Jude Knight's Blog, page 156

In a bit of a jam – cooking in a cottage kitchen in 1807

The plan was that the maid-of-all-work who cooked and cleaned for my Farewell to Kindness heroine and her sisters would be a magnificent baker, and win prizes every year at the village fair. I envisaged lovely light cakes and bread to die for. And jam. Wild strawberry jam, made from berries collected by the hero and heroine together.

But as soon as I began to research early 19th Century recipes, I hit a problem. Anne and her sisters lived in a workers’ cottage, on of a row of cottages built for his tenants by a former Earl of Chirbury some 200 years earlier. Yes, they had the largest dwelling in the row. Formerly two cottages, it had been knocked into one for a foreman perhaps, or some other slightly more prosperous tenant. But it was still fundamentally a 17th Century cottage, and the kitchen was very much a 17th Century kitchen.

What that meant was no oven. Not even a bread oven built into the brick of the chimney, which more modern and more substantial houses would have had at that time. Many of the villagers would have taken anything they wanted to bake to the cook shop, where it would be put into a large brick oven heated with firewood. The baker would burn exactly the right amount of wood to ash, then rake aside the ash and set the pots and pans in among them to cook in the heat radiated by the bricks.

Great houses, such as my Longford Court, would have their own brick ovens for bread built into a wall, and some might also have one of the brick stoves invented in the 18th century. Open at the front, they had a fire inside and an iron plate on top for the pots to sit on. The Rumford Stove, invented in 1795, was a huge improvement, since the heat could be regulated to give different pots heat at different times. It was not widely available just over a decade later and was, in any case too big for all but the biggest kitchen.

The efficient cast iron ovens that revolutionised cooking in the Victorian era were still at least 30 years away.

So in Anne’s little cottage – two rooms downstairs, and three up – cooking would have been done in an open fireplace.

Fireplaces were large, and set up a step from the floor. In an inn or great house, the fireplace might be so large that the cook would walk right inside, and move around the various fires that kept what was cooking at different temperatures. This was risky, especially in a long skirt, so many people would only employ male cooks for such establishments.

In Anne’s cottage, Hannah (the maid) would still have several fires, though they would be smaller and tended from the front. She would also have iron kettles and pots, spits to hold roast meat at the correct distance from the flame, and hooks that could be raised or lowered to regulate heat and swung away from the fire.

Food might also be cooked in a pot or kettle that sat on a trivet next to the fire, toasted on a fork, or baked on a skillet or griddle – a flat plate of iron that had been preheated either over the flame or by having embers piled on it.

Several times in the novel, Hannah serves drop scones that had been baked on a griddle.

But Hannah’s favourite tool was the dutch oven. An Englishman conducted a little bit of industrial espionage early in the 18th century, and brought the innovative Dutch process for making these cooking vessels back from the Netherlands. A kitchen such as Hannah’s would have had several, and would have used them all.

First, she would take embers from the fire, and sit the cast iron dutch oven directly on the embers. Then she would put into the oven whatever she wanted to cook – a stew, a cake in a tin, a loaf of bread shaped into the dumpy circle we still call a cottage loaf. After putting the lid on the oven, she would shovel more embers on top.

If she was making a complex dinner, she might stack one oven on top of another, with different dishes in each oven.

As to that strawberry jam, into a kettle with that, and over the fire, with a careful scoop of sugar – not too much. The price was coming down in the early 19th century, but it was still a great luxury for a household living on the edge of poverty. Once the jam had boiled to setting stage, she would have carefully ladled it into earthenware pots, and sealed the tops with melted wax and waxed brown paper.

And here is what happened when Anne, her sisters, and her daughters went berry picking, and met the Earl, his sister, and his nieces:

The group sorted themselves into teams: Anna and Daisy, chattering away as they picked strawberries, feeding half to the baskets and half into their mouths; Amy, standoffish at first, thawing out as she talked books with Miss Kitty; Susan and Miss Haverstock bonding over a discussion of art and music.

That left Reede to work with Mrs Forsythe and Meg. Meg ate as most of the strawberries she picked. Reede began passing her some of his, and Mrs Forsythe scolded him, half laughing.

“But they taste so good!” To prove it, he popped one in her mouth, his fingers lingering for a moment on her lips, brushing past her cheek. Their eyes caught, his suddenly hot; hers with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Apprehension, perhaps. Some yearning, though that might have been a figment of his own desire.

Meg broke the moment, pressing a strawberry into Reede’s own mouth. “Taste so good!”

He savoured the sweet taste and the rich smell. “Yes, Miss Meg. It tastes very good.” But his eyes drifted back to Mrs Forsythe’s lips. She, he was convinced, would taste even sweeter.

Candle’s Christmas Chair – in which our hero finds a cat in his bed and our heroine lies sleepless in hers

The last half of chapter 7 of Candle’s Christmas Chair leaves us with just one post to go. I’ll upload the final excerpt on Friday my time, and launch the full ebook on Saturday evening my time. Look for the post, and for the links to resellers on the book page.  I had great fun writing the dialogue in the last part of this excerpt. I hope you enjoy it.

Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1

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The flowers continued to arrive, and so did presents of produce from Avery Hall. Min didn’t need the constant reminders. Ran was a phantom presence wherever she went. Everything she saw or heard, she wanted to share with him. Ran would like this. Ran would find that funny. Ran would be interested.

The nights were worse. Ran had woken something in her. She didn’t know how to ease whatever he had aroused, but she knew who could ease it.

And all the time, Ran’s view of her chair making, and her father’s opinion of that view, warred in her head.

One morning, the note with the day’s present went beyond the usual compliments, adding:

“I beg Mrs Bradshaw and Miss Bradshaw to do me the honour of accepting my escort to the Lower Assembly Rooms this evening.”

Min had been planning to go—the next step in her experiment in social climbing. But going with Ran would be wonderful. Mama sent a note back with the Avery servant, inviting Ran to dinner, and Min hurried to the workshop to make an early start on the day’s work.

Ran was in Bath! Min half expected to see him on her walk to work. She almost stayed in her walking dress, in case he came to her workshop, but common sense prevailed and she donned her overalls.

She would see him tonight. Tonight, she could tell him all the things she had been saving up to say, and she could hear about his week at Avery Hall, and about Lady Avery, and the planned gardens, and the performance of the chair, and the progress of the renovations…

Min caught herself. When had her life begun to revolve around this man and his concerns?

Suddenly, he was there. “Min.”

She dropped her tools and walked into his open arms for a kiss that satisfied and, at the same time, left her longing for more. All too soon, he put her gently from him.

“Min, I won’t stay. But I couldn’t wait to see you. Have you been well? You look well.”

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m well now,” Ran said, and the warmth in his eyes said much more. “I must go. I have appointments today… I will see you tonight, Min.”

One more kiss, and he was gone. So much for keeping her head until she had made her decision.

After daydreaming for an hour, Min packed up and went home. She was accomplishing nothing today.

~*~

Candle was humming to himself as he walked into the White Hart after seeing the Bradshaw ladies home. The evening had been wonderful. The dancing, the conversation, the food, everything had conspired to provide a perfect evening. And, at the centre of it all, his Minerva.

She was his, he was almost sure of it. He hadn’t asked her again, but tonight she’d had her armour down. She’d been happy to be with him; she’d let her hand linger on his in the dance, and she’d leant into him when he’d offered his arm to go in to supper. Two dances had not been nearly enough; Candle would have taken every dance, given a choice.

But he’d played at being civilised, even danced with other females, although there was only one in the room worth thinking about.

Surely she was planning to say yes? Her father thought so, but her mother warned him not to be too certain. And in the light of what her cousin had let slip, Candle was more and more sure that it might take his secret plan to convince his Min she could trust her future to him.

Candle stopped at the desk to see if there had been any messages, and waited while the clerk checked.

“Candle, old man.”

“Michaels; good to see you.”

His friend grinned. “I saw you at the assembly, but you didn’t have eyes for anyone but that black-haired beauty you were escorting. Gorgeous female. Lovely…” He cupped both hands in front of his chest and jiggled them up and down.

“The future Lady Avery,” Candle warned. The clerk was shaking his head. No messages.

Michaels said a cheerful, “Sorry,” but was not at all abashed. “When’s the happy day?”

“She hasn’t accepted me yet. But she will.” If he said it often enough, perhaps it would be true.

“I imagine she will,” his friend agreed. “Candle Avery, the man who never gives up. Look, Candle, I thought you might have those militia training plans you promised me.”

“They’re up in my room; come on up and I’ll give them to you.”

They were discussing the most recent news from the Fleet as Candle opened the door to his room and led the way in.

“Will you have a drink?” Candle asked, crossing to the decanter on the sideboard.

“Uh, Candle.” Michaels was stock still in the middle of the room, his face suddenly neutral. He was staring at the bed.

“Candle, darling, come back to bed.” Lady Norton, her hair hanging down across her shoulders, sat up in his bed. A sheet preserved some shreds of decency, but she was clearly naked. Very naked.

Candle was suddenly coldly furious. “You mistake, madam. I would sooner bed a snake.”

“But Candle! After the afternoon we had?”

The door opened again, and Kitteridge burst in. “What are you doing with my sister, you villain?” he declaimed, then frowned at Michaels. “He isn’t meant to be here.”

Lady Norton struck her forehead with the back of one hand. “Guy! Candle, we are discovered! My brother knows all!”

Candle suppressed a laugh. High melodrama indeed! Though it would be quite unfunny if he had come up to bed on his own, or if he didn’t have witnesses to how he’d spent his afternoon and evening.

“Michaels, shut the door, will you? We’ll keep this to ourselves if we can.”

“You have compromised my sister! I demand satisfaction.” Clearly Kitteridge intended to follow the script despite the unexpected addition to the cast.

“Very well,” Candle said. “Michaels, will you stand my second?”

“Not a duel. Marriage. You’re meant to marry her,” Kitteridge explained.

“No,” Candle said.

“But she’s in your bed. You have to marry her.” Kitteridge was pleading now.

“Kitteridge, I have been in company every minute of the day since I arrived in Bath. I have witnesses who will swear to that. The only one to suffer if you and Lady Norton insist on making a scandal is Lady Norton.”

He turned, then, and locked eyes with Lady Norton, but continued to address Kitteridge. “I don’t know whether your sister is after my money or if she is with child again, but I will not be her dupe.”

Lady Norton shrieked at the suggestion she might be pregnant. “Guy! He has insulted me! Call him out!”

“But Vivi, he has been a soldier. He’s probably a good shot.”

“Regimental champion three years running,” Michaels offered. He was bouncing forward on his feet, like a boy on outskirts of a fistfight: close enough to see the blood but preserved from any pain and having a wonderful time. “And he’s none too bad with a sword.”

Kitteridge nodded vigorously, and said, “He’s good with his fists, too. You should have seen him at school. He’d go into this sort of calm rage, and nothing would stop him.”

“I’ve seen it,” Michaels agreed. “A sort of cold, logical beserker. Very scary. I wouldn’t duel with him if I were you.”

Candle was keeping an eye on Lady Norton. She was assessing every object within reach. He recognised the signs. He’d had a mistress who threw things when she was upset. Yes. There went the jug, water and all. He’d been ready to duck, but obviously she was angrier with her brother.

The jug struck a glancing blow, and what water hadn’t already soaked the bed and sprayed across the floor finished up on Kitteridge’s jacket.

“Vivi!” he complained, “I hope that doesn’t stain.”

“Mr Michaels and I are going downstairs,” Candle told them. “We will return in 30 minutes, bringing the manager with us. I suggest the two of you leave before that time. And Lady Norton, Michaels and I will keep this to ourselves. But only if you do not try anything like it again.”

They didn’t speak as they descended the stairs. Candle ordered a brandy each, and they took it to a corner of the public room. “Well,” Michaels said. “You do know how to make an evening entertaining, old chap.”

I don’t do stress

Candle’s Christmas Chair is almost ready to be uploaded. I’ve written the front and back matter, finished the formatting, proofed to the halfway point (which took just over an hour – so I’ll finish that after work tonight), received my ISBN numbers, read everything Smashwords provides about publishing on their platform, and created an author profile on Amazon.

If I upload today or tomorrow, it’ll be ready for the launch on Saturday (Sunday my time).

By the way, Amazon won’t let me offer Candle for free on their Kindle Direct Publishing platform, so I’m putting it up at their cheapest rate, which is 99c. However, I’m told that they will price match, so do me a favour would you? Once it is available on iTunes and Barnes and Noble for free, ask Amazon to price match?

By the end of the week, I need to have written my blog post for the Blog Hop. I’m planning a short story set at Christmas in Avery Hall in 1804.

And by Sunday, I need to send some brief details about me and my novella to Mari Christie, who has offered to feature it on her blog on 23 December. Thanks, Mari.

I’ve also volunteered to be a team leader for the 10 Minute Novelists 365K Club, a year long challenge to write an average of 1,000 words a day. We kick off with a chat a bit later this morning.

I have several tight deadlines at work, with around 50 hours of work to do before the office closes next Tuesday.

On Friday night, I’m bringing three grandchildren home with me for another craft day (same script as last weekend, different cast).

And I’ve promised to help prepare the church overheads for the Christmas masses.

No need to panic. I can do this. Breathe. Just breathe.

Candle’s Christmas Chair – in which our hero is stunned by a kiss and our heroine is disappointed in her father

Continuing with Candle’s Christmas Chair. I have one more chapter to read into the recorder, then I’ll do the paper proofread while listening to the playback. I hope that’ll help me pick up all the proofing errors. I plan to put it up to the distributor on Wednesday, so it is ready for you to download by the middle of the weekend, wherever in the world you happen to be.

Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1

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Chapter seven: A proposal and a proposition

Whatever Mother said to Min, she was quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the walk home. Both mothers went for a rest as soon as they’d eaten a nuncheon.

“Would you like to see the succession houses?” Candle asked Min.

He took her the long way around, through the gardens she’d not yet had a chance to see because of the rain. As he’d hoped, they were deserted. All the gardeners were with their families enjoying a Sunday rest.

Avery Hall had three succession houses, One was given over to grape vines that snaked along the walls and looped overhead, and strawberries in pots. One was growing late autumn and early spring vegetables. And in the last one, they saw the first person they’d seen since they left the house. Mugridge, the head gardener, was checking the fire that was used to keep the succession house warm.

He nodded to Candle, and smiled warmly at Min, giving her a somewhat deeper bow. The servants, who adored Mother, had taken Min to their hearts—at first for what her chairs meant to Mother, but then because she was sweet, unassuming, and genuinely interested in them.

“I be just checking this fire, my Lord, Miss. Won’t be long.”

Candle showed Min along the lines of seedlings—trees, shrubs, and flowers being propogated to fill the garden in spring. True to his word, Mugridge very soon said, “I be off now, then. No-one be coming this way till night time, now, my Lord. Close up when tha leaves, will ‘ee?”

Candle promised, and turned back to Min. She looked both apprehensive and amused, with amusement winning.

“He thinks we want to be alone,” Candle explained.

“I gathered that,” she replied.

“Come. Take the chair near the stove.”

It was somewhat battered, but sturdy. She sat in it and he settled himself at her feet.

It was an odd setting for a proposal, but safe. Any place he could be sure of being alone with Min in the house was a place he’d already imagined making love to her in. He wasn’t confident that he could control himself if she accepted his proposal. Or even that he would get to the proposal before…

He had to stop that train of thought. The succession house was becoming less safe by the minute. He was already thinking of the logistics of lovemaking here in the dirt among the seedlings. His coat spread to protect her dress… No. Not here. Quite apart from the respect he owed to an innocent and his future viscountess, he had no intention of consumating his desire in front of a hundred glass panes.

“Min, you know what I want to ask you.”

“I think I do.”

“Will you, Min? Will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”

“Ran, I am not from your world.”

“I know you are too good for me,” he joked, “but I’m hoping you’re prepared to make the sacrifice.”

“Ran, I am serious. I am the daughter of a carriage maker. You are a peer. Society…”

“Min, I love you. If you love me, then Society can go hang itself.”

“I want to continue making chairs.”

“I hope you will.”

“Really? You would not mind?”

“Min, you have a gift. I want you to use it. Say you will marry me, and I’ll have the bans read. We can be wed before Christmas.”

She withdrew. She didn’t move a muscle, but he felt her pulling into herself, away from him.

“Don’t, Randall.”

His full name. That couldn’t be good. But he wasn’t Lord Avery again, which was a hopeful sign.

“Is that a no, Min?”

She shook her head.

“Is it a yes?”

Another head shake.

“Min?” He came up onto his knees in a single motion, and captured her face between both of his hands, looking into her grey eyes.

She collected herself then, his brave little goddess. “When I come back with the chair, I will give you your answer.”

And then she pressed her sweet lips to his and he was lost. With a groan he enfolded her in his arms, slid his hands up behind her head, and deepened the kiss.

It could have been a minute; it could have been months. Time ceased to exist as he explored her mouth and she followed his lead. Her tentative movements, bold and shy at the same time, intoxicated him and he was conscious of nothing but the burning need to sink into her softness. Until a piece of gravel on the path turned as he shifted his knee, and dug into his skin.

He drew away from her with a groan.

Had he done that? Her lips were swollen and red, a sleeve was pulled down baring her shoulder, and one glorious breast was nearly tipped out of her dress. Another nudge, and he’d see…

He blinked, and shook the idea out of his head. “Min, my own dearest love.” He had to be calm. She looked as dazed as he felt. Probably more so, given her innocence. If his world was shaken, hers must be reeling.

“I would help you put yourself to rights, beloved. But I don’t dare touch you.”

She straightened her dress, repinned the lace cap she wore in her hair, rewrapped her shawl around her, all the while sneaking peeks at him and colouring each time their eyes met.

Before they left the succession house, he put a finger on her now clothed arm.

“Min, will you accept my apology, beloved? I meant no disrespect, I promise you. I should never have kissed you. I know how powerfully I react when we touch.”

To his surprise, she suddenly grinned at him. “Ah but Ran, you forget. I kissed you first.”

~*~

Daniel must have left Bath before dawn. He was at the door by mid-morning, and wouldn’t accept Ran’s invitation to stop for lunch. Rain was coming, he said, and he wanted to be safely back in Bath before the deluge.

Min, her valise packed with all the notes and drawings she needed to finish the chair, kissed Lady Avery on the cheek, and gave Ran her hand. He lifted it and deliberately placed a kiss in the palm.

“Bring it back to me, Min,” he said.

She almost told him, then and there, that she would marry him, but—no. She had to get back to Bath. She would make her decision without his disturbing presence tugging her to fall into his arms.

Neither Daniel nor Mama commented on the kiss. Mama asked after Papa, and then she and Daniel discussed the dispatches about the Navy’s victory. They were calling it the Battle of Trafalgar, and nearly 450 British sailors had died. Almost ten times as many died on the other side.

Min didn’t contribute. Mostly, she didn’t listen. She sat and thought about chair design, and what she needed to do to finish Candle’s chair for his mother in time for Christmas.

And all the while her thoughts kept going back to Candle’s kiss, and to the answer she would need to give him.

~*~

Min strode across the yard, her pattens sending sprays of water flying from puddles she ignored in her indignation. Daniel was in the outer office. She didn’t trust herself to speak in front of the clerk; she jerked her head towards the inner office, and went through to wait for him.

He was quick to join her, his face wary. “Now, Minnie, what has got your back up?”

“Did you tell…” She caught herself. Took a deep breath. Best to check the facts first.

“Richards has ignored the instructions I left, redrawn my designs, and reworked the chairs for the Barfoot sale. He claims he had your authorisation.”

Her cousin’s eyes gave him away, sliding evasively to one side. “Now, Minnie. Richards is a good foreman.”

“You gave him authorisation to change my work,” she said flatly.

“He’s highly experienced, Minnie. He said a few changes would save materials and increase our profit.”

“A few changes that mean we do not meet the client’s specifications and will not make the sale.”

“You are exaggerating. He showed me his drawings. Sound carriage design.”

“Unsound chair design,” she snapped back.

Papa entered the room, saw the two of them, and closed the door behind him.

“What’s going on?”

“I want Richards out of my workshop,” Min told Papa, not taking her eyes off Daniel.

“She is upset about a few economies that I approved.” Daniel put on his ‘I am reasonable and you are a female’ voice. “Look, Minnie, you have to let go and let us take over. After all, you will leave all this behind you when you marry your Viscount.”

“Point one,” Min thought she did well to keep her voice calm and level, “I have not accepted Lord Avery’s proposal. Point two, if I do accept, he has promised that I can continue making chairs. Point three, the chair workshop is mine, and you had no right to allow Richards to disobey a direct instruction.”

“Well, Minerva. Strictly speaking he is general manager of the whole works,” Papa said. The traitor.

She looked at the two of them in silence for a moment. First things first. She needed to deal with the chair disaster.

“Let me explain the problem, gentlemen. Richards has scaled down standard carriage parts.” Blank looks. “Scaled them precisely. Without any consideration of the structural integrity of the new thicknesses.”

The two men exchanged glances again. Consternation had replaced smug commiseration. Just so, she thought with a grim satisfaction.

“All three chairs will need to be remade if we are not to forego 90 guineas and the chance of future orders. And I am fully committed on Lady Avery’s chair.” Fortunately, Richards had left that chair alone. She had made every inch of it herself, investing hours. She didn’t just want efficient engineering; she wanted a superb piece of furniture. Carved, turned, and polished woodwork for the handle; upholstery in the finest leather with a buttoned back and seat, sewn detail, and cording on the edges.

“I’ll see to it, Minnie.” Daniel sounded humble, but she couldn’t expect that to last. She was so used to his persistent belief in his male superiority that she noticed it only because of the contrast with Ran’s respect.

“Very well then. And Richards goes.”

“I’ll reassign him.”

“Thank you.” She could be gracious in victory.

She left her menfolk in the office they shared. She wanted to cut the leather for the arms and leave it to relax, and add another coat of polish to the handle. It could be drying while she went out to tea with Cara and her friends. She was cautiously venturing into Society, and finding it less threatening than she expected.

Bother. She had forgotten to tell her father that she wouldn’t be walking home with him.

Turning back through the outer office, she started to push the inner door open, and paused.

“Do you think Lord Avery means to let Minnie make her chairs?” That was Daniel.

“Don’t be daft. Whoever heard of a viscountess doing that sort of stuff? No he’s just saying it. Or he means it now, but will come to his senses soon enough.” That was Papa.

“Yes. You should have put a stop to it long ago, Uncle.”

“It made her happy. And she’s done some good work, you can’t deny it.”

“It isn’t right, though. A woman shouldn’t be doing carriage work, Uncle. I’m sorry to hear that Lord Avery is encouraging her.”

“You know what they say, lad: ‘When a man grows hard between the thighs, he grows soft between the ears.’ He’s soft on my girl, right enough.”

Min had heard enough. Her ears burning, she retreated to her workshop.

Were they right? Ran had sounded so convincing when he spoke of his hope that she would continue her work. But she had always known that marriage would make her dependent on the goodwill of a husband, and she had seen that the face a man showed before marriage was not always the one his wife saw after.

Could Ran be trusted?

I love advent

The third Sunday of advent, and my Jesse tree has 14 ornaments on it, each representing a story. The latest addition is the lamp, for the story of Samuel. Do you know it? He was a boy, living in the temple with the priest Eli, when he heard the voice of God in the night. He assumed it was Eli, and trotted off in his bare feet to see what Eli wanted. The third time he woke poor Eli to see what he was being called for, Eli figured out that the boy was hearing God. The children’s Bible we used to read our eldest granddaughter had an illustration of an increasingly grumpy Eli and his equally grumpy pet (a cat, from memory). Tomorrow’s ornament is a harp, representing the shepherd boy, David.

Rejoice always

Gaudete Sunday, in the Catholic, Anglican, and Lutheran traditions.

I’m first reader at church today. It’s the third Sunday of Advent, and the readings are about joy. After two weeks of readings about turmoil, repentance, and longing, we take a break and rejoice. The purple of penance and preparation gives way to the rose of joy, both in the vestments and in the third advent candle, lit for the first time today.

I do so love the way that the traditional practices shape and punctuate the year.

And here is the 16th Century hymn Gaudate, for your listening pleasure.

Candle’s Christmas Chair – in which our hero and his mother give our heroine much to think about

Here’s the last half of chapter six of Candle’s Christmas Chair. This leaves me chapter 7 (which I’ll post in two halves) and chapter 8 (which is short, and will go up as one post). The ISBN should be through by Tuesday or Wednesday. I’m proofreading the last three chapters, formatting the file for the distributor, writing a piece on the language of flowers to go at the back, and writing my blog post for the blog tour at which I’ll launch the novella as a free giveaway. Lots to do, but so much fun!

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Lord Avery’s mother was a darling. She never complained, though she was clearly often in pain. Instead, she would turn the conversation somewhere else. Min coaxed her into being clear about how the chairs worked for her.

“If anything hurts or is uncomfortable, I want to know so that I can fix it, my Lady.”

Afterwards, Min went in search of Lord Avery. The butler directed her to the study, where he was working at a huge old desk, his back to the large window. The fitful rain of the past few days had cleared, and sunlight was pouring over Lord Avery’s shoulder onto his work. The light glanced of his red hair, setting gleaming threads on fire.

He felt her gaze and looked up, meeting her eyes with a slowly warming smile that set light to a slow burn in her.

“Miss Bradshaw, please come in.”

“I am sorry to disturb your work, Lord Avery.”

He rounded the desk and set a chair for her, hovering over her as if he wanted to guide her physically into the seat. Her skin seemed to yearn towards him. She held herself stiffly in check.

“It is about your mother.”

Lord Avery’s eyes grew concerned, the heat that disturbed her banked for the moment.

“Is there something wrong?”

She hastened to reassure him. “Nothing we cannot fix. She is developing sore patches. Because she is unable to move herself, and because she has no feeling in her lower torso,” Min blushed at mentioning such a word to a man. But it needed to be said.

Lord Avery frowned. “I will have a word with her maid. She must be more vigilant. Could we find an unguent or something to soothe…? But you said you could fix it. What is your plan, Miss Bradshaw?”

“What you suggest is good, and I have discussed it with your mother and the maid. But I would like to try something that one of my customers told me about. Would you be able to procure a sheepskin with the wool still on?”

“We keep sheep on the home farm, as well as up on the wolds. I should think I already own any number of sheepskins.”

“Sitting on sheepskin may help. And lying on it, as well, in bed.”

They talked a little more about the possible benefits, and Lord Avery sent a servant down to the home farm to order at least three skins of various depths and sizes.

“May I show you through the house, Miss Bradshaw?” he asked.

Min panicked. The thought of being alone with him, even in a house full of servants, suddenly seemed overwhelming. She muttered something about resting, and made her escape.

By dinner time, she was ashamed of herself. Lady Avery and Mama had discovered a mutual love of embroidery, and of the language of flowers. When Mama mentioned her hope of soon having a garden, this spread into a deep conversation about methods of cultivation, and what did best in their local climate. When Lord Avery suggested a stroll in the picture gallery, and Mama waved her compliance, Min took Lord Avery’s arm and let him conduct her down the hall.

The gallery stretched across the back of the house. He left her in the doorway while he lit candles in sconces all along the walls, then came back with a candelabra to escort her to the first picture.

The Averys had been at Avery Hall since the dawn of time, it seemed. And all had been recorded in paint for this moment; to look down in scorn and judgement on an interloper of the middle sort who had begun to dream of stepping out of her class.

Lord Avery took them in his stride, telling stories about the people in each portrait, describing them with affection and familiarity. He could, of course. He belonged here.

She nodded, and smiled, going through the motions from behind the wall she’d long since learned to erect. Never before with Lord Avery, though.

Suddenly, two thirds of the way down the long room, he stopped and turned her towards him, his hands on her shoulders.

“This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?” he said. “Look, Miss Bradshaw. Min.” He released one shoulder to raise her chin with one finger, so that her eyes looked straight into his. “Min,” he repeated, his voice pleading, “they don’t matter. You have as many ancestors as I do, you know. All human beings do. But none of them matter, on either side. You matter. We matter. Don’t let them come between us.”

Lost in his eyes, she couldn’t remember why they should. There was only him. Randall. Ran.

He stooped, curling his head down to her height and brushing her lips gently with his. A soft caress of the lips, over too quickly.

She gave a small sound of distress, quickly stifled. He was right to stop. They were alone, unchaperoned. Mama trusted her to behave.

As if he could read her mind, he said, “We had better go back, Min. Your Mama trusts me, and I’m afraid I cannot be trusted too far. I should not be alone with you. Will you…?” He didn’t finish his sentence, but just gestured to the door at the far end of the gallery.

She led the way, silently. Her knees felt as if they did not quite belong to her; as if each step had to be carefully planned in advance or she would find herself in another room, another house.

As she approached the door, a painting on the other side caught her eye–a man on a horse with the look of Ran. He was older though, and the artist had caught a mood, an expression that she’d never seen on Ran’s face. This man’s face, Min thought, would fall easily into a sneer or a leer, but never into the kindness that was natural to his son. She didn’t need Ran’s muttered: “My father, the previous Viscount Avery,” to tell the relationship.

Somehow, her earlier discomfort with the array of ancestors had gone, but Ran was tense and miserable beside her. “He was not a good man,” she said, afraid when she heard her voice that she’d gone too far.

But Ran nodded. “You’re right. He was an indifferent landlord, a neglectful father, and a bad husband. He wasn’t a bad man, exactly. He just never grew up.”

“A lot of Society men are like that,” Min said.

“Yes. When we are children, we think our parents are unique. But he was very ordinary, really.”

“He made you unhappy.”

“He ignored me, mostly. He spent all of his time in London, and I stayed here at Avery Hall with Mother. I had a wonderful childhood. Then Father took it into his head that he should send me away to school.”

She was holding his hand. She wasn’t sure how that happened, but she squeezed it. She didn’t need to be told that he hated school. Min had been miserable enough as a day pupil. Ran went to Eton, far away from home.

Again, his thoughts had tracked hers. “I lived for the holidays when I could come home.”

“Your mother must have missed you.”

From his surprised look, he hadn’t consider that. “Yes. She was always so calm, I had not thought… But, yes. Poor Mother. I never really came back. Just holidays. I went from school to Oxford, to the Guard.”

He looked so sad. She put her arms around him to give him a hug, and his came around her. With her head on his chest, she could hear his heart thumping. He shifted, so his body moved back from hers, and she blushed. How forward he must think her.

~*~

One moment he’d been lost in a sad past, and the next he could think of nothing but the woman in his arms. He’d had to move her away from his groin. He wasn’t sure how much she knew about male anatomy. He’d like nothing better than to teach her, preferably right this minute, what the hardness he was hiding from her was for. No. He had enough sense left to know that he shouldn’t take the power of choice away from her.

“Min? We need to go back to our mothers.”

She had turned the most delightful pink. He wondered how far it spread then shut that thought off. It was not helping.

“I apologise, Lord…”

“Ssshh.” He put a finger on her lips to stop her. “No apologies. I won’t apologise to you for desiring you, and you won’t apologise for being kind when I needed kindness. And it certainly isn’t my fault or yours that you are still my goddess.”

She smiled against his finger and he couldn’t resist tracing the smile. One day; one day soon, he would feast on those generous lips.

~*~

Min asked questions, took measurements, made adjustments, and asked more questions. But by the end of the second day of her visit, she had run out of things she could do unless the rain let up for long enough to take the chair out of doors.

Everywhere she looked, Avery Hall showed signs of coming back from a long period of neglect. Ran said he was spending most of his efforts on improvements to the broader estate, investing so that he and his tenants would benefit in future years. But he was clearly also bringing the house back to its former glory. The legacy from the uncle must have been every bit as large as rumour painted it.

After dinner that night, Lady Avery asked Min for some music. “I am not an accomplished pianist, my Lady,” Min said.

“She sings very nicely,” Mama said.

“Randall, play for Miss Bradshaw,” Lady Avery commanded.

So they put their heads to choose music, then Ran’s long fingers coaxed the keys. Min remembered how they felt on her lips. And his eyes held hers as she sang:

“Nor yet in the valleys below

Nor yet in the valleys below.”

And he replied, in a warm tenor:

“‘Pretty Betsy, don’t fail,

For I’ll carry your pail,

Safe home to your cot as we go;

You shall hear the fond tale

Of the sweet nightingale,

As she sings in those valleys below.'”

They finished to applause from the mothers, whom they had quite forgotten.

“The tea tray, I think,” said Lady Avery. “Ring the bell, please, Randall.”

~*~

The rain had cleared the next morning, and Lady Avery insisted on riding the invalid chair to Sunday service, the rest of the party walking alongside.

Min tried to ignore the curious looks of the villagers, and focus on the performance of the chair. It handled the solid ground well, though the footman pushing it struggled when they hit soft ground.

Lady Avery was having a fine time, surrounded by people who flocked to talk to her.

“This is the first time she has taken the chair down to the village,” Ran said from behind her. She felt herself warm in his direction, as if he was the sun and she a flower.

“It’s a fine thing you do,” Ran went on, “this chair building.”

She waited. Now he would tell her that it wasn’t proper for a viscountess; that she wouldn’t need to continue when she was married.

Instead, he introduced her to the Vicar, and then to other people, a sea of strangers who all shook her hand, and smiled, and told her how welcome she was, and how good it was to see Lady Avery out and about.

Lady Avery took the lead on the way home, while Ran gave his right arm to Min and his left to Mama. It was good to see Lady Avery with colour in her cheeks, laughing up at Wilson the footman who was grinning back as he swerved the chair around the puddles.

“There will be no stopping her now,” Ran joked. “Every fine day, she’ll be running poor Wilson ragged, all over the garden and in and out of the village.”

“She should be enjoying life,” Mama commented. “She is a young woman, still.”

“On her next birthday she’ll be 41,” Ran confirmed.

Min hadn’t realised how young she was. She must have been little more than a child when Ran was born.

Ran was frowning a little as he watched his mother. Mama patted his arm with her free hand. “Let her enjoy herself, Lord Avery,” she told him. “And you enjoy her, too, for the time you have her.”

Min tried to peer around Ran. What could Mama mean?

“Did she tell you?” Ran asked.

“Yes, dear. She has had two seizures since the accident, and she has lost a little bit with each one.”

“The doctor thinks…” Ran didn’t finish.

“I know. She told me,” Mama said. “Enjoy the time you have, dear. You are making her happy, with the work on the estate and the way you care for her.”

“Randall!” Lady Avery called. “Take Mrs Bradshaw down to the gardener’s cottage, my dearest, and ask them for the bulbs I promised her. Miss Bradshaw and I will wait at the lookout.”

Ahead, the driveway took a curve to give a view out over the estate, Avery Hall foursquare below. Ran obeyed his instructions, and Wilson took himself a short distance away.

“I wished to speak with you, Miss Bradshaw,” Lady Avery said.

Here it comes, Min thought. Now she will tell me I am not good enough for him.

“You will think me an interfering old woman, but please remember that I love my son, and I want what is best for him.”

“I know that, Lady Avery.”

“He wants to marry you. You know that of course.”

Min nodded. She was afraid to speak in case she cried. She liked Lady Avery, and she couldn’t blame her for being concerned about the same distance in status that concerned Min. But still, she could feel the tears gathering.

“I wish you would consider it, my dear. I can understand you being worried about the gossip, and I cannot promise you it will be easy, but I wanted to tell you there are two things you need never worry about.”

Lady Avery paused as if to let Min comment, but Min still couldn’t speak. This was so far from what she expected that she had no words. Lady Avery continued.

“You do not have to worry that Randall is like his father. He looks like his father, but he takes his nature from my family. We give our hearts once, and for a lifetime. He has given his heart to you, Miss Bradshaw. It will be yours forever.

“And, if you are concerned about living with me, do not be. I will not make old bones, though I would love to live long enough to see my grandchildren.”

Min found her voice. “Lady Avery, I hope you live to be 100, and no woman in her right mind would be concerned about living with you.”

“Then you will consider marrying Randall?”

Min looked down at the frail hands she’d taken in her eagerness to show Lady Avery how she esteemed her. “I am trade. He is a peer. You and I both know what Society will say.”

“I do not give a fig for Society, and neither does Randall. But, I understand that you must make up your own mind, my dear Minerva. I may call you Minerva, may I not?”

How England reacted to the death of Lord Nelson

I accidentally set my novella, Candle’s Christmas Chair, in the months that saw the naval power of France broken at Trafalgar. When I realised, I made sure that my hero was present at Bath’s premier coaching inn when the news arrived from London.

The victory was massive. The British navy won against a considerably larger force, and won decisively. They lost 449 men and none of their 33 ships; on the other side, the French and Spanish lost more than 4,000 men and, 22 of their 40 ships.

But joy in England was tempered by grief, as her greatest naval hero had died in the battle.

On the Death of Lord Nelson

Anon

The Morning Chronicle (November 8, 1805)

Why o’er the dark and troubled deep

Is heard at times a mournful noise;

While Victors midst their triumphs weep,

The vanquish’d in their fall rejoice!

Why burst the sobs of yonder Tars,

But now triumphant o’er the foe;

Unmindful of their gory scars,

Their tears that now first learn to flow?

For NELSON’S death their tears are shed,

And grief alone their thoughts employs;

Ev’n Vict’ry’s self reclines her head,

And weeping checks her wonted joys.

Thy deeds, great Chief, shall be the theme,

Afar on Ganges’ hallow’d shores;

While Niagara’s lightening stream,

Thy dreaded name in thunder roars.

Stern MARS, as ‘midst the fight he raves,

Shall ev’ry dreadful peal prolong;

And NEPTUNE roll his gory waves,

To sound their fav’rite’s fun’ral song.

And while on high her Warrior’s tomb

Thy weeping country grateful rears;

Thy laurels o’er it e’er shall bloom,

Still water’d by a Nation’s tears.

Candle’s Christmas Chair – in which our hero frets and our heroine thinks about kisses

20 December and publication day is almost upon us. I’m currently reading the novella into a voice recorder on my iPad so that I can play it back while I follow on a paper copy with a red pen in my hand.  So watch this space, folks. But meanwhile, here’s the first half of chapter six.

Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 1

Candle’s Christmas Chair excerpt 9

Chapter six

The flowers kept coming, the type repeated, but in different combinations each day. Each day, Mama interpreted the message for her, and Daniel took great delight in offering an alternative reading. According to Mama, Christmas roses and asters with sprays of mimosa meant ‘My concealed love is now disclosed. How will it be received?’ Daniel suggested, ‘I wish to hide because the thought of love makes me anxious.’ Blue salvia, irises and yellow roses meant ‘I think of you, miss you, and long for your friendship’ to Mama. But Daniel claimed it meant ‘When I think of you, I miss having friends’.

The gifts of produce from the estate kept coming too, prompting Cook to tell Daniel (who passed it on to Min) that she hoped Miss wouldn’t turn the young Lord down too soon, because his presents were so useful.

Walking home from the workshop one afternoon, Polly in attendance, she had to stop suddenly to avoid a fashionably-dressed young woman who burst out of a shop door without looking, to stand frozen in the road, her hands clenched at her sides and her face stiff with the effort of holding back tears.

Min, who had been about to circle around her, took a second look. “Cara? What’s wrong? May I help?”

Caroline Cresthover had been closer to a friend than any of the other girls at the select girl’s seminary Min’s parents had sent her to.

“Min? Min Bradshaw? Oh Min, if I had stayed in the shop I would have killed that woman.” The tears had escaped, spilling down Cara’s cheeks.

The shop door opened to let out a maid carrying a reticule that matched Cara’s pelisse. Min could see past her to Lady Norton and a gaggle of her friends. Kitty Cat was clearly up to her usual tricks.

“Do not let her see that she upsets you,” Min counselled Cara. “Come; let us move away where they cannot see us.”

“I know I should be charitable, but…”

“Never mind being charitable. Just do not give her a stick to beat you with.” Min turned to the maid. “Do you have a handkerchief for your mistress? Here, Cara, dry your tears and let’s go and have tea and tear Kitty Cat’s character to little tiny shreds.”

Over tea, Cara confided that Vivi Norton loved to commiserate with her about being ‘on the shelf’, which Cara mostly ignored. But today’s nasty remarks had included a series of snippets about the activities of one Captain Marsh who, according to Lady Norton, had cut a swathe through the widows of London and was about to announce his engagement to a debutante of 17.

“And Vivi says she is blonde and slender, and everyone knows that slender blondes are more fashionable.” Cara, whose hair and eyes were brown, and who was generously curved, began to cry again.

“Captain Marsh is special to you?” Min ventured. It seemed a safe enough guess.

“He said we would announce our engagement as soon as he had the approval of his grandfather. His father is the third son of the Earl of Scuncester. He said we had to keep our courtship secret in case his grandfather did not approve.”

“If it was a secret, Cara, how did Vivi find out?”

Cara blushed. “I might have hinted. Just a little. Only in the strictest confidence, and only because she teased me so about being twenty and unmarried.”

Several cream cakes cheered Cara up. She was not, Min deduced, particularly attached to Captain Marsh. His status as the grandson of an Earl and his professed interest in marrying her seemed to be the sum total of his attractive features. Cara found his conversation boring, his lack of dancing skill annoying, and his repeated attempts to kiss her frightening.

“Mama said I should never be alone with a man because he would try to kiss me, and then I would be ruined,” she told Min. “I wasn’t even alone with Captain Marsh; well, not really alone. The first time was in the garden, and there were other people there, but it was dark and we couldn’t see them. And Mama was right. He did try to kiss me. I did not let him, though.” She nodded, pleased with herself.

“And then the next week he stopped me in the hall at a party. He said he was dying of love for me, which was very romantic, I thought. And he asked me to meet him outside and tried to kiss me again when I said no. I told him I did not want to be ruined. He said I would not be ruined for just one kiss. That was when he said he planned to marry me. He said it was alright to kiss the man you were going to marry. But Mama came and he went away.”

“Then what happened?” Min was finding the whole saga morbidly fascinating.

“He kept trying to get me on my own so he could kiss me. And in the end, I let him. It was not very nice.” Cara frowned. “It was wet. And I could not breathe properly. Has anyone kissed you, Min?”

Min shook her head, mostly to dislodge a sudden wish to know how nice Lord Avery’s kiss might be. Certainly she had, on several occasions, seen Mama and Papa kiss, and Mama seemed to like it very well.

“I do not recommend it,” Cara said.

“Perhaps Captain Marsh is not very good at it,” Min suggested.

Cara shrugged. “Anyway, then he went off to London. He said that he could not write because we could not yet announce our betrothal, but that I should just wait and he would come back. He did not mean it, did he Min?”

“I do not think so, from what you have told me, Cara.”

“Well, I do not care. But I would have liked to have one over that cat Vivi. You know that she had to marry? She would have been ruined if she did not, my Mama says. But now she is Baroness Norton and she takes precedence over me, and it is just not fair, Min.”

Cara helped herself to another cream cake, which seemed to console her.

“Vivi is not very popular you know, Min. I only spend time with her because she is my cousin. Most of the girls we were at school with do not like her at all.” This seemed to console Cara even more. “I know, come to my afternoon at home tomorrow. The girls would be so pleased to see you.”

Min refused, but Cara was so enthusiastic about the idea that, in the end, she went. To her surprise, she enjoyed herself, and even accepted an invitation to walk in the Sydney Gardens with a group  of the ladies later that week.

It seemed that most of them had suffered under the rule of Vivi Kitteridge’s little group. Min, sunk in her own misery, had never realised that the school was split into two groups. On the one side, the vast majority, trying hard not to be noticed. On the other, Kitty Cat and her three disciples.

But outside of the enclosed environment of the school, the small group of bullies had lost their power. Even Cara, most of the time, ignored Lady Norton’s spitefulness, though she couldn’t completely cut herself off from her cousin.

#*#

“Randall, darling, do stop pacing. You have been to the window so many times the carpet is developing a groove.” Mother was smiling. His nervousness amused her. How nice.

“I wish they had let me escort them,” Candle said. Had he met them in Bath, they would be here by now, or–at the very least–he would know the delay was because they had left Bath late, and not because of any of the disasters along the way he could picture all too clearly.

“Do you think she’ll like her room,” he asked.

“Randall, you have asked me the same question three times in the last hour. And driven Mrs Howard nearly demented in changing her room six times in as many days, moving furniture in and then out again, and I do not know what else. I know you want everything to be perfect, my love, but just relax. I’m sure your Miss Bradshaw will like her room.”

“My Lord.” It was Howard, the butler. “Young Jem has just arrived my Lord.” Jem was the youngest groom, and had been  posted on a hill overlooking the road from Bath as an early warning system.

“They’re coming?”

“Yes, my Lord. A chaise, my Lord, coming fast.”

Not too fast, he hoped. That bend at the bottom of the hill could be tricky at speed. He should have had the curve reformed in the summer.

“Whatever you are worrying about now, Randall, don’t,” Mother said.

The chaise arrived safely at the foot of the stairs, and Candle was at the door with an umbrella almost before it had come to a stop. Daniel descended first, but stepped under the umbrella a footman offered him and waved to invite Candle to hand down first Mrs Bradshaw, then her daughter, and then the maid, Polly.

He handed Mrs Bradshaw over to Daniel and escorted Miss Bradshaw inside himself, leaving the footman with a third umbrella to bring the maid in.

Daniel wouldn’t stay, saying that he needed to get back to Bath. After a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches, he took leave of his aunt and cousin.

“I’ll be back for you in four days,” he told them, then met Candle’s eyes over their heads. “You’ll take care of my family, Candle,” he said; a statement, not a question. Candle agreed, anyway.

Mrs Bradshaw went to rest to recover from the trip. Miss Bradshaw refused the suggestion, and instead closeted herself with Mother to ask questions about the chair. At a loose end, Candle took himself off to his study, but he couldn’t settle to work. Not with her in the house at last.

He wanted to show her everything. He wanted to hold her and kiss her till she agreed to stay forever. No. That would frighten her off. But somehow he would find a way to convince her that she belonged with him. She was only here for a few days. He would have to make the most of them.

Candle has a cover

I woke this morning to an email from the talented and charming Britt Leveridge with the chair she has drawn for my cover. I asked for a small change, and she came back within half an hour. Hasn’t she done a marvelous job?

The house is ‘A view of King’s Weston House, in the snow’, photographed by Stephen Burns and released into the public domain by the copyright holder on 5 February 2009.