Valentines from Bath

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Inspiration for lovers

Back in the Regency, before printed cards became affordable and readily available, people still sent cards on Valentine’s Day–home made cards, as fancy as the person’s imagination and purse could manage, usually enhanced with a hand-written saying or poem.

And if you couldn’t write a poem to save your soul?

Then you were in luck, for a number of enterprising people put out pamphlets and even whole books with poems for your valentine.

This one is sweet:

Was there ever an urchin like Cupid so sly?
Well armed and mounted aloft in the sky;
He wounds, and we love, and then off he does fly.

That I am wounded, alas, is too true,
And that I can only be healed by you;
Is likewise a fact. Ah! What shall I do?

I’ll rely on thy pity, dear charmer of mine.
Sure you’ll not break the heart of thy poor Valentine!

You could find a poem addressed to the trade of your beloved:

So nice you dress your Lamb and Veal,
My passion I cannot conceal;
But plainly must declare to you,
I wish that you would dress me too.

When at your shop you take your stand,
Your knife and steel within each hand;
I listen to your pleasing cry,
Which sounds so shrill, d’ye buy, d’ye buy.

Now February shows his face;
And genial Spring comes on apace;
Like birds, ah! prithee let us join,
Upon the day of Valentine.

The books also provided suitable answers, also in rhyme–either a yeah or, as in the valentine to the nursery maid, below, a resounding nay.

So fond of children you are grown,
I wish you had some of your own,
I think my dear, if you’ll consent,
That I in that could give content;

How charming it would be to see,
A little baby, just like thee;
Say if you like this plan of mine,
As you’re today my Valentine.”

The Nursery Maid’s Answer:

“Pray Mr. Smack drive on, gee-ho,
With me our courtship will not do,
Your face is ugly, but your mind
Is ten times uglier, I find;

I am a girl that’s very nice,
And won’t be bought at your price;
Your Valentine I will not be,
So prithee think no more of me.

Buy Valentines From Bath for 99c, until Valentine’s Day only

To help you celebrate this lover’s day, we’re keeping the Bluestocking Belles’ 2019 collection of Regency novellas, https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/valentines-from-bath/, at 99c until after Valentine’s Day. Follow the link for more details and buy links.

 

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Tea with Mrs Fishingham’s daughters

The Duchess of Haverford usually enjoyed welcoming this year’s crop of maidens on the Marriage Mart to afternoon tea. She had begun the practice for the sake of her legion of god-daughters, offering a relaxed environment in which the young ladies could form friendships with others they would meet at fashionable entertainments. Just the girls, away from their mothers’ fussing and with no need to compete for the attentions of prospective husbands. In London, she tended to devote an afternoon a month to the practice. Here in Bath, one event sufficed.

Today’s crop of young ladies seemed unusually frivolous and silly. Or perhaps Eleanor was growing old. As they took their turns to sit with her for a few minutes, she smiled and nodded at their stories of balls they had been to, bonnets they desired, and bouquets they had garnered from suitors. Here came another Fishingham child. She had already endured Miss Eugenia’s quotations from a book of etiquette and Miss Matilda’s boasts of more callers than either of her sisters.

Ah! She remembered this one from last year. The eldest, but the quietest. Miss Fishingham had been a wallflower at last night’s assembly, until the Master of Ceremonies presented Will Chadbourn as a dance partner. A nice boy, Chadbourn, newly come to his title. She had shown plenty of animation talking to him, and had been popular for the rest of the evening. “Did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Fishingham?” Eleanor asked.

The girl looked up from the hands she had been studying. “Yes, thank you, Your Grace.”

Nothing more. Miss Fishingham had used up her stock of conversation last night, it seemed. “What did you and Chadbourn talk about with such enthusiasm?” Eleanor asked.

“Crop rotation, Ma’am. His lordship was good enough to explain a new succession planting method that ensures better crops.”

The unexpected answer made Eleanor smile. “And are you interested in crop rotation, Miss Fishingham?”

“Lord Chadbourn certainly made it more interesting than some of my later partners made tying a cravat or collecting snuff boxes,” the girl retorted.

Eleanor laughed out loud. “You have discovered the secret of Social success, Miss Fishingham. Listen attentively.”

“At the risk of terminal boredom,” said Miss Fishingham, then clapped a shocked hand over her mouth. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I quite forgot myself.”

“No apology required, my dear. If I have to hear a description of one more bonnet, I am at risk of dying of boredom myself. So tell me, Charis–it is Charis, is it not? What would you rather be doing than dancing at a assembly?”

 

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Charis is the heroine in The Beast Next Door, my contribution to the box set Valentines from Bath.

If you haven’t read this one, now is a good time to grab a copy because the price is going up. (It is from two years ago)
Anything can happen in the magic of music and candlelight as couples dance, flirt, and open themselves to romantic possibilities. Problems and conflict may just fade away at a Valentine’s Day Ball.
Dukes, earls, tradesmen, and the occasional charlatan —alert to the possibilities as the event draws nigh—all appear in this collection of five terrific Valentine’s Day stories.
Reverts to $3.99 after Valentine’s Day. Buy it now for under a dollar. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07MP7WV4T/ #99cents
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Tea with the ladies, again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Fortingham flushed and changed the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Valentines from Bath in Spotlight on Sunday

It’s here. Valentines from Bath is published, and I love it.

In five original stories, Jessica Cale, Sherry Ewing, Jude Knight, Amy Quinton, and Caroline Warfield bring you Valentines From Bath

The Master of Ceremonies announces a great ball to be held on Valentine’s Day in the Upper Assembly Rooms of Bath.

Ladies of the highest rank—and some who wish they were—scheme, prepare, and compete to make best use of the opportunity.

Dukes, earls, tradesmen, and the occasional charlatan are alert to the possibilities as the event draws nigh.

But anything can happen in the magic of music and candlelight as couples dance, flirt, and open themselves to romantic possibilities. Problems and conflict may just fade away at a Valentine’s Day Ball.

Find buy links on the Belles’ project page on their website.

Here are my brief thoughts about each story.

Beauty and the Bounder, by Jessica Cale

He’s a liar and a fortune-hunter… and exactly what she needs.

As usual, Jess gives us a completely different slant on balls, dresses, and bounders. Her heroine is too smart, too wary, and too invested in the idea of true love to have fallen for any of the suitors who were prepared to overlook her sharp tongue and her Welshness in favour of her dowry. But this fortune hunter might just have something more to offer. I adored this story. Lady Emilia was the right mix of wryly aware and self-deprecating, and Seb was a hero to die for.

The Earl Takes a Wife, by Sherry Ewing

It began with a memory, etched in the heart.

Sherry has returned to the de Courtney family, who featured in her Holly and Hopeful Hearts story a couple of years ago. In that novella, the hero’s niece, barely out of the schoolroom, asked the heroine’s brother to wait for her to grow up. The Earl Takes a Wife follows Celia and Adrian as they try to forget one another, until Adrian’s other sister Miranda plots to bring them together and almost destroys them. Celia’s innocence and sincerity don’t make her a pushover. I loved her determination to win the love match she wants, despite everything. Adrian acted like a prat for much of the story, but he had reason. He figured it out in the end, for a signature Ewing happy ending.

The Beast Next Door, by Jude Knight

In all the assemblies and parties of Bath, no-one Charis met could ever match the beast next door. 

Obviously, I’m not going to review this one. Here are my characters.

The Umbrella Chronicles: John and Emma’s Story, by Amy Quinton

A serious-minded, scientific man of learning seeks a complex and chaotic practitioner of all things superstitious who will upend his well-ordered life.

Another fine addition to the Umbrella Chronicles. John is endearingly bumbling in matters of emotion, which he avoids like the plague. Emma is refreshingly honest. She wants him, but she wants him to her as she is; his complete opposite in almost all things. Can too such different characters find love? Let Amy show you how.

Candles in the Dark, by Caroline Warfield

Doug Marsh and his candles bring light to many, none more than Esther. They may light the Assembly Rooms even as his love lights her life.

My favourite in the set, and the only one that doesn’t involve people who are part of the Bath social set. Esther works in the Assembly Room. Doug owns the candle manufactory. These are two lovely people from different worlds brought together by her urgent need and his kind heart. With her usual light touch, Caroline gives us real world problems with serious potential consequences, and then practical solutions that lead to a happy ever after and a deep satisfied sigh from this reader. Love will find a way.

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Will You Be My Valentine?

When the Bluestocking Belles first began working on a box set based around a Valentine’s Day Ball in Regency Bath, I had a few question. Was Valentine’s Day celebrated back then? How?

I knew the Victorians had hand written cards, and the Americans in the late 19th century brought in printed cards. And I knew Valentine was a Roman, killed for his faith and remembered for kindness to lovers. I didn’t know much else, but a bit of research soon put that right.

Wild Lupercalia

Long before the fifth century, when the three possible claimants for the story of St Valentine were around, the Romans had a feast in the middle of February that celebrated fertility. It included a ritual in which men killed animals and then used their hides to whip the women who lined up for the opportunity. The proceedings also including a jar full of names to pair men and women up for the duration of the festival – or longer, if they found they liked one another.

Valentine – but which Valentine?

When Christianity became the preferred religion, or so the theory goes, the bishops looked around for a replacement festival; one that wouldn’t involve quite so much blood and sex, but still let people have a good time.

They had a handy day already: 14 February was the feast day of three martyrs, both called Valentine. One was a fellow who refused to convert to paganism and was executed. According to legend, before he died he performed a miracle to heal the daughter of his jailor, and sent her a letter signed ‘from your Valentine’. Not much is known about the third, except that he died in Africa.

The other was a Roman priest who performed weddings for soldiers forbidden to marry, which in time led to the connection between St Valentine and lovers.

Beloved friends

At first, St Valentine’s Day was for celebrating any kind of love by showing affection. However, by the late fourteenth century, the idea of courtly love was in full swing, and the medieval author wrote a poem in which he firmly associated St Valentine and his day with romance.

As the years passed, the tradition developed. Lovers exchanged gifts, poems, letters, and handmade cards to celebrate the feast. Lovelorn suitors might give a Valentine’s Day token to impress the beloved. By the eighteenth century, the association of the saint between the saint and a wider definition of love had disappeared from England. But the association of the day and lovers was going strong, and it was only going to increase in the nineteenth century. In 1815, the year of our Valentine’s Day ball, such an event was entirely possible, and we can certainly expect our characters to keep up the tradition of giving hand-made tokens of affection to the object of their love.

It would be another thirty-five years before a entrepreneurial American woman would create the first print run of Valentine’s Day cards, but our story was feasible, and we were off.

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Valentine’s from Bath releases on Saturday. Only 99 cents for more than 450 pages of stories. See the Belles’ project page for details. The blurb below is from my novella, one of five in the collection.

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Tea with Charis

Charis Fishingham was curled up on a window seat in the library, half hidden behind the drapes. With luck, her mother and sisters would be too busy to come looking for her. They enjoyed nothing more than a good house party.

On this fine day, the hostess had organised a number of activities. Some of the guests had gone riding, others walking, still others played Pall Mall, or sat in the shade of the trees gossiping.

For once, her mother didn’t insist on all doing things together, so Charis had taken her opportunity to slip away to the library that she had seen on the first night, when there hostess had given them a tour of the public rooms of the house.

She was so immersed in the novel she had found on the shelves that she didn’t realise she was no longer alone, until she heard someone speaking. She looked around the corner of the curtain. An elegant lady had taken a seat by the fireplace and was speaking to a maid, telling her to place a tea tray on a nearby table.

Charis drew back. Should she announce herself? Certainly, she should not lurk here, hidden. Perhaps the lady was expecting company. Perhaps she had been here for a while, and it was already too late for Charis to pop out from behind the drapes like a bad surprise in a farce.

As she worried away at the problem, the lady provided the solution. “Will you not come and join me, young lady on the window seat?”

Charis could feel herself blush from head to toe as she crept out. She felt even worse when she could see the lady clearly. It was the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame of Society as high above the Fishingham’s touch as the stars were above the sky.

“Miss Fishingham, is it not? I apologise for disturbing your reading, Miss Fishingham, but I beg you to take pity on an old woman and keep me company.” The Duchess waved Charis to a seat. She was anything but old; in fact, she looked a lot younger than Charis’s mother, though her son — who was also at the house party — was in his thirties, so she must be fifty, at least.

Charis realised she was standing like a stick and gaping like a fish. She shut her mouth, and took the offered seat. What on earth did one say to a Duchess? Matilda and Eugenie would know, but Charis knew little about Society, and what little she knew she did not like.

The Duchess surprised her again. “Now, Miss Fishingham, I understand from your sisters that you and I share an interest. I am passionately devoted to the education of women, and I am told that you hold classes for your maids and the girls of the village. Please, tell me more, and tell me if there is anything I can do to help.”

Charis is the heroine of my story The Beast Next Door. You can read it in Valentines from Bath, now on preorder. Click on the link for buy links and blurbs.


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Scars on WIP Wednesday

My next story to be released has a hero with a scarred face, and I’ve been contemplating the number of my books that include a character with a physical deformity. I have quite a few scarred heroes — echoes of the Beauty and the Beast trope.

In every story where such a character appears, I have to consider the scars as part of what drives the story. How is my character affected by their scars, the cause of their scars, and the impact on others of their scars?

So that’s my theme for today. The scar might be internal or external, and belong to any person in the story. Give me an excerpt, in the comments, that describes your character or one of those effects.

My excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, my Valentines from Bath story. Valentines of Bath is the next Belles’ box set, due out on 9 February.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window. “Eric? Eric, is it really you?”
Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again, looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”
“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.
“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”
Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.
“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”