Weave Me a Rope

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Spotlight on Weave Me a Rope

He is imprisoned. She is cast out. But neither will give up on their love.

When the Earl of Spenhurst declares his love for a merchant’s niece, he is locked away in a tower. Spen won’t get out, the marquess his father says, until he agrees to an arranged marriage.

After the marquess unceremoniously ejects Cordelia Milton from his country mansion, she is determined to rescue her beloved, but it all goes horribly wrong.

She needs time to recover from her injuries, and Spen has been moved across the country under heavy guard. It seems impossible for two young lovers to overcome the selfish plans of two powerful peers, but they won’t give up.

Published 26 January 2023

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CP72WDH8

Book 5 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale

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Tea with Cordelia

The Duchess of Haverford had formed the habit of holding an afternoon tea early in the Season for the current year’s debutantes. It gave the girls an opportunity to meet one another away from the endless manoeuvring of the marriage mart and out from under the thumbs of their mothers and chaperones, who were having tea in another room down the hall.

It also allowed Eleanor, the duchess, to discover likely protégés and possible problems. Every year-group of debutantes had them. The girls who had the potential to join the ranks of the ladies whose work for diverse charities contributed so much to the wellbeing of the country their husbands governed. The girls whose sole focus was themselves, and who would tear others down in order to promote their own interests.

Eleanor circled the room, attempted to speak to each girl in turn. “Let me see,” she said to the latest, a very pretty young little lady with light brown curls. “You are Miss Cordelia Milton, are you not.”

The lady lifted her chin proudly and somewhat defensively. “I am, Your Grace. I am the daughter of Josiah Milton.”

Eleanor nodded. No shrinking violet this one. “I am acquainted with Mr Milton. We serve on some of the same committees.” Mr Milton was a self-made man, rising from humble beginning to become one of the richest men in the United Kingdom. Miss Milton was his only child.

Miss Milton’s face lit up with a lovely smile. “My father has mentioned you, Your Grace. He has nothing but praise for your influence as a trustee of the orphanages he also supports. Also the asylum for women.”

A safe haven for wayward women, facing the consequences of the lifestyle many had not adopted out of choice. The world they lived in was not kind to women who had children out of wedlock, no matter how they arrived at that unhappy state.

“Do you also have an interest in such causes, Miss Milton?” Eleanor asked.

The girl nodded with another of her delightful smiles. “My father says that we have been blessed with more than our share of riches, and that we ought to share what we can in a way that will do the most good.”

An excellent attitude, and one that was rare among the aristocracy. Mr Milton clearly intended his daughter educated to marry into the upper sort. She certainly had had the education, and was ladylike in appearance and manners. No one would sniff, either, at her dowry or her beauty.

But whether the young men currently on the market could get over the young lady’s working class connections was another matter. Perhaps someone from the gentry would be less likely to look down on Miss Miller for her antecedents.

Eleanor resolved to do what she could to smooth the girl’s path.

***

Cordelia is falls in love with the son and heir of a marquess, and their road to happiness is marred by the snobbishness that Eleanor derides.

 

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Reaction to crisis on WIP Wednesday

While Cordelia watched, helpless to prevent it, the two footmen grabbed Spen by the arms and dragged him backwards, easily ignoring his struggles.

Oh Spen. She would cry later. The remaining footmen were moving on her, and she would not put it past them to drag her, too. Perhaps her uncle could do something to help the man she loved. “Gracie,” she said to her maid, “let Aunt Eliza know we are leaving. I want you and her downstairs at the front door with our belongings as quickly as you can make it.”

She fixed one of the footmen with a stare she had seen the Duchess of Haverford use on a gentleman who was in his cups and making a nuisance of himself. “You will go with my maid to carry our bags. You may need someone else to help.” She applied the look to his companion. “You will conduct me to my coachman and other servants so I can order them to have my father’s carriage brought around.”

For a moment, she thought they would be difficult, but they must have concluded her instructions fitted within the commands of their marquess, for they nodded and obeyed.

She had to get Aunt Eliza out of here before that horrid man did something nastier still.

Oh, Spen.

No. She could not let herself break down. That evil monster could not hurt Spen too much. Her beloved was his heir. And in a few short months, Spen would be twenty-one. No wonder he had warned her they might have to marry in defiance of the marquess! She wished they had known the man had misunderstood who Spen planned to marry.

Again,  fear and grief threatened to overwhelm her. Again, she thrust them away.

She could break down after she had safely removed her people from this house.

***

I’m currently going through the wonderful Cynthia’s developmental edits on Weave Me a Rope. It is getting closer! Meanwhile, here’s another excerpt.

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Marital and parental discipline

One of the beta readers for Weave Me a Rope questioned the beatings administered by the two fathers. She didn’t think they would be allowed. And they certainly should not have been. In Regency England, however, while it was illegal to maim or kill a wife, child, or servant, anything else was considered to be the perogative of the male head of the household.

fathers could and did beat their children bloody. Their wives, too. English law is based on Roman law, which gave the pater familias, the father of the family, power of life and death over his household. By the modern era in Great Britain, that power no longer included the right to deliberately kill a wife, offspring, or servant, but:

“the Lord Chief Justice of England, Sir Matthew Hale (1709 -1676) wrote that the common law permitted the physical discipline of wives and that husbands had immunity from prosecution if they raped their wives (Historia Placitorum Coronae, Hale, 1736  @ pp 472-474 ). He also said wives, servants, apprentices and children could be subject to ‘moderate correction’ even if such discipline caused death.” (https://womenshistorynetwork.org/history-law-violence-for-women-children-17th-century-notions-are-inexcusable/0

The same views were still in vogue one hundred and fifty years later. ‘Moderate correction’ was open to interpretation, of course, and various people tried to codify it. The phrase ‘rule of thumb’ comes from one such attempt, which held that a man could beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb.

There seems to have been a general agreement that causing permanent injury went beyond moderate correction. Indeed, in extreme cases, wives could go to the courts and seek legal protection. If they won their case, the court might make an order restraining the husband from immoderate correction.

The mind boggles. Under what circumstances would it be a good idea to take such a case then go home with a man who been embarrassed in front of his neighbors but still had the right to administer as many beatings as he liked, as long as he used a thinner stick? One can only imagine how bad things must have been for those who actually did apply to the courts for help.

As for wives, even more so for children, in a culture in which beatings were supposed to maintain the harmony of a home—for the head of the household.

To be fair to the time, corporal punishment was the norm. Schoolboys were beaten. Soldiers and sailors were beaten. Whipping and scourging were punishments for criminal behavior. However, from the middle of the nineteenth century, this would change, and the change had already begun in the home.

Already, by the Regency period, it was widely considered unbecoming for a gentleman to hurt someone weaker than himself, particularly someone completely dependent on him for food and board. Which, of course, made life better for those in the households of men who wanted to live up to this standard.

However, since no one wanted to interfere in what was seen as a private matter, abusers could safely the new idea of marital and child abuse as a social wrong. They had nothing to fear from public censure nor the law.

It would be a very long time before that changed.

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Torture your characters on WIP Wednesday

A brief excerpt from Weave Me a Rope, which is now with Dragonblade.

They travelled for four days. Spen spent each day chained to a ring that had been bolted to the floor of the carriage. At night, he was released from the ring, but the shackles remained on his ankles. He was escorted to a room in whatever inn the marquess had chosen, then chained to the bed.

No one would tell him where they were going or even the names of the towns they were in. Not that Spen cared. All he could think of was Cordelia. The marquess said she had fallen to her death. The man would tell whatever lies suited him best. Spen didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. Cordelia could not have paid with her life for their glorious afternoon.

Had she been hurt? Had she been taken captive? Was his father, for once in his life, telling the truth?

He kept recalculating how long it would have taken her to climb down the rope. The trouble was, those moments in the tower room when the marquess had been sawing at the rope had stretched out into an eternity. She should have been able to make the descent in a couple of minutes, but had that much time elapsed?

Her scream had been short and cut off. A fall? A small one, perhaps. Or some other shock as she reached the ground.

His mind went round and round, covering the same thoughts again and again. He had asked the guards, but they refused to speak to him. There were four, all unknown to him, two of them with him at all times, day and night. He assumed the two not on duty travelled elsewhere in his father’s retinue or bedded down with the other servants. It didn’t matter. By contrast to his desperate worry for Cordelia, what was happening to him seemed to be unimportant.

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Ingenuity on WIP Wednesday

I get them into these situations and then I have to get them out. Fortunately, the plot elves usually come up with something. This is from Weave Me a Rope, which I’m currently writing.

The second day after a beating was always worse than the first. The insulating effect of shock was gone, the bruises were at their maximum, and the stinging cuts were still so raw that the least and lightest of covers caused agony.

Spen lay on his stomach and endured. The housekeeper visited again, and Fielder popped his head in a couple of times, bringing food and drink and taking away the chamber pot. He remained sullen, but was at least no longer actively hostile.

Just after the second meal of the day, Spenhurst heard voices outside of the locked door.

“His lordship said no visitors,” Fielder growled.

Spen strained to hear the response. It was John. Spen recognised his voice but couldn’t hear the words.

“No visitors,” Fielder repeated.

John’s voice again, Fielder gave the same response, and then silence.

So. Spen was to deprived of his brother’s company. Probably as well. If the marquess caught the John anywhere near Spen, it would go badly for the boy. John stayed safe by staying out of the way of the man who was too proud to admit that his wife’s second son was not his get, but too volatile to be trusted not to kill the unwanted cuckoo in his nest if John was anywhere near when the marquess lost his temper.

John, though, hadn’t given up. Spen’s dinner came with a note folded inside the table napkin. It was written on both sides and crossed to keep it small. Spen hid it until Fielder had taken away the tray, then puzzled it out by the light of the candle.

Spen, they won’t let me in to see you. Can you come to the window tomorrow morning at half after six by the stable clock? I will be in the oak tree on the other side of the courtyard. Lady Deerhaven is still taking her meals in her room, but her maid says it is only a bruise to her face. The marquess is leaving again tomorrow. The schoolroom maid heard him order the coach for 10 o’clock. I told Fielder that, and asked to see you tomorrow, but he said his orders were to keep you there and not let anyone in. Your loving brother, John.

Spen hobbled to the window, but it was too dark to see the clock in the little tower on top of the stables. No matter. Dawn at this time of the year was before six. If he watched for the light, he would be up in time to see John.

That wasn’t hard. He was in too much pain to sleep much at all, and up and restlessly pacing as soon as the sky lightened enough for him to move around the room without bumping into walls or furniture. The little tower room had become a dumping ground for elderly chairs and sofas, all overstuffed and sagging.

John should have waited until the marquess had left. He shouldn’t be climbing the tree at all—though it was a good choice. It was as tall as the tower, and on the far side of the tower from the house, so someone in the tree was likely to go unobserved.

He studied the tree as the sun rose. The growth was at its lushest, with young green leaves and catkins covering and concealing the branches, but Spen knew how strong those branches were, particularly on this side, where the gardeners kept them trimmed so no one could enter the tower from the tree—or, for that matter, escape by the tree from the tower.

Not that the bars on the windows made either possible. The marquess was nothing if not thorough. Spen could open the window, however, and he did.

Spen’s spirits rose. If John was careful, he might be able to get within perhaps ten yards of the tower, and he’d be impossible to see from the ground, should anyone be out and about this early in the morning. It was an easy climb, too. John shouldn’t be attempting it with only one useable arm, but Spen didn’t doubt his agility and balance.

The wait was interminable. Spen crossed the room twice to another window from which he could see the stable, and each time the longer hand had crept only a few minutes. No more. John would arrive, or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Spen would worry about him for the rest of the day.

Despite his watching, he didn’t see John arrive at the tree. The boy’s head suddenly popped into sight, surrounded by leaves.

He was at the same level as Spen, but a few yards away. His intense determined look softened into a grin. “Spen! You’re here! You’re able to move around. The housekeeper said you would be up and about by now, but I was worried.”

“I’m well,” Spen lied. “Nothing for you to worry about, John.”

“Good. What does he want you to do, Spen? The servants say he is keeping you locked up until you sign something, but they don’t know what.”

Spen never knew how much the servants told John, and how much John picked up from the conversations of others because he was good at moving around the huge old house as silently as a ghost. Certainly, though, John was usually way ahead of Spen at hearing any news. “What happened to Miss Miller, John? The housekeeper said she got away safely, but I was concerned the marquess might send someone after her.”

John shook his head. “He didn’t. Not that I have heard. I don’t think she went far, though. Just to the inn at Crossings. The stable boy saw her horses at the inn when he took two of ours to be shod.”

“She is off our land at least. But she must go back to London, John. To her father. He’ll be able to protect her.” Spen hoped. The marquess had a long reach though, as Spen and John both had cause to know. Their mother had died at the hands of highwaymen, or so the world believed. But the marquess had told her sons that he had sent the villains after her and her lover, when Lady Deerhaven had attempted to escape her miserable marriage.

“What does the marquess want you to sign?” John insisted.

“A marriage contract. Between me and Lady xxx. I’m not going to do it. I am marrying Cordelia Milton, even if I have to wait until his lordship is dead. But the more I refuse the more danger there is to her. Go and see if she is at the inn, John. If it is, tell her to go home to her father and stay safe. Tell her I love her and I will come for her as soon as I can.”

“He will make your life miserable,” John warned. He frowned. “We need a rope. If you had a rope, you could lower it and I could send up anything you need.”

Spen looked over his shoulder at the room. No ropes lying around, and if he started ripping up the sheets or the bedcovers, his keeper would notice. “Maybe I could take the fabric off the backs of the chairs,” he mused. “I don’t know if I could get enough pieces to reach the ground, though. It must be close to fifty feet.”

“How many chairs?” John wondered.

“Half a dozen, and three sofas.” The tower room had clearly been used as a dumping ground for broken or tired furniture. As well as the seating and the bed, it held two chests of drawers, a desk, a couple of tables and a wardrobe with only three legs.

John had a furious frown, a sign he was thinking. “Horsehair,” he said.

Spen frowned. “Horsehair?” But then it dawned on him. A couple of years ago, a stable master on one of the estates had taught the pair of them to make bridles from horsehair rope, having first made the rope. “The chairs will be stuffed with horsehair,” he realised. It could work. It could actually work, and it would at least give him something to do.

“I have to go,” John said. “I need to be back in my room before the maid comes. I’ll try to get to Crossings today, Spen. See you here tomorrow?”

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Family disapproval in WIP Wednesday

They talked for a few minutes more, and when Spen mentioned that he was showing Cordelia around the house, John asked if he could come.

“I am tired of seeing the same rooms over and over,” he said. “I won’t be able to come down once the guests arrive, even if the marquess is not expected home until later in the week.”

That was a curious thing to say. Did John mean he was not allowed from his rooms? Perhaps the marquess was an overprotective father, but nothing in the little Spen had said about him fitted that conclusion. Indeed, Cordelia had the impression that Lord Deerhaven was harsh and demanding.

Eventually, no doubt, her curiosity about the man would be satisfied. She shivered again at the thought. “He will not be happy about us,” Spen had said. “But what can he do? I shall reach my majority in five months, and if we have to wait, then that’s what we’ll do.”

As they retreated back down the stairs and out into the public rooms of the house, Cordelia put the marquess out of her mind and asked John about his schooling, and what activities he liked best. They arrived back on the floor where she and Spen had started, and turned away from the guest wing to go in through a door and across what looked like a drawing room. “One of the parlours,” Spen said, dismissively. The other side of the room had a long row of doors. Spen opened one near the middle. “These fold back to join the two rooms together,” he explained, as he led the way into yet another drawing room.

John was explaining the relative roles of heavy and light cavalry—it was his ambition to be a dragoon officer. He stopped on the threshhold. “Are you going to show Miss Milton the picture gallery, Spen?” he asked.

“I thought we’d start there,” Spenhurst said. “I wanted to show her the portrait of Mama.”

The enthusiasm had drained from John’s eyes.

“Wait for us here,” Spen suggested, but John braced his shoulders and followed them through the door.

This room had two doors on the opposite wall, and Spen opened the one on the left. It led to a long gallery, with statues between narrow windows on one side, and portraits all the way along the wall on the other.

It was very like the room in Cordelia’s dream and to her eyes, the unsmiling people in the paintings looked as unhappy with her presence as she anticipated. Do not be foolish, she scolded herself. You are an invited guest. Lady Deerhaven was welcoming and John is a delight.

John was eyeing the portraits with less enthusiasm than Cordelia felt—even with apprehension. If Spen noticed, he showed no sign of it. He led them two thirds of the way along the room, and stopped before a little portrait that was squeezed between two large ones. “Mama,” he said.

The countess had a kind face, Cordelia decided. She was portrayed seated on a stone bench, with a garden behind her, and a boy leaning against her knee. Cordelia didn’t need to ask whether he was Spen or John. Cordelia knew the shape and colour of the lady’s eyes, because she looked into their likeness whenever she was with Spen and dreamt of them when she and Spen were apart.

The little boy was dressed as a gentleman of the previous century, in breeches almost the colour of his eyes, and a matching coat over a pale brown waistcoat. His shirt had a wide lace trimmed collar, with a narrow dark blue ribbon around the v-shaped neckline under the collar and tied in a bow at the bottom.

“How old were you when this was painted?” she asked him.

“Six,” he said. “Perhaps six and a half.”

Cordelia moved closer, putting a hand on the frame as she examined the painting. “She died when you were ten,” she commented, remembering what he had said. She looked away from the painting in time to see a frown exchanged between John and Spen.

“We lost her when I was ten and John was three,” Spen confirmed.

A panel in the wall a few yards away swung open, and a woman in a maid’s gown, cap and apron poked her head out. “Master John!” she said in a loud whisper. “His lordship is coming. Quickly!”

Spen tensed and cast a glance down the gallery towards the door in the far end. “The marquess is home?” he questioned. The maid nodded.

John was already at the panel door. He stopped to look back at Spen. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” Spen said. “Get back to your room before he sees you. I’ll come once we’ve seen him and let you know what happened.”

John climbed through the panel and it closed. “Do not be afraid, Cordelia,” Spen said. “He will probably shout, but I will not let him hurt you.”

Cordelia’s alarm was climbing. “Spen?” Her questions were tumbling over themselves, jamming up in her brain. Why did the maid come to fetch John? Would he be in trouble for being out of his chambers? Certainly, he had looked frightened, and then as determined as a knight errant when he offered to stay.

Why did John think she might be afraid. Why would the marquess shout? Would he try to hurt Cordelia, a guest in his house? Did he know she was his guest? How could Spen stop his own father if the man was intent on violence?

She lifted her chin. Did Spen think she was a frail damsel who fainted at a harsh word? She wasn’t.

At that moment, the door at the far end of the gallery was flung open so violently that it crashed against the wall and a bulky shape loomed in the doorway.

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Disaster on WIP Wednesday

In the novel I am writing at the moment, my hero has been locked in a tower for weeks. To see him, his beloved has climbed a ladder he wove of horsehair. But alas, his father has returned to the estate unexpectedly.

For the second time in minutes, the door burst open. This time, his father filled the doorway, lifting his head to sniff the air. “You have had a woman in here,” he noted.

Cordelia must be about half way down. A little more time, and she would be able to escape. Provided the old tyrant hadn’t thought to post people at the bottom.

Spen shrugged. “A tavern girl. A man has needs.” Inside, he winced at comparing the glory of his afternoon to a meaningless transactional encounter.

The marquess stepped into the room and gestured to the footman who followed him. “Search the room. Find the girl.”

“Do you intend to deprive me of all comforts?” Spen asked his father, to prolong the conversation and keep his father’s attention from the window.

“I intend to do everything necessary to bend you to my will, you ungrateful scoundrel,” the marquess replied. “Where is your brother?”

“How would I know?” Spen asked. “He was here when I was locked up. Got send home with a broken arm. Has he gone back to school? Home to Benthorpe?” He couldn’t help the scorn that coloured his voice

He braced himself as his father swung a hand back for a blow, but one of the servants shouted. “There are ropes my lord. I think it’s a ladder.”

“Haul it up and look, man,” the marquess scolded.

“I cannot, my lord. Someone is on it.”

The marquess strode to the window, his eyes narrowed. “Coming up or going down? But why? Ah! I see.” He grabbed the loose bar and pulled it out, then managed to get his head through the gap to look down the tower wall.

Spen managed two paces towards the marquess before men grabbed him and dragged him backwards again. 

“It’s a boy,” the marquess was saying, sounding bewildered, then chortling, “No, a girl dressed as a boy.” He pulled his head back and glee in his eyes as he said, “and I think I know her name.” He held out his hand. “Someone. Pass me a knife.”

“No!” Spen shouted as he struggled, but the two men holding him didn’t let go. “No, my lord. Don’t do it!”

The marquess managed to get one arm and his head out the window. Spen could see him sawing back and forth as he countinued to speak. “Did you think I would not hear that Milton has interfered with justice for that trespasser who was spying for your little slut?”

He snorted. “The magistrate has the nerve to tell me I cannot have him hanged or transported for his villainy, and that my imprisonment of the man was punishment enough. My illegal imprisonment! Can you believe it? Who does the magistrate think he is dealing with? Ah.” A shriek from below, short and sharp, coincided with the marquess’s sigh of satisfaction. 

He moved to the second rope, and Spen imagined Cordelia clinging to the rungs as the ladder,  collapsed with one of its uprights gone, twisted and turned. “Don’t,” he moaned.

“What do I find when I stopped at the village inn today,” the marquis went on, “but the magistrate with Milton’s solicitor, and both of them demand to know what I have done with Milton’s daughter. Of course, I did not know what they were talking about. Now, of course, I do.”

He pulled back again, to grin at Spen. “Three quarters cut through. Let us leave the bitch’s destiny to fate, shall we? If the rope holds, she spins for a while until I feel like sending someone to retrieve her. If the rope breaks, she dies.”

Another scream came as he finished speaking. The marquess looked out of the window again. “Oops,” he said. His grin was wider as he turned back into the room. “Well, my son. It seems that your impediment to the marriage that I wish is no longer a problem.”