Jude Knight's Blog, page 24
July 27, 2023
July 25, 2023
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.
July 23, 2023
Tea with Margaret and Pauline
Lady Charmain looked none the worse for her awful experience, though her friend Miss Turner hovered over her as if she might collapse at any moment. Eleanor, the Duchess of Winshire, was acquainted with the two of them. Lady Charmain she knew very well. Eleanor had been friends with her mother. Miss Turner was more of an unknown. She had not impressed at first meeting several years ago, but had remained with her step-brother after her mother and sister were exiled for crimes against him and his wife. From all accounts, Miss Turner had not put a foot wrong since. Eleanor believed in second chances and would give the woman the benefit of the doubt.
She knew about the other woman in the room, too, though they had not met. Miss Trent was a personal guard, hired from Moriarty Protection to defend Lady Charmain after several attacks on her betrothed. Unusual to have a woman in that role, but how clever. Miss Trent could follow Lady Charmain into places no man could or should go.
“The men have gone downstairs to interview the scoundrel who slandered Lady Charmain,” reported Sophia, wife to Winshire’s eldest son and therefore Eleanor’s daughter-in-law. “They will join us in time to share a pot of tea, Aunt Eleanor. Jamie will have coffee, of course.”
Eleanor was not going to discuss the nasty scene in the ballroom that had led to the incarceration of the man Sophia rightly called ‘the scoundrel’. She knew just the topic to introduce to lighten the mood. “How are plans for the wedding, Margaret, my dear? Have you chosen your gown? I am so looking forward to witnessing the occasion.”
(This scene wasn’t in Snowy and the Seven Doves, out on August 10th. Instead, we follow Snowy down into the cellars. “First, they visited the Duke of Winshire, where Margaret and Pauline were scooped up by Lady Sutton and taken upstairs to visit with the duchess. Miss Trent followed behind the ladies, as silent and inconspicuous as a shadow.” After the scene in the cellars, “Snowy and the duke joined the ladies. They were discussing the wedding; apparently, the duke and duchess would be in attendance. Snowy wondered if the invitation had originated with the duchess, but since Margaret seemed happy, he said nothing. They then went for their drive in the Park. It was almost anticlimactic that nothing happened.” Not that this was the end. Indeed, 20% of the book and the worst attack of all remained to be told.)
July 22, 2023
Spotlight on Because of You
July 20, 2023
Folk tales in human history
In most places and for most of history, folk tales have not been written down. They have instead been passed from story teller to story teller down through the generations, changing over time as the current teller of the tale adds or changes a detail.
In the book Clever Maids, the author Valerie Paradiz tells the true history of the women who collected the stories that were edited and published by the Brothers Grimm. Folk tales, she tells us, were women’s stories—the tales that women told over the laundry or the baking, or entertained children with during a long winter’s evening, or when putting them to bed. They were servant’s stories—the stories of the folk, the ordinary people.
We can see these origins in the stories themselves. In folk tales, if not in the high literature of the cultures of the world, the weak and helpless win out over the malice of the powerful. Notably, many of the protagonists of folk tale are women—women who are essential to the story, which isn’t over until they get their happy ending.
Today, romance literature is predominately a women’s literature: written predominantly for women and by women, and not over until the female protagonist gets her happy ending. It seemed to me that romance was the right place to retell folk tales, and A Twist Upon a Regency Tale is the result.
July 19, 2023
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.”
July 16, 2023
Tea with a worried mother
An excerpt post. In Revealed in Mist, Her Grace sets my heroine’s mind at ease.
Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.
Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.
The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.
Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.
Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.
It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.
“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”
Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.
The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?
“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?
“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”
Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.
“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”
“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.
“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”
The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.
When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”
Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”
As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.
“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.
The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”
Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”
She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”
Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”
Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”
“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”
“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”
Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.
“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”
The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”
She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”
She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”
“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”
Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”
A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.
Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”
An excerpt post. In Revealed in Mist, Her Grace sets my ...
An excerpt post. In Revealed in Mist, Her Grace sets my heroine’s mind at ease.
Prue hesitated in the street outside her next destination. Callers needed to present their card at the gate, be escorted to the front door and delivered to the butler, then wait to be announced. On most days of the week, uninvited guests below a certain rank in society would have difficulty making it past the first obstacle, but on Thursday afternoons, the Duchess of Haverford was ‘at home’ to petitioners.
Past encounters had always been initiated by Her Grace. A scented note would arrive by footman, and Prue would obey the summons and receive the duchess’s commission. Though she was always gracious, never, by word or deed, had Her Grace indicated that she and Prue had any closer relationship than employer and agent.
The entrance and public rooms of Haverford House were designed to impress lesser mortals with the greatness of the family—and their own lesser status. Prue was ushered to a room just off the lofty entrance hall. Small by Haverford standards, this waiting area nonetheless dwarfed the people waiting to see the duchess.
Two women, one middle-aged and the other a copy some twenty years younger, nervously perched on two of the ladder-backed chairs lining one wall. Next to them, but several chairs along, a lean young man with an anxious frown pretended to read some papers, shuffling them frequently, peering over the tops of his spectacles at the door to the next room. Two men strolled slowly along the wall, examining the large paintings and conversing in low whispers. A lone woman walked back and forth before the small window, hushing the baby fretting on her shoulder.
Prue took a seat and prepared for a wait. She would not tremble. She had nothing to fear. Both Tolliver and David said so, and Aldridge, too. But how she wished the waiting was over.
It seemed a long time but was only a few minutes, before a servant hurried in and approached her.
“Miss Virtue? Her Grace will see you now.”
Prue gave the other occupants an apologetic nod and followed the servant.
The duchess received her in a pretty parlour, somehow cosy despite its grand scale. Prue curtseyed to her and the woman with her. Were all petitioners waved to a seat on an elegant sofa facing Her Grace? Addressed as ‘my dear’? Asked if they should care for a cup of tea?
“Miss Virtue takes her tea black, with a slice of lemon,” the duchess told her companion. Or was the woman her secretary?
“Miss Virtue, my companion, Miss Grant. Miss Grant, Miss Virtue has been of great service to me and to those I love. I am always at home to her.”
Was Miss Grant one of the army of relatives for whom Her Grace had found employment, or perhaps one of the dozens of noble godchildren she sponsored? The young woman did not have the look of either Aldridge or his brother, nor of their parents. Prue murmured a greeting.
“I was not expecting you, Miss Virtue, was I? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, Your Grace. I just… I have some questions, Ma’am.”
“You should have sent a note, my dear. I will always take time to see you. I was happy to give a good report of you to my friend Lady Georgiana, of course.” As she spoke, the duchess took the tea cup from Miss Grant and passed it to her.
“Your Grace, I would like to speak with you alone, if I may. I beg your pardon, Miss Grant. I do not mean to be discourteous.”
The duchess stopped her own cup partway to her lips and put it carefully back into the saucer, examining Prue’s face carefully.
When she spoke, it was to Miss Grant. “Celia, my dear, will you let those waiting know that I will be delayed…” she consulted her lapel watch, “…thirty-five minutes, but I will see them all today? Perhaps you could arrange refreshments for them? Return on the half hour, please. That is all the time I can spare, Miss Virtue. If you need longer, I will ask you to wait or return another day.”
Prue shook her head. “The time will be ample, Ma’am. Thank you.”
As Miss Grant left the room, Prue was silent, collecting her thoughts. The duchess waited.
“You knew about Antonia. You have known all along.” Prue shifted uneasily. She had not intended to sound accusing.
The duchess inclined her head, her face showing nothing but calm. “Since shortly after her birth.”
Prue did not know how to ask the questions that crowded her mind, but the duchess had exhausted her noble patience, which was, after all, on a schedule. “What is it you wish to know, Miss Virtue? Why I said nothing?” Her voice softened, and her eyes were compassionate. “I read your sister’s letter, and thought to write back and offer you and the child a place with me. I did not think a home filled with such… such judgement could be happy for either of you. But family is best, if it can be contrived. And there was Aldridge. I was unsure how things had been left between you. He seemed to feel a genuine fondness; I thought he might… He has more charm than is helpful in such situations, and I did not want my granddaughter raised… Well. That is not to the point now.”
She took a deep breath. So she was not as calm as she seemed, either. “I sent someone I trust to check whether you needed my intervention, and found you had left the letter writer to live with another sister. A more hospitable environment, my agent thought.”
Prue knew who the duchess’s trusted messenger was. “Tolliver.”
Her Grace nodded. “Yes. Thomas and I have an equal commitment to protecting and championing those to whom the Grenfords owe a duty.”
“You and I have met since, Your Grace.”
“Your secrets are yours to keep or share, Miss Virtue. I have often wished to ask after your daughter, but I did not wish to intrude. My son’s carelessness changed your life in ways for which I can never compensate. The Grenfords have responsibilities here, but no rights.”
Prue felt suddenly dizzy as her tension drained away.
“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I knew about the three girls: the young ladies you are raising. I thought you might… I feared you would take Antonia. Aldridge told me you would not, and so did David and Tolliver.”
The duchess leaned forward to pat Prue’s hand. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry you were worried. Matilda, Jessica, and Frances had no one else, and at the time we found them I did not understand that a quieter life in a less prominent household would have served them better. Frances was the last I took into my own home, and that was nearly ten years ago. Now Thomas and I do better by those we find. But there, done is done, and the girls and I love one another dearly.”
She had kept Prue’s hand in hers, and she now gave it a comforting squeeze. “I can assure you, Miss Virtue, I have never taken a child from a mother, or from relatives who cared. The future those little girls faced,” she shuddered at the thought, “was unutterably grim.”
She sat back, and picked up her abandoned cup to take a sip. “You say Aldridge reassured you. He knows about his daughter, then?”
“He has met her, Your Grace. He saved us from a dastardly villain. It was quite heroic.” Prue found herself telling the duchess about the attack in Tidbury End. “I would like to talk to the Dowager Lady Selby, but she has not been at home,” she finished. “Surely she would be concerned at the plight of her grandchildren?”
Her Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, her lip curling. “Not from what I know of her, my dear. But have young Wakefield escort you to my ball on Thursday. I shall arrange for you to have a private interview with Lady Selby.”
A discreet knock at the door warned the duchess their time was nearly up. The Duchess of Haverford stood and walked Prue to the door, and Prue found herself enfolded in a tight embrace. “I shall continue to rely upon you for your professional services from time to time, my dear, and will be pleased to say a good word if ever it can help you. You will let me know if there is anything else I can do,” she commanded. “Should the opportunity arise, I would dearly love to meet your daughter, entirely at your discretion.” She turned her head away, but not before Prue had seen the glistening eyes.
Prue curtseyed. “My association with you has always been to my benefit, Your Grace; I am certain such acquaintance with the House of Haverford can only be to Antonia’s advantage.”
July 14, 2023
Spotlight on Christmas in July
It’s Christmas in July, with more than 75 historical romance books, many of them Christmas and romance-themed, available for the whole month. Go to https://books.bookfunnel.com/christmasinjulyhistrom/hzdhbid0cm to see the books and join the fun.
My offering is If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales, which contains six Christmas themed stories.
