House of Thorns

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Spotlight on Grasp the Thorn

Grasp the Thorn

An accident brings them together. Will a scandal tear them apart?

Bear Gavenor has retired from war and built a business restoring abandoned country manors to sell to the newly rich. He’d like to settle in one himself and raise a family, but the marriage mart is full of harpies like his mother.

Rosa Neatham’s war is just starting. Penniless and evicted from her home, she despairs of being able to care for her invalid father. When she returns to her former home to pick his favourite flower, she is injured in a fall.

Bear, the new occupant of the cottage, offers shelter to her and her father. When scandal erupts, he offers more. He wants a family. She needs a protector. A marriage of convenience will suit them both, and perhaps grow to be more.

When secrets, self-doubts, and old feuds threaten to destroy their budding relationship, can they grasp the thorn of scandal to gather the rose of love?

Excerpt

Rosa blushed, and allowed him to capture her hands.

“Yes, I will marry you, Mr Gavenor.”

He bent from his great height and brushed her lips with his. “Then you had better call me Bear, as my friends do. Or Hugh, if you prefer. My great aunt used to call me Hugh.”

“Hugh, then. Thank you, Hugh. I shall try to be a good wife.”

He kissed her again, another butterfly touch of the lips, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the dresser. Now her face was level with his.

“That is better,” he murmured against her mouth. Then his lips met hers again, not a mere brush this time, but a gentle and inexorable advance, setting her lips tingling and taking her breath. His hands slid behind her, pulling her against his chest, so he stood between her open knees, his body pressed tightly to hers.

No, just one hand hugged her, for the other came up behind her head, and tipped it slightly, holding it in place as his lips moved against hers and his tongue swept the seam of her shut mouth once, twice, and again. He hummed with satisfaction when she parted her lips a little, letting his tongue dart inside, and her whole body hummed with pleasure.

Pelman had subjected her to a kiss once; an awkward, embarrassing thing, with her twisting to escape and him boxing her into a corner and pawing her body while he slobbered on her face. The new Lord Hurley, who had also propositioned her when he first arrived at the Hall, had respected her refusal. In fact, he had rather avoided her, and had left again not long after the will was read.

Pelman laughed when she said ‘no’ and waylaid her when she was alone. It had, until now, been her only experience of the pastime, and she had not seen the appeal.

It was very different being the focus of Bear’s undivided attention, the recipient of his tender passion.

She lost herself in the new feelings, grasping his shoulders to bring herself closer to his body, trying her best to imitate the movements of his mouth and tongue.

He pulled away, and rested his forehead on hers, still holding her close. “We had best stop, Rosabel. You are to be my wife, and worthy of all respect, and I have no intention of tupping you on the kitchen dresser. At least, not until we are wed.”

Rosa reluctantly let him go, and he stepped back a little so he could lift her down to the floor. She was pleased to see he looked almost as dazed as she felt.

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Spotlight on a SNAFU

Ouch. If you want me, I’m in my table cave sucking my thumb. I’m not adulting today.

If you pre-ordered House of Thorns or bought it on release day, you may have opened it to find somebody else’s book in my cover. Amazon sent out the wrong file. They seem to have fixed it; I bought a copy myself yesterday to check, and got the right book. But if you have the wrong one, please do one of the following:

  • send it back to Amazon for a refund and buy it again
  • email Scarsdale Publishing for a new copy (scarsdale@scarsdalepublishing.com).

That kind of took the shine off release day. And the two one-star reviews on Amazon UK from people who didn’t like not getting my book made me want to cry.

Ah well. It’ll all come out in the wash, as my mother used to say. To cheer us all up, here’s the video trailer I made for release day.

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Tea with Bear and Lion

 

Lord Ruthford’s friend had little to say for himself, letting Ruthford carry the conversation with Eleanor while he listened with every evidence of interest. Ruthford was answering Eleanor’s questions about the health of Lady Ruthford, who was soon to deliver her second child. “We must be boring Mr Gavenor,” Eleanor said, when she was satisfied with Ruthford’s responses. “What brings you to London, Mr Gavenor?”

Gavenor examined her face while he considered his answer. Eleanor could see how he got his nickname ‘Bear’. He was unquestionably a large man, both broad and tall, but he handled her delicate little china cups with elegant ease, his speech was that of an educated gentleman, and his clothing — though tailored for ease of movement — was of the highest quality.

“I have a matter of business, Your Grace,” he said at last.

“And then he must be home to his wife.” Ruthford grinned as he spoke. “Bear has recently married, duchess, and should really be back in Cheshire with his Rosa, not here in London traipsing around dusty old houses with me.”

Gavenor took the teasing in good part, his smile genuine. “And Lion should be home making sure Lady Ruthford takes a sleep in the afternoon and a gentle walk after supper,” he responded, proving that he had been listening when Eleanor instructed his friend. Lion was the name by which most of his friends knew Ruthford — most of England, now, since the team of daring soldiers Ruthford had led behind enemy lines during the war was now known far and wide as Lion’s Zoo. Lion, Bear, Centaur, Fox. They all had fanciful animal names, and Eleanor was pleased to see that at least some of them remained friends even two years after they were disbanded.

“Tell me more about your wife, Mr Gavenor,” she said. “What is her name?”

Bear and Rosa are the hero and heroine of House of Thorns, currently on pre-release and to be published this Friday.

***

Bear explains his marriage to Lion in the following excerpt.

“Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story came easily. “Then a few days after the wedding, I got your message and came to London. So I hope you’re in a hurry to get back to Lady Ruthford, for I do not mean to linger here one day more than I need to.”

“I beg your pardon? A few days after the wedding? You married this paragon then abandoned her a few days after the wedding? Why on earth didn’t you write back and tell me to go soak my head?”

Bear’s guilty wince didn’t go unnoticed.

“You and the lady have had a falling out.”

“Not precisely. Rosa doesn’t… That is to say, I thought some distance might help, but Rosa is not one to nurse a grudge. She writes charming letters, and I write back. When I get home, we will put it behind us.”

“If you will take advice from a man married four years longer than you, when you get back to Mrs. Gavenor, discuss whatever it was and clear up any misunderstandings. She is very likely blaming herself for whatever came between you. Women do.”

“Surely not! It was my fault entirely. At least… Lion, I thought virgins bled.” Lord. I did not say that out loud, did I?

Lion took a sip of coffee. “Not that my experience is vast, but I don’t believe it to be an inevitable rule. It depends on the age of the woman, on what kinds of physical activities she has done—my own wife rode astride as a girl and… Well. Let’s leave it at that. And the man’s patience is important.”

Bear groaned. “I should probably be hanged.”

“I see.”

He probably did, too. The ability to pick up small clues and draw correct conclusions was one of his great assets as a commander, and he knew Bear better than anyone else in the world.

“You believed the rumors about her and you still married her?”

“No! At least, I thought they were mostly malicious lies. They started only after her father was no longer able to protect her, and the people most assiduous in pushing them all had an axe to grind.”

“This Pelman wanted to coerce her into bed and used the family feud with her respectable cousins.”

“In a nutshell. Dammit, Lion, it’s obvious to me now. She kissed like an innocent. I thought she was just shy, or nervous about being interrupted by the servants.”

“Ah well. Women are told their first time will be painful, though it is not necessarily so.” He smiled as if at a fond memory, then recalled himself and continued. “You made sure she enjoyed her second time, I assume.” He raised his brows again. “No. You rushed off to London, instead. Bear, tell me you didn’t let the poor lady know you thought she had had previous lovers.” Bear grimaced.

“You did.” Lion wagged his head from side to side. “Bear, Bear, what are we going to do with you? So, there she is miserable in Cheshire because her husband insulted then abandoned her. Here you are miserable in London because you have made a mess of things and don’t know how to put it right. Go home, Bear. Talk to your wife.”

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Kissing on Sunday

I have three new releases in the next few weeks: House of Thorns on 26 October, Abbie’s Wish in Christmas Wishes on Main Street on 1 November, and Paradise Regained in Follow Your Star Home on 4 November. Here’s a kiss from each.

House of Thorns, with Bear and Rosa

He kissed her again, another butterfly touch of the lips, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the dresser. Now her face was level with his.

“That is better,” he murmured against her mouth. Then his lips met hers again, not a mere brush this time, but a gentle and inexorable advance, setting her lips tingling and taking her breath. His hands slid behind her, pulling her against his chest, so he stood between her open knees, his body pressed tightly to hers.

No, just one hand hugged her, for the other came up behind her head, and tipped it slightly, holding it in place as his lips moved against hers and his tongue swept the seam of her shut mouth once, twice, and again. He hummed with satisfaction when she parted her lips a little, letting his tongue dart inside, and her whole body hummed with pleasure.

Pelman had subjected her to a kiss once; an awkward, embarrassing thing, with her twisting to escape and him boxing her into a corner and pawing her body while he slobbered on her face. The new Lord Hurley, who had also propositioned her when he first arrived at the Hall, had respected her refusal. In fact, he had rather avoided her, and had left again not long after the will was read.

Pelman laughed when she said ‘no’ and waylaid her when she was alone. It had, until now, been her only experience of the pastime, and she had not seen the appeal.

It was very different being the focus of Bear’s undivided attention, the recipient of his tender passion.

She lost herself in the new feelings, grasping his shoulders to bring herself closer to his body, trying her best to imitate the movements of his mouth and tongue.

He pulled away, and rested his forehead on hers, still holding her close. “We had best stop, Rosabel. You are to be my wife, and worthy of all respect, and I have no intention of tupping you on the kitchen dresser. At least, not until we are wed.”

Rosa reluctantly let him go, and he stepped back a little so he could lift her down to the floor. She was pleased to see he looked almost as dazed as she felt. “Would you call me Rosa?” she asked.

“If you wish, though Rosabel suits you. Beautiful rose. My beautiful Rosa.” He still held her waist, and he leaned forward to drop a kiss on her hair. “I will move to the village this afternoon, Rosa, and will ask the rector to post the banns tomorrow.”

On prerelease at 99c from Amazon

Abbie’s Wish, with Claudia and Ethan

Ethan squeezed Claudia’s hand, trying to lend her his strength. She squeezed back as she answered. “Just Carly and Trent. And their children.”

“Okay.” The voice sounded smug. “Don’t call the police. Just be waiting. Alone. One of your friends can drop you off but they had better be gone by the time I get there, or else. You and I are going to take a little trip.”

“And you’ll let Abbie go?” Claudia asked.

“Abbie will be fine. As long as you follow instructions.”

Beep. He had ended the call. Claudia turned to Ethan, her eyes huge and swimming in a face drained of color, . Her own arms hugging him as if he was the one solid rock in a stormy world reassured him, and he dropped a kiss on her hair.

“We’ll get her back, Claudia,” he vowed.

(Waiting for links. Watch this space.)

Paradise Regained, with James and Mahzad

She was avoiding his eyes, bending over her weapons, putting the arrows neatly away into the quiver and unstringing the bow. “They said you refused to go and that you told your father’s men that you would not leave your wife.” She whirled back to face him, snarling in her turn. “I say little difference if you did, since you are never here anyway and spend no time with me when you are.”

James was reeling from her dozen blows, some of which had got completely under his guard, but this last remark matched so closely to his own feelings about Mahzad that he struck back.

“You’re the one who is always busy and who never has time for me. You are too busy being katan and mother and friend to everyone in the valley. You’ve made it more than clear you don’t need me, and you don’t want me around.” He took a step closer toward her, crowding her against the table. “But this is my valley. They are my children. You are my wife. It’s about time you remembered that.”

He seized her and forced his mouth down on hers, intending a punishing kiss that overwhelmed her defenses and reminded her he was master in this area as in others, but she met his force with her own passion, softening under his invasion, molding her body to his as she clutched his head to pull him closer. His original intent forgotten, he poured all his longing into the kiss, trying to communicate his love and his frustration, losing himself in the touch and smell and sound of this one woman who was to him above all others.

Until she broke the kiss and shoved him away. “I cannot believe you blame me for all this,” she said. “Just like a man.”

And she stalked away, leaving him alone.

Follow Your Star Home, preorder links on the Belle’s website

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Dwellings on WIP Wednesday

 

Where do your characters live? And do you describe the place? This week, I’m looking for an excerpt that gives us a sense of a dwelling place that you describe in your work in progress. As always, give your excerpt in the comments so we can all enjoy it.

Mine is from House of Thorns. It is the house Rosa moved to after she was evicted to make way for the new owner.

Bear shook his head. He’d seen many such warts on the landscape; some landowner’s idea of workers’ housing, tucked into any corner — however unsuitable — that placed them out of sight of the local landowners and those they wished to impress.

Miss Neatham could not possibly live here. Bear looked for a street name, but there was none. He tried the key she had given him in the door of the third house on the left. What the hell had Pelman been thinking, putting a lady of Miss Neatham’s refinement in a slum like this?

Bear pushed the door open and let himself into a narrow hall, where he removed his coat and hat, and looked around a little helplessly for a hook or a rack or even a chair to lay them over. In the end, he draped the coat over the newel post of the staircase, and put the hat on the floor by the door. Puddles began to spread across the bare board beneath both. At least he wasn’t destroying Miss Neatham’s carpet.

Where would he find the father? He called out. “Mr. Neatham?!”

All he heard was the rain driving viciously against the outside of the house and his coat dripping on the floor.

Bedridden, she had said. Upstairs then. “Mr. Neatham?” He repeated the call at the turn of the stairs, and again when he reached the landing.

“Who’s there?” the voice from the room at the end of the short passage above the stairwell shook with fear or age, or perhaps both.  “Who’s there? Go away! I am armed. Rosie? Rosie, someone is in the house. Run, Rosie. Get the constable.”

Bear pushed open the door to find an elderly man, not much larger than the rose thief herself, propped up on pillows in his bed, clutching a sheet to his chest, his eyes wide. He flourished a candlestick, his gaunt wrinkled face showing more terror than aggression.

Bear stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Neatham, your Rosie sent me.”

Mr. Neatham lifted his chin and sniffed. “I do not know you, sir.” The voice, thready with age, bore the same hallmarks of birth and education that distinguished his daughter’s.

Bear bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. Hugh Gavenor, at your service.”

The room contained little beside the man and the bed. The corner of the bedside table rested on a stack of broken brick in lieu of a leg. A battered trunk and a few garments hung on hooks along one wall completed the room’s furnishings. The room was clean, almost painfully so, except the strong smell of fresh urine hinted another clean — of the frail body before him — was overdue.

Neatham seemed to have forgotten his alarm in his puzzlement. “Gavenor? I know no Gavenors.”

“I purchased Thorne Hall.” Bear stepped toward the bed, stopped, and waited for Neatham to react to his approach.

 

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Cover reveal — House of Thorns

 

Later this month, all going well, Scarsdale will publish House of Thorns as part of their Inconvenient Marriage series. Last week, they sent me the cover. What do you think? I’ll give you preorder links as soon as I have them.

House of Thorns

Bear Gavenor has fled the marriage mart for the familiarity of his work; restoring abandoned country manors to sell to the newly rich. He doesn’t expect to find a potential wife stealing his roses.

Lying gossip has driven Rosa Neatham from respectable employment, and now she has been turned out of her home to make way for the new owner. But a fleeting return to collect some roses for her ailing father changes her fortunes.

In a marriage that offers more inconvenience than convenience, can this unlikely couple beat gossip, misunderstandings, and their own self doubts to find happiness?

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The first meeting on WIP Wednesday

This crucial scene in a romance novel is sometimes called the meet cute. Received wisdom is that it needs to happen early in the book, perhaps on the first page. Myself, I’ve never been good at Rules, so I’ve written books where the meet cute is delayed — in one case, until the middle of the book. (But I did have an alternative hero as a stand-in for the first half.)

This week, I’m inviting authors to give me their meet cute, that first meeting when sparks fly. Mine is from House of Thorns, which is coming out as part of the Scarsdale Publishing Marriages of Inconvenience line, and which I’m currently editing. Does it count as a meet cute if the heroine is unconscious?

The intruder stealing his roses had lovely ankles.

Bear Gavenor paused at the corner of the house, the better to enjoy the sight. The scraping of wood on stone had drawn him from the warmth of the kitchen, where the only fire in this overgrown cottage kept the unseasonable chill at bay. He placed each foot carefully and silently—not from stealth but from long habit. The woman perched precariously on the rickety ladder seemed oblivious to his presence.

Or, his sour experiences in London suggested, she knew full well, and her display was for his benefit. Certainly, the sight was having an effect. Her skirt rose as she stretched, showing worn but neat walking boots. Her inadequate jacket molded to curves that dried his mouth. Wind plastered her skirts to lower curves that had him hardening in an instant, visions of plunder screaming into his mind.

It had been too long since his last willing widow.

Disgust at his own weakness as much as irritation at the invasion of his privacy, fueled Bear’s full-throated roar. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing with my roses?”

She jerked around, then cried out as the rung she stood on snapped free of the upright. Bear lunged toward her as the ladder slid sideways. One upright caught on the tangle of rose branches and the other continued its descent. The woman threw out both hands but the branch she grasped snapped free and — before Bear could throw himself under her — she crashed onto the ground.

If the fall was deliberate — which would not surprise him after some of the things women had done to attract his attention — she had made too good a job of it. She lay still and white in a crumpled heap, her head lying on a corner of a flagstone in the path. He dropped to one knee beside her and slipped a hand into the rich hair. His fingers came away bloody.

As he ran his hands swiftly over the rest of her body, checking for anything that seemed twisted out of shape or that hurt enough to rouse her, a large drop of rain splashed onto his neck, followed by a spattering of more and then a deluge. He cursed as he lifted the woman and ran into the house through the garden doors that opened from the room he’d chosen for his study.

She was a bare handful, lighter than she should have been for her height, though well-endowed in all the right places. He set her on the sofa and straightened. He needed a doctor, but didn’t want to leave her while he fetched one. If the small village nearby even had a doctor.

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In praise of editors

I got the edits on House of Thorns back from Scarsdale Publishing a couple of days ago. This is the first time I’ve worked with a publisher, and so far I’m enjoying the experience. My draft looks, as one of my friends said about hers, as if Casey cut open a vein and bled all over it, but it’s going to be a much better book for her input.

It’s not the first time I’ve worked with an editor, of course. For a start, I am an editor. In my day job editing commercial and government documents into plain language I work with a whole team of editors. Nothing goes out of our office without being peer reviewed, so I’m edited all the time. From that experience, I came to fiction writing knowing the value of an educated eye. We get too close to our own work to be able to see its flaws — or, for that matter, its strengths. So I’ve employed editors since I started indie publishing, either paying for them or swapping manuscripts.

Good books are a collaborative process.

The author tells the story, perhaps entirely alone but more likely hashing out difficult plot points with a trusted friend, ringing or emailing specialists for a bit of expert knowledge, checking facts through research using information collected by other people. For my books set in places I’ve never been, I watch YouTube videos, read books (guide books, historians’ studies of the place and time, contemporary letters and diaries), study maps, go through local newspapers from the time period, and in many other ways draw on the work of others.

In my process, I then give it an edit and send it to beta readers; a group of early readers who will look at the half-cooked story and give me their reactions.

Another edit from me and it’s ready for the developmental editor to cut open a vein and bleed red ink everywhere.

My turn again. Time to make it better. I’ll often at this stage trial rewritten sections with the editor, or anyone else who will sit still long enough, until I’m sure I’ve got them right.

Next is a copy edit, and finally a proofread.

I say finally, but of course lots more has to happen. While the book has been off being rebuilt, tuned, and polished, we’ve been making the cover. And the production process involves adding the hair I tear out to the editor’s blood. Producing the stories you read is a very messy business. I’m looking forward to leaving that side of it to Scarsdale.

But that’s in the future for House of Thorns. Just for now I’m going to be grateful for editors.

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Tea with Lion

The Earl of Ruthford waited while his godmother exchanged a hug and a kiss with his lovely countess, and then saluted Her Grace with his own kiss.

“It is always lovely to see you, Godmama,” he said, his blue eyes alight with humour.

Dorothy, who had not yet regained her full strength since the birth of Lion’s heir, sank into the chair the duchess indicated and immediately betrayed her hovering spouse. “Lion has been speculating about your intentions ever since your invitation arrived, Your Grace.”

The duchess laughed. “Dorothy, my dear, please call me Aunt Eleanor, as your husband does when he is not determined to be provocative. And Lion, must I have an ulterior motive for inviting you?”

“Must is a strong word, Aunt Eleanor,” Lion agreed. “Let us just say that I have reason to believe you may be taking an interest in a friend of mine. Bear, is it not?”

The duchess showed her surprise by the merest twitch of her eyebrows, then smiled. “Well done, Lion. Let me pour your wife a cup of tea, and you shall tell me all about Bear Gavenor, his spontaneous marriage, and his unlikely bride.”

Lion is a secondary character in House of Thorns, currently with the editors at Scarsdale Press and with a tentative publication month of September.

Here’s a short excerpt, in which my hero, Bear, tries to explain his marriage to Lion, his former colonel.

He turned from the tray to find his former officer sitting straight behind his desk, his hands folded together on his blotter, his eyes steady on Bear’s face, a small smile playing around his mouth. “Confession time, my son. Tell Father Lion everything. Whom have you married, when, and why?”

Bear said nothing while he brought his coffee over to the desk and seated himself on one of the robust pieces of furniture that Lion’s wife had bought for her husband’s sanctuary. “For you are mostly giants,” she had informed his friends, “and I want you all to be comfortable.”

Lion raised an eyebrow at Bear’s continued silence. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just… complicated.” Where to begin?

“Not one of the London debutantes you were so scathing about this past Season, poor little girls.”

“Poor little feather-wits and rapacious harpies.”

“So you said in April, to my wife’s despair, for she had introduced you to the nicest girls she knew.”

“Not her fault. I was too old for them, Lion, as you said at the time.”

“And too nice for a widow. Have you married a widow?”

“I wasn’t against marrying a widow. Just not one who was having such a good time kicking up her heels in London that I feared spending my remaining days waiting for her to bump me off so she could do it again, with my money.”

“Avoiding the question, Bear? How bad is it? Sorry. How complicated.”

“She’s not too young. Not too old, either. Thirty-six.”

Lion said nothing, but his eyebrows lifted in the questions he was not speaking.

How to explain Rosa. Bear was barely conscious of the helpless wave of his hand as he considered and rejected several sentences. “She suits me, Lion.”

“A pertinent fact, but not a history. I can see an interrogation is required. What is the name of this not-old lady, and where did you meet?”

“Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story was easy to tell, and Lion had always been an excellent listener.

“Then a few days after the wedding I got your message and came to London. So I hope you’re in a hurry to get back to Lady Ruthford, for I do not mean to linger here one day more than I need to.”

“I beg your pardon? A few days after the wedding? You married this paragon then abandoned her a few days after the wedding? Why on earth didn’t you write back and tell me to go soak my head?”

Bear’s guilty wince didn’t go unnoticed, because Lion’s eyes sharpened.

“You and the lady have had a falling out.”

“Not precisely. Rosa doesn’t… That is to say, I thought some distance might help, but Rosa is not one to nurse a grudge. She writes charming letters, and I write back. When I get home, we will put it behind us.”

“If you will take advice from a man who has been married four years longer than you, Bear, when you get back to Mrs. Gavenor, discuss whatever it was and clear up any misunderstandings. She is very likely blaming herself for whatever came between you. Women do.”

“Surely not! It was my fault entirely. At least… Lion, I thought virgins bled.” Lord. I did not say that out loud, did I?

Lion didn’t turn a hair, but just took a sip of his coffee. “Not that my experience is vast, but I don’t believe it to be an inevitable rule, no. It depends on the age of the woman, on what kinds of physical activities she has done — my own wife rode astride as a girl and… Well. Let’s leave it at that. And the man’s patience is important.”

Bear groaned. “I should probably be hanged.”

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The right (or the wrong) clothes on WIP Wednesday

 

People say it shouldn’t matter, but it does. When you know you are well dressed, in clothes that suit you and that are suitable for the occasion, you can relax and enjoy yourself. Clothing that gives a character confidence, or clothing that doesn’t work, is often a feature of a story, making us sympathetic to the character or showing some aspect of their personality.

So this week, I’m looking for extracts that describe what your character is wearing and how they feel about it. Mine is from House of Thorns.

As her betrothed assisted her into his chaise on Sunday morning, Rosa was conscious of two conflicting emotions. One was relief that she could leave the house for long enough to attend the church service, since the new maids had shown themselves both willing and able to look after her father in her absence. The other was trepidation. She and Bear would be the center of attention once the banns were read for the first time. The Pelmans and the Thrextons would find something to censure, made up or real, and they had their supporters in the village.

I would feel more confident if I had something suitable to wear, she thought.

Bear had dressed for the occasion, pale breeches and stockings, a dark blue coat over an embroidered waistcoat with a creamy froth of lace at neck and cuff. He didn’t favor the excesses they showed in the fashion magazines she sometimes saw at the village shop, but the materials were of the best quality and beautifully cut to fit his frame.

Rosa’s Sunday-best gown had had more than six years of use, new clothes being a luxury the Neathams could not afford after the new Lord Hurley stopped the pension the former Lord Hurley had once paid. She had tried to keep it from dirt and harm, but six years is more than 300 Sundays, even allowing for those when she could not find anyone to sit with her father and had to miss services.

Turning the back panel to move the shiny spot, carefully mending tears, and cutting off the cuffs to replace them with a band taken from another gown could not disguise the fact that her Sunday-best would be a Monday-washday gown for almost any other woman in the parish.

Next to Bear, she looked like a pauper, which was not far from the truth.