Jude Knight's Blog, page 80

Where viscounts came from

John Lord Beaumont, the first English viscount.

If you’ve been following this series, you’ll have realised that land is the fundamental building block of European nobility: particularly the province or county. The pivot point for understanding titles is what England calls an earl, whether they’re called some variation of ‘count’ or ‘jarl’ or ‘graf’ or some other term. Counts (or earls) ruled counties on behalf of the monarch. Marcher lords or marquises or margrafs ruled counties on the kingdom’s borders. Dukes ruled several counties.

When we get to viscount, we’re going the other way. The key part of the word is ‘vis’, from late Latin ‘vice’ meaning a deputy or substitute. Vicar comes from the same root word. In Carolingian times (in the empire of Charlemagne and his descendants), the vicecomites were officials appointed to exercise the powers of the comites (counts) who had delegated them to act. The man was a official who worked for the count (or higher official), just as the count was an official who worked for the king.

Vicecomes wasn’t, initially, a hereditary title, just a job title, as — for that matter — were the higher titles. Just as count became a hereditary title, in time, so did viscount.

France had hereditary viscounts  when it first began to differentiate itself from the Holy Roman Empire. The duchy of Normandy was divided into vicecomtes, ruled by vicecomes as deputies to the duke.

In England, the term vicecomes was applied to those who held the role of sherif, but the first hereditary title wasn’t applied until 1440, when John Lord Beaumont was created the first English viscount.

Other European countries retain equivalent titles. In Portugal and Spain, the rank is visconde, in France, vicomte, in Germany, the rank is burggraf.

Attraction on Work-in-progress Wednesday

Every romance writer needs to build in enough emotion that readers will believe in the attraction between the main characters. This week, I’m asking you to post excerpts in which that attraction is just beginning. Mine is from the next Bluestocking Belles’ box set, and neither party want to acknowledge it.

Hamner escorted his mother through the rooms until they found her friends.

“Now run along, dear, and find someone to dance with.”

Did he ever used to enjoy this kind of event? It wasn’t fashionable for men to admit to any kind of pleasure in a ballroom, but two years ago, an event like this would have been a treat. He would not have sat out a dance, though nor would he have danced twice with the same female.

He loved the company of women, from the innocent pleasures of dancing and conversation with Society’s maidens to the more robust and earthy delights to be enjoyed savored with discreet widows.

A wealthy earl needed to be cautious. But if he went nowhere alone, and paid attention to them all and none to anyone in particular, he raised no expectations and could simply enjoy himself. He had. Until he had set his sights on Lady Felicity.

There she was now, in conversation with the duchess’s two wards. For the last two seasons, Miss Grenford, Miss Jessica, and Lady Felicity had been close friends. Before last season, her older sister had married and almost immediately gone into mourning for a relative of her husband’s. Rather than miss the Season, Lady Felicity had been taken under the wing of the duchess; the three young ladies clearly intended to spend this Season together, as they had the last.

It was intolerable that he wanted to yearn after Lady Felicity, who would have made him a perfectly unobjectionable wife: an ornament to the Hamner name. Instead, he could barely look at her. Not when she stood next to Miss Grenford.

As he continued around the room, he fought to control his reaction to the pernicious female’s presence.

Tea with Lady Overton and Mrs Wakefield

 

The Duchess of Haverford was entertaining two younger women to afternoon tea, and so far, the afternoon was going as she planned. The children, who were having their own tea party at a small table further along the terrace, were getting on well. Frances and Antonia, both thirteen,  fussed happily over little Belle, treating her as an animated version of the dolls they had outgrown.

“Your other children would have been very welcome,” she said to the two mothers.

Becky Overton smiled. “The older girls are looking forward to having Overton to themselves, Aunt Eleanor. They love Belle, but she does rather demand the entire family’s adoring attention. Besides, I thought you might enjoy having her …” she trailed off, darting a glance at Prue Wakefield and then another at Antonia, Mrs Wakefield’s daughter.

Ah. She had noticed the girl’s eyes and her colouring. Eleanor had assumed that she would. No such biological markers identified Belle, though — under the circumstances — it was as well she favoured her mother. In this situation, though, it made things difficult. Eleanor wanted to accomplish her purpose for bringing the mothers and daughters together without breaching the confidence of either of them, but she could not immediately see how to do it.

“I have left the rest of my brood with my husband, too, Lady Overton.” Prue addressed her remark to Becky, “and I suspect my reasons were similar to your own.”

Becky’s slight flush indicated that she’d heard the last part of the sentence, but she addressed the first. “How many children do you have, Mrs Wakefield?”

For a few minutes, they traded the names and ages of children. Becky had three older daughters, and Prue a son and two daughters all younger than Antonia. Their eyes kept drifting to the tea party, and eventually, Becky asked, “Did you invite us both here for the same reason, Aunt Eleanor?”

The duchess hinted at the truth. “I think it important for Belle and Antonia to know one another, my dears.” She thought for a moment and added, “More than that, I cannot say.”

With two such intelligent women, it was enough.

Prue went first. She had always been a woman of great courage. “Antonia is my David’s daughter, Lady Overton, but she and I met him for the first time some seven years ago.”

Becky nodded acknowledgement. “Belle was born after my marriage and is my Hugh’s little treasure, Mrs Wakefield.” She took a deep breath and continued. She had never lacked for courage, either. “Her Grace is one of the few people who know that Hugh was not present for her conception.”

They turned to Eleanor, and Prue put their question into words. “They are half-sisters?” She read the answer in the duchess’s eyes. “Yes. You are correct. They should know one another.”

“May I ask, Your Grace,” Becky ventured, “is Frances also a sister?”

Eleanor shook her head. “An aunt, rather, as are my older wards.”

The relationships would not be mentioned again. Eleanor knew she did not have to discuss the necessity or even the decision; these ladies had been keeping secrets for many years, and would not risk any harm to their families. But as she watched them talk, joining in from time to time; as she enjoyed the chatter of the children at play; she gave thanks that, even if she could never recognise her granddaughters, she was at least blessed to know them and to love them.

 

Finalist in Spotlight on Sunday

Great excitement in our household when this news came out. I have two books in the Koru Awards, and both are finalists in their section: House of Thorns in Short Novel, and The Realm of Silence in Long Novel. The placegetters and winners will be announced at the Romance Writers of New Zealand Conference, at the Awards Dinner on 24 August.

Congratulations to all the other finalists; indeed, to all the entrants, who believed in their book enough to put it out there. And many thanks to the Contest Co-ordinator, Contest Manager, and all the judges. I know how much work goes on behind the scenes to make contests happen, and I’m grateful to you all.

Stormy seas in a tall ship

What was it like, on a sailing ship that relied on human strength and skill to face the stormy oceans? No safety harnesses. No labour saving devices. In this video, sailors from an historic ship that sailed from England to Australia as late as the early 20th century look back 40 years to comment on the experience.

Animal friends on WIP Wednesday

 

Animal companions can be useful in a book. They show our character’s empathy and kindness (or lack thereof). They can be comic relief. They might, if the character doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, be an ideal recipient of the kind of information we want the reader to know and need the character to talk about.

So give me an excerpt with an animal. Mine is from To Wed a Proper Lady, the rewrite of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. My hero is gate crashing a house party with the help of his horse.

Limp,” James said to Seistan. “Limp, my lovely, my treasure, my Jewel of the Mountains.”

The horse obeyed his master’s hand signals and limped heavily as they turned through the gates of the manor, beginning the long trek along the dyke that led between extensive water gardens to where Lady Sophia Belvoir was attending a house party.

In his mind, James was measuring his reasons for being here against his reasons for staying away.

His grandfather faded fast, and the end of the year – and his reprieve – was fast approaching. Lady Sophia was the other half of his soul, and only she could fill the place in his heart and at his side. Every meeting since the first had merely confirmed the connection in his mind. Was it only his imagination that had him believing she felt it too?

Surely her eyes spoke for her, finding him as soon as he entered a room and following him until he left, blue-gray eyes that veiled themselves when he caught them watching, in the longest soft brown lashes he had ever seen. She was not, as these English measured things, a beauty: her arched nose and firm chin too definite for their pale standards, her frame too long and too robust. They preferred dolls, like her sister, and Sophia was no doll.

On the other hand, there was Hythe’s threat and Lady Sophia’s rejection to consider. Beyond that, his father’s greatest enemy owned the house he approached. The party would be full of aristocrats and their hangers on, ignoring him until they found out whether he was a future duke or merely the half-breed bastard of one.

The family needed him to marry a strong woman, one with family ties to half the peerage of this land to which they somehow belonged, though he had only first seen it eight months ago. His foreign blood and upbringing meant he needed a wife who was English beyond question, and English nobility to her fingertips.

James needed to marry Sophia; had needed to since he first saw her in a village street. And then he found she had all the connections his family could desire. Surely their love was fated?

The house came into view—a great brick edifice rising four stories above the gardens and glittering with windows. Nothing could be less like the mountain eerie in which he had been raised, but he squared his shoulders and kept walking, soothing Seistan who reacted to his master’s nerves with a nervous sideways shuffle.

“Hush, my Wind from the North. We belong here, now. What can they do, after all?”

Beat him and cast him out, but from what he knew of the Duchess of Haverford, that was unlikely to happen.

“It is, after all,” he reminded his horse with a brief laugh, “the season of goodwill.”

The stables were off to one side, on a separate island to the main house. At the fork in the carriageway, James hesitated, tempted to take Seistan and see him cared for before chancing his luck at the house. If they invited him in, he would need to hand his horse over to grooms who were strangers while he consolidated his position.

But if they turned him away, he might need to remove himself at speed, Seistan’s convenient limp disappearing as fast as it appeared. Besides, in the mountains between Turkmenistan and Persia, as in England, one did not treat a private home as a caravanserai. He must be sure of his welcome before he took advantage of their stables.

The carriageway crossed the moat surrounding the house and ended in a generous forecourt. James left Seistan at the foot of the long flight of steps leading up to the front door, giving him the command to stay. Seistan stood, weight on three legs and ears pricked with interest as he watched his master climb the steps. Nothing short of outright panic would move the horse from his silent watch before James gave the counter command.

Tea with Cedrica and Sophia

Today’s post is an excerpt from To Wed a Proper Lady, the novel I’m creating from The Bluestocking and the Barbarian.

Several days after her arrival in London, Sophia followed the liveried footman through the ornate splendour of Haverford House paying little attention to the treasures around her. What could Her Grace mean by the cryptic comment in her note of invitation?

I have someone for you to meet and a job that I think you will enjoy.

The thought crossed her mind that her godmother might be match-making, but she dismissed it. Aunt Eleanor would never be so obvious. Still, when she was ushered into the duchess’s private sitting room, she was relieved to see that the room held only Aunt Eleanor and a younger woman – a soberly-dressed girl perhaps a year or two older than Felicity.

Something about the face, particularly the hazel eyes behind the heavy-framed spectacles, identified her as a Haverford connection. Another of the duke’s poor relations, then. Aunt Eleanor had made a calling of finding them, employing them, discovering their yearnings and talents, and settling them in a more fulfilling life.

“Sophia, my dear,” the duchess said, holding out both hands in welcome. Sophia curtseyed and then clasped her godmother’s hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

Her Grace immediately introduced the poor relation. “Sophia, allow me to make known to you my cousin Cedrica Grenford. Cedrica is staying with me for a while, and has been kind enough to help me with my correspondence and note taking.” The undoubtedly very distant cousin was the duchess’s secretary, in other words.

Cedrica served the tea, enquiring timidly about her preferences. She seemed overwhelmed by her surroundings. She addressed Sophia as ‘my lady’ in every other sentence, and had clearly been instructed to call the duchess Aunt Eleanor, for she tripped over every attempt to address her directly and ended up calling her nothing at all.

“Please,” Sophia told her, “call me Sophia as my friends do. Aunt Eleanor’s note suggests we shall be working together on whatever project she has in mind, and we will both be more comfortable if we are on first name terms.”

The duchess leaned forward and touched Cedrica’s hand. “May I tell Sophia some of your circumstances, my dear? It is pertinent to the idea I have.”

Cedrica nodded, and Her Grace explained, “Cedrica is the daughter of a country parson who has had little opportunity to set money aside for his old age. When he fell into infirmity, Cedrica wrote to ask for her cousin’s help, as was right and proper, and I was only too happy to have her here to be my companion, and to arrange for her dear father to be comfortably homed on one of our estates.”

Very much the short version of the story, Sophia suspected. Cedrica was blinking back tears.

The duchess continued, “As it turned out, Cedrica has a positive gift for organisation, and is extremely well read. She is proving to be an absolute genius at my secretarial work; so much so that Aldridge has threated to hire her from under my nose to assist with the work of the duchy.”

Cedrica protested, “He was only joking, Your Gr… Aunt… um. Who has heard of such a thing!”

“That brings me to my point, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Cedrica is entirely self-educated, except for a few lessons at her mother’s knee before that dear lady passed beyond. Why, I ask you? Are women less capable of great learning than men? Cedrica is by no means an exception. You and I, Sophia, know a hundred women of our class, more, who study the arts and the sciences in private.”

Sophia nodded. She quite agreed. Part of Felicity’s restless discontent came from having little acceptable outlet for her considerable intelligence.

“I have done what I can in a small way to help my relatives,” the duchess went on. “Now, I want to do more. Sophia, Cedrica, I have in mind a fund to support schemes for the education of girls. Not just girls of our class, but any who have talents and interests beyond those assigned to them because of their sex and their place in life. Will you help me?”

In the discussion that followed, Cedrica forgot her awe at her exalted relation and that lady’s guest, and gave Sophia the opportunity to see the very gifts Aunt Eleanor spoke of. In a remarkably short time, the young woman had pages of lists — ideas for the types of project that might be sponsored; money raising ideas; names of people of who might support the fund; next steps.

“We are agreed, then,” the secretary said, at last, losing all self-consciousness in her enthusiasm. “The duchess will launch the fund at a Christmas house party and New Year Charity Ball to be held at one of her estates.” She glanced back at her notes. “Our first step will be to hold a meeting at a place to be decided, and invite the ladies whose names I’ve marked with a tick. The purpose of the meeting will be to form a committee to organise the event.”

She sat back with a beaming smile, clutching her papers to her chest.

“An excellent summation,” the duchess agreed. “My dears, we have work to do, but we have made a start; a very good start.”

Spotlight on Unkept Promises

It’s on preorder. My story of Mia Redepenning and her reunion with her absent husband, and what happened next, is finally with the proofreader, and I’m setting up a publication plan as we speak. Read on for an excerpt. See my book page for the previous three books, and The Golden Redepennings web page for more about the series. And all my novels are on 50% discount at Smashwords this month.

Unkept Promises
Book 4 in The Golden Redepennings series

She wants to negotiate a comfortable marriage; he wants her in his bed

“… oaths and anchors equally will drag: naught else abides on fickle earth but unkept promises of joy.” Herman Melville

Naval captain Jules Redepenning has spent his adult life away from England, and at war. He rarely thinks of the bride he married for her own protection, and if he does, he remembers the child he left after their wedding seven years ago. He doesn’t expect to find her in his Cape Town home, a woman grown and a lovely one, too.

Mia Redepenning sails to Cape Town to nurse her husband’s dying mistress and adopt his children. She hopes to negotiate a comfortable married life with the man while she’s there. Falling in love is not on her to-do list.

Before they can do more than glimpse a possible future together, their duties force them apart. At home in England, Mia must fight for the safety of Jules’s children. Imprisoned in France, Jules must battle for his self-respect and his life.

Only by vanquishing their foes can they start to make their dreams come true.

Buy links:

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/947394

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07TXXK53N/

Excerpt

Jules had somehow found the time to organise for the military chaplain to visit Kirana, and he arrived later that afternoon when Mia was reading to her friend. The chaplain was a middle-aged man, balding and running slightly to fat, but with a kind eye.

Jules presented him to Mia. “Mrs Redepenning, may I make known to you Captain Albrooke, chaplain to the nth Regiment. He has been kind enough to come to see Kirana.”

What was the etiquette for introducing a man of the cloth to a mistress? Mia was certain the question had never been covered in any of her conversations with her mentors. She would have to behave according to her own best instincts, and hope she did not offend the man. “Captain Albrooke, thank you for coming. Please. Take my seat.” She rose, putting the book to one side “Kirana, my dear, Jules and I will be close by if you need us. Captain Albrooke, you may be wondering how to address my friend. Mrs Redepenning would be acceptable, or Mrs Kirana, if you prefer.”

Jules held the door for Mia, followed after her, and closed it not quite shut behind them. From inside the room they could hear the low hum of the chaplain’s voice, punctuated by Kirana’s cough.

“Albrooke was a bit non-plussed,” Jules told Mia. “More by your presence than by Kirana’s, I suspect. Not many wives would be as charitable, Mia.”

Mia shrugged, suppressing the movement part way through. Did Jules notice? Possibly not, but anyone raised as a lady would. Every day in a dozen ways she showed she had not absorbed the thousands of tiny rules of Society with her mother’s milk. Ladies did not shrug, or slouch, or skip, or shout, or saunter, or stride, or… she couldn’t think of another ‘s’ word, but she was sure she could create a list of ‘do not’s’ for every letter of the alphabet.

“Kirana had the prior claim, Jules.” Thinking about holding her body straight and still, she failed to guard her tongue. “I have never counted your relationship with her as a breach of your vows.” She would have caught back the last sentence, with its emphatic stress on the word ‘her’, but it was too late.

Jules was looking out of the window into the courtyard below, where Hannah was sitting with the two girls, reading them a book. But he heard the emphasis, for his head jerked around and she felt the burn of his blue gaze as he examined the flush that swept her face.

She bit her lip, but the words were said, and they were true.

“But you do count other relationships?” he asked. She was not deceived by the light conversational tone; not when the search beam of those eyes still stripped her soul bare.

“I daresay you think it presumptuous of me.” She could offer that much, though she herself did not think it presumptuous. He had acted in honour when he made sure she knew, before they married, that he intended to return to his mistress, and so she accepted that as a codicil to the vows they had exchanged in their hasty wedding. No exception for her, and only one for him.

“Not presumptuous at all.” Jules sounded tired all of a sudden, and her indignation evaporated. What a homecoming this had been for the poor man. “You are the one person on earth with the right to comment. And Kirana, perhaps, but she has never complained.”

Again, Mia spoke before her brain could censor her tongue. “You might be a better man if she had.”

He turned back to the window and his voice was dry as he replied, “You will undoubtedly amend her lapse. You’ve got yourself a poor bargain, Mia. I told you before I married you, I was not the Sir Galahad type. I’m no saint, either. Don’t expect me to be; I’ll only disappoint you.”

The door to the bedchamber opened. “Mrs Kirana Redepenning will sleep now,” Captain Albrooke said. “If I may, I will call again in a few days.”

“Of course,” Mia agreed. “Kirana will appreciate that.”

Jules carried the man off to his study for a drink and Mia set a maid to watching Kirana then went in search of a task, preferably one that involved punching things.

Where earls came from

Earl is the oldest title still used today  for British nobility. Unlike the other two we’ve discussed, it hasn’t come down to us from a Roman military rank. Instead, it comes from the Scandinavian word for the highest nobility under the king: jarl.

The first jarls arrived in England under Canute, the Danish king of England, Denmark, and Norway. The Anglo-Saxon version of the term was eorl. Eorls governed shires, now called counties. That gives us the link with the equivalent  Roman-derived term from the Continent: count (the ruler of a county), although you’ll remember the Germans had a local term, graf.

Earls sat in the courts of each shire they ruled with the local bishop. After the Norman Conquest, they were restricted to one county each, and the official duties of government, military defense and justice became the responsibility of the sheriff. Earls were often sheriffs in their own counties. It doesn’t seem as if the jarls’ wives had a particular title, but the Normans introduced the French term, making a female earl or the wife of an earl a countess.

Whatever their other roles, earls held estates from the Crown as tenants in chief. In return, the earls owed the Crown their service, and in particular, they owed military service; they had to take their knights to fight for the Crown when asked. The estate descended to heirs of the body; that is, the earl’s children. In the early days, this meant the eldest son, if the earl had one, or the eldest daughter, if he had no sons. If the earldom (and the estate) descended to a woman, it would be held by her husband.

Until Edward III created his son Duke of Cornwall in 1337, ‘earl’ continued to be the highest English title. It’s now third, after duke and marquess.

By the late Middle Ages, the custom of primogeniture — male heirs only, was gradually taking over in England, but it continued in Scotland until the seventeenth century.

Where to start on WIP Wednesday

At last, Unkept Promises has gone to the proofreader, and I’m two chapters in to the novella for the next Bluestocking Belles project. Where to start is always a question — I often cast around for a while, and I don’t always get it right.

This week, I’m inviting you to post the first few paragraphs from your work-in-progress. Here’s mine.

If the two of them made it out of the near-invisible city streets alive, Matilda Grenford was going to kill her sister Jessica, and even their honorary aunt, the Duchess of Haverford, wouldn’t blame her. Angry as Matilda was, and panicked, too, as she tried to find a known landmark in the enveloping fog, she couldn’t resist a wry smile at the thought. Aunt Eleanor was the kindest person in the world, and expected everyone else to be as forgiving and kind as she was herself. Matilda could just imagine the conversation.

“Now, my dear, I want you to think about what other choices you might have made.” The duchess had said precisely those words uncounted times in the more than twenty years Matilda had been her ward.

When she was younger, she would burst out in an impassioned defence of whatever action had brought her before Her Grace for a reprimand. “Jessica is not just destroying her own reputation, Aunt Eleanor. Meeting men in the garden at balls; going out riding without her groom; dancing too close.”

Was that the lamppost by the corner of the square? No; a few steps more showed yet another paved street with houses looming in the fog on both sides. Matilda stopped while she tried to decide if any of them were in any way familiar.

Meanwhile, she continued her imaginary rant to the duchess. “Even in company, she takes flirtation beyond what is proper. This latest start — sneaking out of the house without a chaperone or even her maid — if it becomes known, she’ll go down in ruin, and take me and Frances with her.”

Matilda had gone after her, of course, taking her maid, but she’d lost the poor girl several mistaken turns back. Matilda had been hurrying ahead, ignoring the maid’s complaints, thinking only about bringing Jessica back before she got into worse trouble than ever before. Now Matilda was just as much at risk, and she’d settle for managing to bring her own self home, or even to the house of a friend, if she could find one.

Haverford House, for preference. Turning up anywhere else, unaccompanied, would start the very scandal Matilda had left home to avoid. If Jessica managed to make it home unscathed, it would have to be murder.

In her imagination, she could hear Aunt Eleanor, calm as ever. “Murder is so final, Matilda. Surely it would have been better to try something else, first. What could you have done?”

Matilda startled herself with a bark of laughter that echoed oddly in the fog.