. And there were some of the barbarians right outside her tent!

She crossed to the table to ask for the lady’s order, hoping she would lift the veil. Surely she knew that voice? She was to be disappointed. But as she turned away to make the ordered Oolong, the Duke of Winshire leaned forward and used a finger to lift the veil aside. “How is it?” he asked.

Maddie had a bare moment to catch sight of the lady’s face. The Duchess of Haverford herself sat in Maddie’s tent with the Duke of Winshire, one side her face a massive bruise discernible even through powder intended to conceal.

There must be a story there. Perhaps Maddie could tell the Teatime Tattler, which had a booth several Frost Fair streets over? But no. She’d done all sorts of things to win the funds she needed to give her and Nan a fresh start, but she’d never hurt another person. Whatever the duchess was up to meeting her husband’s greatest enemy, it was nothing to do with Maddie or the Teatime Tattler.

Besides, she owed the Duchess of Haverford for the success of her booth, and for the idea that had just entered her head. She’d taken home one of the pamphlets from the Ladies Society last night, and read it, too. All about the plight of those hurt by the wars over in France, where that fiend Napoleon was trying to scoop up all the countries over there before coming for England. Injured soldiers had a hard time, and so did their families. But widows and orphans were even worse off.

Maddie could be a widow. Why not? Start again where nobody knew her. Perhaps get work in a shop, or even – if the Frost Fair lasted long enough and the crowds remained as large – rent a shop: one that dressed ladies. Who better? Maddie almost sang as she tidied up tables and served more customers.

The Duke of Winshire came to talk to her after the veiled lady left. “I think you recognised the lady who joined me at my table,” he said.

“Discreet and comfortable, it says on the sign, Your Grace,” she told him. “I saw nothing and I know nothing. You can count on me, Sir.”

He examined her face, and must have been satisfied, for he smiled again. “Be sure that you speak of this to no one,” he advised, and she nodded.

He pressed something into her hand then turned away and unhurriedly joined his companions, who were waiting by the door.

Maddie watched him go before looking down. She knew it was a coin by the shape and size of it, but a spade guinea! She could get 27 shilling for that, easy. Why, even as a maid, she’d not made that much in a month! She hadn’t had any idea that keeping secrets could be so lucrative!

For the rest of the day, Maddie hummed as she worked. If just a few more people came to the tea booth seeking a place to hide their secrets, she and Nan would be in clover.

Comment to win

Tea was not the only beverage on sale. No doubt coffee and hot chocolate had their place, too, and all kinds of hot and cold alcoholic beverages. What would you want to drink and eat if you were attending a frost fair. Comment on this post, each of the other four, and the page on the Belles’ website to go into the draw for the main prize in the blog hop, a $50 US Amazon card.

All comments on this post will go in a draw for an e-copy of one the four earlier Bluestocking Belles’ collections, plus a copy of my Paradise Regained, the prequel to The Children of the Mountain King.

Next up: Anna’s Hot Roast Chestnuts!

Could ladies get a discreet cup of tea on the ice?

I don’t have any evidence that the 1814 Frost Fair included a tent where ladies of refinement could escape from the crush of the common people to purchase a good cup of tea, but why not? The ice offered entertainment for all classes and of all kinds, and not everyone enjoys mulled wine and copious quantities of ale.

My tea lady’s experience with the ton was not uncommon. A maid seduced or raped by a so-called gentleman was assumed to be of loose morals and carried all the consequences, while the gentleman was forgiven, because everyone knew that the lower classes were asking for it, and men couldn’t be blamed for taking what was offered.

The secret meeting touches on the matters in my series, Children of the Mountain King, but the main action here and in the rest of the blog hop is Fire & Frost. Don’t miss our five tales of love in a time of ice.

Fire & Frost

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.

Congratulations to Cheri, winner of the overall prize for the blog hop, and to Kimberly, who has won two ebooks: her choice of one of the Bluestocking Belles’ earlier collections (Holly and Hopeful Hearts, Never Too Late, Follow Your Star Home, or Valentines From Bath), plus a copy of my Paradise Regained.

by

Spotlight on Fire & Frost: Visit the Frost Faire

Starting tomorrow, the Bluestocking Belles are taking you on a tour of the 1814 Frost Faire. Start on this blog for a piece of short fiction, prizes, and more. Then follow the links to each of the booths in turn.

Or go to the Bluestocking Belles’ website for blog hop central, or to the blog Facebook page for more about the fair and links.

by

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.

by

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.)

 

by

Spotlight on Fire & Frost: The Umbrella Chronicles – Chester and Artemis’s Story

Another delightful story in the Chronicles of Aunt Harriett’s Umbrella of Destiny.

She felt his gaze everywhere and suddenly felt the earnestness behind his words. “Unbelievable,” she agreed and touched her hand to his cheek.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then, “I cannot believe I almost gave it all up—”
“The chance to argue with me?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “And to make up.”
“To shun society with me?”
“And to parade before them and show them how little we care.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Well, then there’s nothing for it, get on with it then.”
He pulled back as much as the length of her arms would allow. “It?”
She leaned in, and stood on her tip toes, closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Kiss me, my beast. Here, now.”
He didn’t hesitate, his arms wrapped around her, and he swooped in and kissed her. Finally.

 

Our heroine, who doesn’t take nonsense from anyone.

Lord Henry’s careful voice reached out. “Do I have one pound for this lovely basket of delights?”
Basil Driscoll, a man of dubious reputation, raised his hand, and Artie glanced to Theo, who looked alarmed. Whispers floated over the air, and Artie did her best to ignore them. Everything would work out in the end, she was sure. It was not like she was expected to be alone with the man. And she certainly wasn’t afraid.
Lord Henry nodded and looked out. “How about two pounds? Do I hear two?”
A tall, thin man stepped forward, hand raised. “Two pounds.”
Lord Henry asked, “And you are?”
The man bowed, his ears turning red. “Mr. Dorian Simmons, secretary to the Duke of Eastly; I’m bidding on his behalf.”
A collective gasp echoed around the room, and the harsh word, Beastly, could be heard on faint whispers beneath the din.
Artie darted a glance to Theo, who’d turned beet red and wore a look of utter embarrassment. “Your brother?” Artie mouthed.
Theo winced. “Sorry,” she mouthed back.
Artie turned away and crossed her arms. She’d never met the elusive duke, despite her friendship with Theo, but her friend was forever singing his praises. Reclusive beast or not, Theo’s brother or not, how dare the man think he could bid on her basket and not even bother to make an appearance. What? Was she expected to eat her own basket by herself? Would the secretary take off with it, take it to the elusive Duke, and leave her here alone?
Not if she had anything to say about it, even if she ended up having to fight off the advances of that fiend Driscoll as a result.
Lord Henry spoke up. “Do I hear three?”
Artie stood, ignoring Theo, who whispered sharply, “Artie. What are you doing?” and said, “Lord Henry, I’m afraid I cannot accept the last bid.”
Lord Henry smiled. “Come, dear. Surely you do not believe the rumors…”
Artie shook her head. “That is not my point. I will not accept a bid from a man who could not even bother to make an appearance or offer in person.”
She genuinely couldn’t abide the type of man who never lifted a finger but to order others around, particularly the servants or any that sort of man felt were beneath them. She imagined Eastly as a man pale from lack of sun and weak from dearth of exercise. Though that image didn’t fit the painting Theo had drawn in Artie’s mind. In Theo’s eyes, her brother was a veritable saint, the very image of perfection in manners, in mind, in form. Apart from the scars, of course. And strong. The outdoorsy, sporting type.
But perhaps, Theo didn’t see her brother as he truly was, rather maybe, she saw him through eyes filled with love.
Driscoll snickered.
Theo dropped her head into her hand.
Lord Henry glanced warily at Driscoll and said, “But Miss Synclaire, it’s for a good cause—”
Artie could feel the eyes of everyone in the room darting back and forth between her, Lord Henry, and Mr. Simmons. Her cheeks heated, and she lifted her chin. “Nevertheless—”
Driscoll shouted, “Three pounds!”
Everyone gasped.
Mr. Simmons pulled at his cravat and quickly rejoined with “F-four pounds.”
Lord Henry glanced to Artie, who crossed her arms and turned to the secretary. He may have pulled at his cravat, but she read determination in his eyes. He would not fail his employer. Well, then.
Artie turned back to Lord Henry. “All right. If Mr. Simmons wins the basket, I shall dine and dance with Mr. Simmons. Not His Grace. Clearly.” The din of voices grew louder at that pronouncement.

And our hero, the Beast.

He hadn’t intended to reveal himself. Nor to offer such an outrageous sum.
But he’d found her, in a word, magnificent.
Her eyes glimmered with intelligence and audaciousness; her posture suggested confidence and courage. Fire, wit, mettle, beauty…everything he’d ever dreamt of in a woman. He’d spoken before he’d even completed those thoughts. Who could blame him? He was only truly surprised there hadn’t been an all-out war for the opportunity to procure her basket.
She could have packed boiled turnips (he’d rather drink from the Thames), and he’d have still bid the same.
As Eastly entered the luncheon tent and approached her table, he spared a quick glance toward his sister, who had the good grace to offer him a sheepish smile. He’d deal with her later.
Then he caught sight of Aunt Harriett, who winked and raised her cup to him. He’d deal with her, too.
He focused on Miss Synclaire.
He was already consumed with the daring woman before him.
And she returned his gaze with such intensity, he momentarily forgot all about his scarring, not to mention the whispers of beast dripping from everyone’s lips. A first.
He’d been captivated the moment she stood and dared to risk the wrath of a Duke, particularly one with a reputation that was the stuff of children’s nightmares.
“Miss Synclaire.” He executed a flawless bow.
“Duke.” She dipped her head as she followed his movements with her eyes. Eyes that didn’t hold a trace of fear, merely interest.
The effect on his body was most inconvenient. Eastly pulled out his chair, and out of habit, checked its structural integrity. At six foot five, he was not a small man, and the delicate furniture so fashionable today was ill-suited to his size. The specimen groaning beneath his grip was no exception and was an example of one of many reasons why he preferred the comfort of his own home.
But there was nothing for it; he couldn’t very well stand. So, he hooked Harriett’s Umbrella on the back of the chair and sat. With extreme caution.
Miss Synclaire leaned to her left and watched. Slowly, she straightened. “Five pounds says it doesn’t last the hour.”

by

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.”

by

Tea with Harry

London

1919

Harry leaned his head into the wind. London’s weather proved as appalling as his grandfather remembered. He had three hours before the train left again, and he had been too restless to sit in the station. He left his friend Mac on a bench sipping a mug of hot black coffee while he wandered the streets his ancestors once walked.

He found himself drawn to an elegant square in Mayfair, and a grand old mansion. He couldn’t explain what drew him; it was just a feeling really. He stood for a long while staring up and the magnificent old place, while traffic zoomed by behind him, wondering if it could possibly be a private residence. Many of the grand houses had been turned into hospitals or schools. Some even housed museums. He gave into impulse and knocked on the door.

A man in the formal clothing of an earlier time greeted him. How odd, he thought. He soon found it even odder. “Welcome, Lieutenant Wheatly. Her Grace is waiting for you,” the strange man said.

“Her Grace?” Harry parroted.

“Yes. If you would follow me,” the man said. What else could Harry do? He followed.

The man led him to an elegant sitting room where a tiny woman with silvery hair and sparking blue eyes greeted him and invited him to sit. A wave of her hand brought a liveried footman with a cart containing tea and cakes. Conversation seemed unnecessary while they served Harry. What are these people? Reenactors?

“Pardon me, er, Your Grace, but what era are you meant to represent?”

“Era Harry? You are visiting me in 1819, but I’m getting ahead of myself,” the woman said.

Harry clamped his jaw shut. 1819? She must be mad.

“Let me explain. I am the Duchess of Haverford. I’ve known your family for generations. Why, your great grandfather visited me earlier this month. Of course he is just a gangly adolescent at the moment, and having rather a difficult time of it at Harrow.”

“My great grandfather? Randolph Wheatly?” He had been the last of Harry’s line to live in London, the first to migrate to Canada.  Randolph Wheatly died in 1893 when Harry was a toddler.

The duchess beamed at him as if he were a particularly bright school boy.

“The very one! You see, I know your family well, and so when I sensed your distress I had to reach out to you. It must be a very great distress indeed to come to me across… a century is it?” She gazed at him expectantly.

“A century. Surely you know it is 1919 and this…” he gestured around him with one hand, his expression troubled. “Confusing. What it is is confusing.”

The duchess chuckled. “I imagine it is. Let’s just say I knew you needed sympathy and a cup of tea and leave it at that. Don’t try to understand the rest.”

Harry felt his shoulders relax. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed such elegance. The chair and the tea were a far cry from army fare, and finer and more comfortable than even Rosemarie’s cottage—though he’d trade them in a heartbeat to be back with her.

“Suppose you tell me why you are in London and what troubles you,” the old woman said.

“I’m not staying here. I’m merely between trains,” he began. When she looked confused about “trains,” he wondered if he ought to explain the concept but decided not to. “I’m on my way to France to search for Rosemarie. We became separated in the last year of the war.”

“So much grief in time of war,” she murmured sympathetically. “I’m distraught to hear we’re at war with France again a hundred years from now. Does it never end?”

“Actually France was our ally. We fought the Germans for almost five years.”

“Which Germans?” she asked looking as puzzled as Harry felt. He recalled that the various German states unified late in the 1800s, long after this woman’s time.

He stared at her. Can this all be real? Surely not. “All of them, Your Grace,” he muttered.

She said something under her breath about never trusting Prussians, but she smiled up at him immediately. “Tell me about this Rosemarie. Why are you searching for her?”

“I need to reserve space on a repatriation ship to bring her to Canada. For that I need a marriage certificate. But I can’t marry her if I can’t find her. I’ve been given leave and I’m on my way back to Amiens to search for her and Marcel.”

“And who is Marcel?”

“Her son. Soon to be mine, I hope,” he replied.

“How wonderful! You are a fine young man, Harry Wheatly. Your great grandfather will be proud of you.”

“Now you best hurry. You won’t want to miss that… train, did you call it?”

He surged to his feet. “Yes train, and I most certainly don’t want to miss it. Thank you for the tea, Your Grace. It has been entertaining.”

“I’m glad to give you a respite. Now go find your Rosemarie, and God go with you.”

Moments later he stepped out of the mansion onto a busy street and rushed away dodging cars and rain puddles in the direction of St. Pancras Station.

Harry is the hero of  Christmas Hope, a wartime story in four parts, each one ending on Christmas, 1916-19.

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

A wartime romance in four parts, each ending on Christmas, 1916-1919.

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

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

Buy links:
Barnes & Noble * Kobo * Apple 

Amazon: US * UK * CA * AU * IN

See yesterday’s post for an excerpt, a biography of the author, and a link to a blog tour and giveaway.

by

Sunday Spotlight on Christmas Hope

A compelling story of love in impossible circumstances

I loved this book.

Caroline Warfield invariably engages our hearts, and Christmas Hope is no exception. Harry has the heart of a poet; a heart that is sickened by life with the Canadian Forces in the trenches of WWI. Rosemarie is a widow struggling to feed herself and her son, Marcel, while withering under the contempt of small-minded locals. Harry’s hunt for his lost bible brings them together. For Harry, Rosemarie and Marcel come to represent all that is good and peaceful. For Rosemarie, Harry is a light in the darkness.

The book follows them through four years, each ending in a Christmas, as their relationship deepens in brief encounters stolen out of the ruinous war. Even the end of the war does not bring peace for this small would-be family — Rosemarie has been evacuated out of the path of the battles, and she and Harry have lost touch with one another.

Part 4 of the book is set in 1919, beginning as Harry faces repatriation from Wales to Canada, his father’s well-meant interference in his future, and the influenza that devastated the post-war world. Rosemarie leaves her son with his uncle to search for her beloved. Nothing is easy.

I enjoy Warfield’s decent men and courageous women. Harry might just be one of my favourites. I particularly cherished his scenes with Marcel. As for Rosemarie, watching her overcome obstacle after obstacle, including her own self doubt, broke my heart — but I trusted Warfield to mend it again, and she did. Right at the eleventh hour, which is the best time, in a novel.

I strongly recommend Christmas Hope.

Christmas Hope

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

A wartime romance in four parts, each ending on Christmas, 1916-1919.

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

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

Buy links:
Barnes & Noble * Kobo * Apple 

Amazon: US * UK * CA * AU * IN

Excerpt

Harry woke with a stab of fear. He reared up, groping for his rifle, afraid he had fallen asleep on duty.

He sank back into the bed as awareness flooded in. No enemy lurked. He reposed in soft covers in an unfamiliar room, his clothes had gone missing, and he wasn’t alone. A small boy watched him steadily from the doorway. Memory flooded back—fleeing from Lens, frantic to get to Rosemarie. He hadn’t deserted; he’d gotten leave or rather had it thrust on him with orders from Captain Mitchell to come back whole. He remembered a frantic journey, reaching her cottage, falling against the door, and not much else.

“You are dirty,” the boy said, approaching the bed. Harry ran a hand across the stubble on his face. It came away filthy.

“Apparently so. And you are tall, much too tall to be Marcel.”

The boy stiffened in offense. “I am Marcel. I am three.” He held up three fingers.

Before Harry could think what to say next the boy ran to the stairs shouting, “Maman, ‘arry is awake!”

His soldier’s instinct took stock of his surroundings. The room spread out under peaked roof beams. He doubted he could stand upright anywhere but the center of the room; it had only one way out, the direction Marcel had taken. He had slept in an actual bed. Rosemarie’s bed, it has to be. Did we share it? He thought not. If we had, I would certainly remember.

The blankets he lay in were worn and mended, but warm enough and clean—at least they had been until he lay in them. Since whoever took his clothing left his drawers and nothing else, he thought it best to stay nested where he lay. A tiny window at the peak of the roof let in a beam of light. It appeared to be slanted low in the sky. Does that window face east or west? Did I awake at dawn or sleep round the clock?

He could hear the boy talking with his mother and the sounds of pots and pans. Sharp awareness told him one more thing. Somewhere in this haven, fresh bread baked, sweet dough, he thought. His mouth began to water. With that, came the realization of gnawing hunger.

He debated what to do, undressed and feeble as he was. He envisioned Rosemarie fussing over her baking, and an even greater hunger overcame him, one he might do well to tame before he got out from the covers.

Her appearance in the doorway, his own vision of heaven itself, carrying a basin of steaming water, saved him the decision.

She put it on the little three-drawer chest against the opposite wall, along with the towel and rag she had over her arm.

“You’ll want to wash up,” she said. “I’m sorry we have no bathing tub. I found Raoul’s robe in storage,” she added, pointing to a purple robe draped over a trunk. The trunk, Marcel’s pallet at the foot of the bed, and a chest of drawers furnished the tiny room. She looked oddly shy, as if having him tucked in her bed with her late husband’s things nearby made her awkward.

Raoul. He had forgotten the husband, long dead now. The acid of pointless jealousy ate at him, and he could think of nothing to say. He sat up, letting the blanket fall to his lap, and her eyes dropped to the floor, but not before he caught the heat when she spied his naked chest. The jealousy fell away.

For more about the book and a giveaway, go to Silver Dagger Tours. The stops are near the foot of their tour post, and the Rafflecopter is under that.

Meet Caroline Warfield

Caroline Warfield

Award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Visit Caroline’s Website and Blog                http://www.carolinewarfield.com/

Meet Caroline on Facebook                          https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7

Follow Caroline on Twitter                            https://twitter.com/CaroWarfield

Email Caroline directly                                   warfieldcaro@gmail.com

Subscribe to Caroline’s newsletter            http://www.carolinewarfield.com/newsletter/

Amazon Author                                                   http://www.amazon.com/Caroline-Warfield/e/B00N9PZZZS/

Goodreads                     https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8523742.Caroline_Warfield

Bookbub                                             https://www.bookbub.com/profile/caroline-warfield

 

 

Caroline’s Other Books

Amazon                       https://www.amazon.com/Caroline-Warfield/e/B00N9PZZZS/

Bookshelf                      http://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf

by

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

 

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

The first said:

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

The second was a review of the same book.

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

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

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

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

by

Run, don’t walk, to buy Unexpected Wife

I was introduced to Caroline Warfield’s books when I read her first published novel, Dangerous Works, and within a few pages knew she was giving me everything I want in an historical romance. Well-rounded characters I cared about. Stories soundly grounded in historical fact, including real challenges and issues consistent with the times. Interesting plots with unexpected but logical twists. A solid passion between the hero and heroine ending in a commitment that I can expect to last well beyond the last page of the book.

Each book in the Dangerous series just got better and better, and the novella A Dangerous Nativity was just plain funny, besides. I loved the three delightful boys and their plan to put on a nativity scene with animals in all the parts.

You can imagine how excited I was when she spoke about Children of Empire, in which the three boys, now grown and estranged (thanks to a vicious lying harpy), each have a book. The story of Canadian timber baron, Rand, is told in The Renegade Wife. Fred, who went into the army, meets the love of his life in The Reluctant Wife. Charles, the Duke of Murnane, appeared in the story for each of his cousins. Good as they were, each better than the last, I was holding out to hear what happened to Charles. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Take everything I said about Dangerous Works and magnify it. The Unexpected Wife stars my beloved Charles, as wonderful as ever, and a heroine who is worthy of him. Zambuk is brilliant, passionate, magnificent — and deeply frustrated at the constraints on her as a woman. Together, they face the challenges posed by her opium-addicted brother, rogue Western traders determined to break the Chinese ban on opium, a Chinese magistrate dedicated to stamping out the vile trade, small-minded gossip, and Charles’s wicked wife.

Who could ask for more? A sigh-worthy ending goes without saying in a Warfield book. And I know I’ve said it before, but this is Caroline’s best yet.  Can’t wait to see what she does in her next series.

Giveaway

To celebrate the launch, Caroline will give a copy of any of her books to one randomly selected person who comments. They can choose from the books found here: http://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/

 

The Duke of Murnane expects work to heal him. He doesn’t expect to face his past and find his future in China

Charles Wheatly, Duke of Murnane, accepts an unofficial fact finding mission to the East India Company’s enclave in Canton, China on behalf of the queen. He anticipates intrigue, international tensions, and an outlet for his grief over the death of his young son. He isn’t entirely surprised when he also encounters the troublesome offspring of his mentor, the Duke of Sudbury, but the profound love he discovers for the determined young woman is unforeseen and untimely. Charles certainly doesn’t expect to also face his troubled marriage in such an exotic locale. The appearance of his estranged wife in the company of their enemy throws the entire enterprise into conflict, and tensions boil over when the woman he loves is put at risk by his wife’s scheming—and the beginnings of the First Opium War.

Zambak Hayden seethes with frustration. A woman her age has occupied the throne for over a year, yet the Duke of Sudbury’s line of succession still passes over her—his eldest—to land on a son with neither spine nor character. She follows her brother, the East India Company’s newest and least competent clerk, to Macau to protect him and to safeguard the family honor—if she also escapes the gossip and intrigues of London and the marriage mart, so much the better. She has no intention of being forced into some sort of dynastic marriage, and she may just refuse to marry at all. The greed and corruption she finds horrifies her, especially when her brother succumbs to the lure of opium. She determines to document the truth. When an old family friend arrives she assumes her father sent him. She isn’t about to bend to his dictates nor give up her quest. Her traitorous heart, however, can’t stop yearning for a man she can’t have.

As an epic historical drama unfolds around them, both Charles and Zambak must come to terms with a love that neither expected.

PREORDER LINKS (ebook only) — published 25 July

US  ♥  UK  ♥  Canada    ♥  EuroZone   ♥   India

The Trailer:                 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CQ9QWkqLvw

Bookbub   ♥  Book Trailer   ♥    Book Page    ♥  Pinterest Storyboard

Excerpt

At the mention of Jarratt her stomach clenched, and a vile taste crept into her mouth. “What else,” she rasped.

Charles looked down. His sigh sounded deep and weary. “Elliot fears the Chinese response will eventually ensnare an English user or dealer. If they arrest someone or threaten violence he may be forced to act.”

If Thorn is as closely allied to the opium dens as Jarratt implied—and out of his senses from the narcotic—he could be… cow turds!

“Charles, I have to get to my brother. I can’t leave him in Jarratt’s circle.”

The duke’s eyes held hers until she felt him boring into her soul. He put out a comforting hand, and she gripped it to steady herself. “How exactly do you propose to do that, Zambak?” he asked.

“Jarratt said to come back. I’ll go tomorrow. He implied Thorn might be well, might be willing to come with me.”

“We’ll go tomorrow,” he corrected.

She stiffened in outrage for a moment before Jarratt’s face leered at her in memory, and she sagged toward Charles. When he cupped her cheek with one hand and searched her face, she thought for an insane moment he meant to kiss her. Absurd. Charles is a married man, and we’re friends. Only friends.

“We’ll go together, Zambak. We will get Thorn help together.”

Together. Relief flooded her. She had thought that accepting help made her weak, but the tenderness in the duke’s eyes gave her strength.

Author bio

Award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Visit Caroline’s Website and Blog

Meet Caroline on Facebook 

Follow Caroline on Twitter