Jude Knight's Blog, page 85
April 10, 2019
Expect the unexpected on WIP Wednesday
I love twists and turns. One of my favourite plotting mechanisms is to think about what might possibly go wrong, and then make it happen. How about you? Do you enjoy surprising your characters and your readers? Show me an excerpt in the comments!
Mine is from the start of To Mend the Broken-Hearted, the second book in the Mountain King series. My hero, Val, is a recluse after some terrible experiences at war and at home. His seclusion is about to end.
Val heard Crick before he saw him. “My lord, my lord,” the man was shouting, his voice high with barely suppressed panic. Val excused himself from a discussion about clearing a blockage in a stream that was threatening to flood the young barley, and took a few paces to meet Crick as the butler came hurtling across the field, careless of the new shoots.
“My lord, we’re under attack. They’ve captured the house, my lord.”
Val took the man’s arm and led him to the side of the field. “Take a deep breath, Crick,” he soothed. “All is well. We are in England. For us, the war is over.”
Crick pulled his arm free and so far forgot himself as to seize Val’s shoulders. “No, sir, you don’t understand. Soldiers on horseback. A lady with a sword. Another lady in the carriage. I tried to stop them, sir, but they forced their way into the house. They made Mrs Minnich take them to the family wing. We have to marshall the tenants, my lord, and rescue the servants.”
Being addressed as ‘my lord’ gave Val pause. Usually, when Crick had one of his episodes, he reverted to Val’s former rank. Always, in fact. When Crick called Val ‘major’, the whole household knew to hide anything that could be used as a weapon.
Barrow and his gangly young son had followed and were listening. Val met Barrow’s concerned eyes. “A carriage and some horsemen went down the lane a while back,” Barrow disclosed. The lane was out of sight from here, but Barrow explained his knowledge by fetching his son a clip across the ear. “The boy here saw them when he went to fetch the axe, but didn’t say nothin’”
Young Barrow’s observation suggested some truth to Crick’s fantasy, but it couldn’t possibly be the invasion Crick imagined. What would be the point? “I’ll investigate,” Val decided.
Crick and Barrow protested him going alone. “Five men, my lord,” Crick insisted. “Foreigners, they were, and the lady, too.”
Val’s troops were a half-mad butler, a burly tenant farmer, and his fifteen-year-old son. Val would do better alone. “You shall be my back-up,” he told them. “Stay at the edge of the woods where you can see the house. If I don’t come out within thirty minutes and signal that everything is safe, ride to the village for help.”
Crick argued, but Val was adamant. Still, as he crossed the open ground to the house, his skin prickled with the old familiar sense of walking into enemy territory.
He diverted his path to pass the stables. Sure enough, a strange carriage stood outside the carriage house, and through the open door of the stable block he could see two strangers, one with a fork of hay and one with a bucket, heading towards the stall. They stopped when they saw him, and stood waiting for him to approach.
Val saw why Crick had identified them as foreign. The olive skin and the beards would have been enough, without the red tunics that flowed loosely to mid thigh, the loose black trousers gathered into knee high boots, the bushy sheepskin hats. They did not put down their burdens, which argued for peaceful intentions, but the weapons in their belts, their alert stance, and their wary eyes suggested that ‘warrior’ was the correct identification.
“Who told you to make free with my stables?” he demanded.
The man with the hay fork used his head to indicate Val’s elderly stable master, who appeared from the aisle the men had been heading into. “Is it a mistake, my lord?” Greggs stammered. “Only, Mrs Minnich said I was to let them have what they needed.” His eyes lit and he smiled blissfully. “Such horses, my lord! I have never seen such horses in my stables. No, not in all my years.”
The man with the hay fork bowed. “Lord Ashcroft, I take it. I regret the necessity to trespass on your hospitality, your lordship.” The English was perfect, but Val could not place the accent any more than he could the clothing.
“You have the advantage of me,” he pointed out.
The thick brows drew together over the eagle’s beak of a nose. “The advantage, sir?” He cast a glance at his companion, who did not quite shrug.
April 8, 2019
Tea with James (Part 2)
Eleanor could not take her eyes off him. She had seen him, of course, since he returned to England; not just at that memorable ball when they stood face to face for the first time in nearly thirty-five years then passed without a word, but also in the distance on the street, in the park, even at other social events that they accidentally both attended at the same time.
She had not stood close enough to catalogue all the ways he had changed and all the ways he was still the young man — almost a boy — that she had loved and lost.
“James,” she said again, her vocabulary deserting her.
His eyes were the same warm brown, but the face from which they smiled had matured into a shape far distant from her memories. His height had not changed, nor were his shoulders broader. Indeed, if she ignored the maturity lines, and the wisdom and knowledge in his eyes, she would not believe him to be nearly sixty. He had been a handsome youth, almost pretty. The prettiness had worn into something sharper, something stronger.
“I waited,” she said, not knowing the words were in her mind until she heard them leave her tongue. “I told them if they dragged me to the church I would refuse Haverford at the very altar. Then they told me you were dead, and it didn’t matter any more.” It didn’t matter now. More than thirty years had passed. She had two sons. He had married a woman he loved and had ten children with her. How could she possibly care what he thought about the actions of that girl from so long ago. But somehow, it did matter that he knew she had tried to be faithful to their love.
His gaze had not left face. “Winshire had reason to believe that I was dead. My captor said he would kill me if Winshire did not pay the ransom he wanted.”
“Georgie explained.” She flushed, suddenly aware that she was gawking like a giddy girl. “Please, Lord Sutton, do have a seat.” She arranged herself in the chair closest to the tea makings. “May I pour you a cup.”
James’s lips curved, just a little. “Thank you. Black, please. No milk, cream or sugar.” As he took the chair opposite, he added, “Are we to be formal, then, Eleanor? Or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”
No. Never that. For James to address her as Haverford’s duchess struck her as a perversion of all things righteous and good. Floundering to regain her balance, she thought again of his wife. She had suffered decades of marriage to a monster, but he had loved and been loved, and she was glad of it. “I was sorry to hear about the death of Lady James. When Georgie told me she had died, I so wanted to write, but…” Unable to find the words to explain the social constraints she would have needed to ignore to write a condolence letter to her first love on the death of his wife, she gestured meaninglessly with one hand.
He seemed to understand. “Thank you.” He put out his hand to receive the cup she passed and her hand touched his. Even through two layers of glove, she felt a jolt, as if all the barely contained energy that gave him such presence and power had discharged up her arm and through her — through her torso. She snatched her hand back, and only his quick reflexes allowed him to take a firm grip on the cup in time to prevent more than a slight slosh into the saucer.
It was a relief when the door opened again, to let in Grace and Georgie. The flurry of greetings gave her time to calm down.
James said, “I will leave you ladies to your meeting and walk on to my own. The carriage will wait for you, my ladies. Your Grace, thank you for sparing me a few moments of your time.”
Eleanor curtsied and allowed him to bow over her hand, very properly not touching it. “It was a pleasure to see you, my lord,” she managed to murmur, her voice creditably even.
But one thought beat persistently in her mind all through tea with her friends, the ride home in the unmarked carriage she had borrowed from her son, her entrance into his private wing — yet another anonymous veiled lady visiting the wicked Merry Marquis — and her retreat to her own side of the house. Her attraction to James Winderfield, Earl of Sutton and future Duke of Winshire, was as potent as it had been when she was an innocent girl.
It was foolishness. She was married. They were enemies by her husband’s decree. James was a widower famous for still loving his deceased wife. Foolishness or not, he was still the only man who had ever made her heart race and her body melt. And nothing could ever come of it.
April 7, 2019
Spotlight on Hearts in the Land of Ferns
Hearts in the Land of Ferns is on preorder, and will be out on 23 April. It’s a collection of my New Zealand based novellas — two historical romance and three contemporary romantic suspense. All of them have been published in other collections, but never together.
Here are the covers for the five stories. I made the one for A Family Christmas, and the others are by the talented Mari Christie.
The historicals
Step into the 1860s in All That Glisters, set in Dunedin at the time of the first gold rushes. It was first published in Hand-Turned Tales.
Rose is unhappy in the household of her fanatical uncle. Thomas, a young merchant from Canada, offers a glimpse of another possible life. If she is brave enough to reach for it.
Forged in Fire is set in geothermal country just outside of Rotorua in 1886, and was first published in the Bluestocking Belles’ collection Never Too Late.
Forged in fire, their love will create them anew.
Burned in their youth, neither Tad nor Lottie expected to feel the fires of love. The years have soothed the pain, and each has built a comfortable, if not fully satisfying, life, on paths that intersect and then diverge again.
But then the inferno of a volcanic eruption sears away the lies of the past and frees them to forge a future together.
The contemporaries
These were all previously published in collections by Authors of Main Street.
A Family Christmas: She’s hiding out. He’s coming home. And there’ll be storms for Christmas.
Kirilee is on the run, in disguise, out of touch, and eating for two. Rural New Zealand has taken this Boston girl some getting used to, but her husband’s family and her new community have accepted her into their hearts. Just as well, since she’s facing Christmas and the birth of her baby without the man who wed her and sent her into hiding. What will he think when he comes home and discovers he’s a father?
Trevor is heading home for Christmas, after three years undercover, investigating a global criminal organization. He hasn’t spoken to his sister and grandfather since the case began. He hasn’t spoken to Kirilee, his target’s sister, since the day nearly nine months ago he married her and helped her escape. Will she want to stay married? And if so, will he?
In the heart of a storm, two people from different worlds question what divides and what unites them.
Abbie’s Wish: Abbie’s Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One of them is a monster.
After too many horrifying experiences, Claudia Westerson has given up on men. She’s done everything possible to exorcise the men in her life, short of changing her name and appearance. They’re unpredictable, controlling and, worst of all, dangerous. Besides, all her energies are devoted to therapy for her daughter, Abbie, who is recovering from a brain injury.
But after Abbie is photographed making a wish for Christmas, Claudia begins receiving anonymous threats, proving her quiet refuge is not nearly hidden enough.
Who can she trust? Three men hope to make her theirs:
Jack, the driver from her daughter’s accident
Ethan, her daughter’s biological father
Rhys, a local school teacher and widower.
They all sound sincere, but which one isn’t?
Beached: The truth will wash away her coastal paradise…
Grieving for the grandparents who raised her and still bruised from betrayals in New York City, Nikki Watson returns to her childhood home in Valentine Bay.
Zee Henderson has built a new life in New Zealand: friends, a job he enjoys and respect he earned for himself, without the family name and money he left behind.
The attraction between Nikki and Zee flames into passion, until Zee’s past arrives on their doorstep and washes away their coastal paradise.
Buy links:
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Land-Ferns-Tales-Zealand-ebook/dp/B07NDT826B
Amazon Aus: https://www.amazon.com.au/Hearts-Land-Ferns-Tales-Zealand-ebook/dp/B07NDT826B/
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hearts-Land-Ferns-Tales-Zealand-ebook/dp/B07NDT826B
Apple iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/hearts-in-the-land-of-ferns-love-tales-in-new-zealand/id1451855017?mt=11
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ww/en/ebook/hearts-in-the-land-of-ferns-love-tales-in-new-zealand
Barnes & Noble Nook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1130533818?ean=2940155970781
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/921843
April 5, 2019
Etiquette in Regency England
I have another video for you; one about the rules that you’ll meet in Pride and Prejudice and in modern novels of the late Georgian.
April 3, 2019
Marriage proposals on WIP Wednesday
The marriage proposal is often a highlight of a historical romance. Tender, inept, funny, disastrous — it shows the character of both protagonists and is an important point along the plot arc: often the penultimate moment, but also frequently much earlier in the plot. Show me the passage with your proposal, if you have one. If not, share another important declaration of intent, feelings, or both.
Mine is from Unkept Promises, and happens in Chapter Two.
“Jules,” Father said gravely, leaving the point, “her father appears to have been her only family. She has been left near destitute and with her reputation in ruins. But she refuses the remedy that would save her.”
“I heard,” Jules said. “Marriage to me. Because of Kirana.” He met his father’s gaze, his own solemn. “Kirana and I have two children, Father, if all went well with her lying in. I cannot desert them. My life is in Madras. I am posted to the Far East fleet, and should have been on my way back days ago. In addition, Mia is a child—just fourteen. Her peculiar upbringing has made her mature in many ways. She is not ready for marriage.”
“Mia is…” Susan began, but Father waved her to silence, leaving Jules to finish his own arguments for and against.
He was thinking about what his life might look like with Mia as his wife. He could think of worse fates. She would, as Aldridge had implied, be a magnificent woman when she grew up. “Can I leave her with you? If I marry her… Would you take her in as a daughter and look after her until I come home?” Which could be years from now, and anything could happen. He was going back into the war. He might die. Any of them might.
Yes. He would marry Mia and let the future look after itself.
It happened quickly after that. Mia argued when he proposed, but he assured her he was not being coerced. She looked gravely at him as he explained the arrangements he had made to leave her in England, and agreed. “That would be best, I expect. Kirana would not like if you arrived home with a wife.”
Would Kirana be upset? He worried about that for a moment, then put the thought aside. He was doing the best he could for everyone, and they would just have to accept it.
April 1, 2019
Tea with James
Eleanor looked around the shop with interest. Long ago, in the early miserable days of her marriage, one of Haverford’s elderly aunts had told her to always look for the silver lining. Aldridge had been born later that year, the first silver lining in the dark cloud of her life as a duchess.
More than thirty years had passed, and she was usually able to arrange her life just as she liked it, but every now and again, the game of hunting silver linings still kept her calm and sane.
The current cloud was Haverford’s dictate that she have nothing further to do with her two closest friends on the grounds that they were sisters to the Earl of Sutton, on whom he had declared war.
The silver lining was all the places she was discovering. Duchesses, His Grace decreed, sent for anything they needed. The modiste came to her. Books were ordered from a catalogue and delivered. When she chose to redecorate, she selected what she wanted from samples and someone made it all happen.
Shops were a revelation. In all her life, she had never been to a fabric emporium, such as the one where she and her friends met two weeks ago, or a millinery — last week’s meeting place. Both had been fascinating, but today’s book shop surpassed them all.
After this ridiculous kerfuffle was over, she was going to continue to go out to shops, and not in disguise, either. She would adore the opportunity to stroll, as other ladies were doing, taking a book from the shelves and reading a few pages. But the veil that kept her from being recognised was too heavy to allow her to read.
Instead, she followed the shop assistant to the private room where she was to meet Lady Sutton and Lady Georgiana Winderfield. The shop also served refreshments and provided rooms for meetings. This room was set up with comfortable chairs, and the table was already set with all the appointments for making and serving tea.
Eleanor was the first to arrive. She seated herself before reaching up to lift her veil, and had no sooner cast it back over the bonnet, and sighed with relief at being able to see clearly, when the door opened behind her back. Just to be careful, she did not turn. “Grace? Georgie?”
“Your Grace.” The deep voice was male. “My sisters say I may have five minutes, provided you agree.” His tones warmed with humour. “I daresay they are watching the door to see whether you will send me off with a flea in my ear.”
Eleanor stood and turned, her heart in her mouth. “Ja— Lord Sutton.” If Haverford found out… No. She had taken every precaution. She let go the breath she had known she was holding and held out her hand. “How are you?”
March 31, 2019
Spotlight on To Love a Scottish Laird
Congratulations to Sherry Ewing on the release of To Love a Scottish Laird. I was a beta reader for this lovely medieval story, which is the prequel to her other Berwyk novels and links with the de Wolfe world.
Lady Catherine de Wolfe knows she must find a husband before her brother chooses one for her, but none of the knights and lords she knows have caught her eye. A tournament to celebrate the wedding of the Duke of Normandy might be her answer. She does not expect to fall for a man after just one touch.
Laird Douglas MacLaren of Berwyck is invited to the tournament by the Duke of Normandy. He goes to ensure Berwyck’s safety once Henry takes the throne. He does not expect to become entranced by a woman who bumps into him.
Before they can express their feelings, the Duke orders them wed to strengthen ties between his English supporters and the borderland, and then separates them by commanding Douglas’s escort to his home.
Yet, nothing is ever quite that simple. Not everyone is happy with the union of this English lady and a Scottish laird. From the shores of France, to Berwyck Castle on the border between their countries, Douglas and Catherine must find their way to protect their newfound love.
Buy Links:
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2UbuMKB
First kiss
Catherine fought against the urge to completely surrender to Douglas and his all-consuming kiss. She should not be allowing him such a liberty. She should be voicing her outrage at the close proximity of their bodies. But when his lips slid against hers, she was completely lost.
If only Douglas knew what he was doing to her. She was not experienced with the intimacies between a man and woman. Oh, she understood the fundamentals of the act of kissing but had only been given meaningless pecks on the cheek. But this… A whole new world opened up to her, and she rejoiced in what Douglas brought out in her!
Her arms wound their way up his neck, and she played with the length of his hair. In turn, he all but crushed her to his body but ’twas not unpleasant. Nay! Her body begged for something she could not understand. Parts of her began tingling as if she was coming alive for the very first time, and she never wanted it to end.
When Douglas’s tongue skimmed across her closed mouth, she gasped. Apparently, ’twas just the opportunity he was looking for! His tongue began playing with her own. A low moan escaped her and only encouraged him to take her deeper into what could only be described as sheer bliss. Catherine felt as though she was soaring into the sky like one of her birds. But this was so much better!
His arm tightened around her waist, and she finally became aware of the unmistakable form of his manhood pressed intimately to her body. By the Blessed Virgin! What was she doing?
Catherine emerged from the abyss of pleasure, snapping back to a reality that would possibly become her worst nightmare; wed to a man who would probably control her every move. Douglas was a complete stranger, no matter how handsome. She was concerned about losing the freedom she had grown accustomed to.
He must have sensed some change in her, for his grip loosened as he broke the kiss. Catherine felt the loss immediately and almost stepped forward for them to continue. Her heart felt as though ’twould beat its way out of her chest, and she was pleasantly surprised when it appeared Douglas felt the same. Their kiss had revealed many things to Catherine. First, Douglas certainly knew what he was doing when it came to kissing. Second, she began to think mayhap ’twould not be so difficult to be this man’s wife.
Meet Sherry Ewing
Sherry Ewing picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical and time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time. When not writing, she can be found in the San Francisco area at her day job as an Information Technology Specialist.
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Website & Books: www.SherryEwing.com
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March 29, 2019
Diversity in historical England
I write historicals set in and around Regency England, which I try to ground in research. As a English-descended New Zealander, a Catholic convert from Anglicanism, and a middle-class straight married woman, I need to always remember that the society I write about was considerably more diverse than most people realise. Given my own family history, I always include people with disabilities. I don’t even have to think about that. I do have to remember the rest.
Right through recorded history, England has had people of different ethnicities, races, religions, abilities, and genders (in the modern sense). English society has always been diverse — not always tolerant, but always diverse. Lack of religious tolerance has been a strong force behind many civil disruptions and wars. Lack of tolerance for same sex attraction and other non-cis gender behaviours led to some very nasty laws (but only when the ‘offenders’ were male). But lack of tolerance for ethnic and colour differences seems to have been a Regency and Victorian invention, perhaps prompted by the desire to justify the slave trade and the exploitations of the Raj. Just look at the image above, or think of Shakespeare, who was horrid about Jews but made a hero of Othello.
Standard historical romances tend to be about white Anglican (often only nominally Anglican) protagonists, unless the author is themselves a person of colour. Disability is rare in such romances, and even then, usually limited to PTSD or a scar. Except in LGBT romances, those who are not heterosexual are usually either villains or victims, there for the main protagonists to overcome or to rescue. Of course, a deep treasure trove of historical romances are not standard at all. But this blog is not about them.
History doesn’t support this the standard view. Even in the ton, the top level of English society, the story wasn’t nearly as monochromatic — or as dull.
As regards race, England even had two queens who, today, we would call black (although contemporary accounts confirm that they were, in fact, brown-skinned). Queen Philippa, the wife of Edward III, was the first, way back in medieval times. some historians believe her son, the Black Prince, was so called because he looked like his mother. Queen Charlotte, wife of George III, was the maternal ancestress of today’s British royalty and, through her granddaughter Queen Victoria, most of the royalty of Europe. The colonial and expansionist ambitions of England contributed, too, as just one example shows.
In the more loving relationships of this period, Indian wives often retired with their husbands to England. The Mughal travel writer, Mirza Abu Taleb Khan, who published in Persian an account of his journey to Europe in 1810, described meeting in London several completely Anglicised Indian women who had accompanied their husbands and children to Britain. One of them in particular, Mrs Ducarroll, surprised him every bit as much as Kirkpatrick tended to surprise his English visitors: “She is very fair,” wrote Khan, “and so accomplished in all the English manners and language, that I was some time in her company before I could be convinced that she was a native of India.” He added: “The lady introduced me to two or three of her children, from 16 to 19 years of age, who had every appearance of Europeans.” A great many such mixed-blood children must have been quietly and successfully absorbed into the British establishment, some even attaining high office: Lord Liverpool, the early-19th-century prime minister, was of Anglo-Indian descent. [https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2002/d...]
We have clear evidence in the court records, even if you ignore all the gossip, that same sex attraction was no less common then than now.
As for religion, anyone who wanted to join the army or hold a public office had to at least pretend to be an Anglican, but at least five of the great families were Catholic anyway, and other religions flourished, though if aristocrats were not Anglican they mostly kept quiet about it.
In broader society, we know that different races were present, and that they mixed (despite efforts to the contrary). Many people who consider themselves white might be very surprised if they could see back to the multi-cultural marriage in their ancestry. The same with faith. England had large numbers of Jews from medieval times, and large numbers of Muslims from at least the 18th century.
And disability, of course, can happen to anyone.
The challenge for me is to write about a diverse culture that is true to the times and respectful of people who are not me. I constantly fear I’ll get it wrong. I fully expect to be accused of tokenism. I do my research, I talk to people who would, two hundred years ago, have been in the communities I write about. I keep trying.
March 27, 2019
First impressions on WIP Wednesday
We try to make an emotional connection between our protagonists and our readers as soon as we can in the story. We also need to show the character flaws that make our protagonists interesting. Balancing these two, especially when the characters have personality aspects or life histories that are going to upset some readers, is crucial. So we try to show them doing something nice early on. I’ve just been reading a book where the hero is a drunken cad when he is 20, and frightens heroine, who is only 15. He goes on to turn his life around, and comes back to court her. Ella Quinn manages the empathy by starting the story before he got drunk, making the reasons for his state of mind clear. You could say the story has two sets of first impressions — those the protagonists make on the reader, and those they make on one another.
How about you? What first impression do your characters make? Pick an excerpt that shows the first appearance of the hero or heroine, or what one of them thinks about the other on first meeting.
Mine this week is a newly written passage from To Wed a Proper Lady, which comes immediately after the rescue of the little boy that has already been published as part of The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (you can read it here).
“Oh my,” Felicity said. Sophia had not even noticed her until she spoke. All of Sophia’s attention was on the rider. Oh my, indeed.
“So that is what all the gossip is about,” her sister added. “No wonder he has ruffled the feathers of the biddies and the sticklers. He looks very exotic, does he not? And yet, he speaks like one of us and has the most elegant manners.”
“We must be glad he was there, and in time to help,” Sophia said, struggling to keep her voice calm when the thud of her heart must be audible throughout the village. “Tommy might have been badly hurt.” She managed to drag her eyes away from the retreating horsemen. Undoubtedly, Lord Elfingham had forgotten her already. He did not look back.
She turned towards the Children’s Sanctuary. Felicity fell into step beside her, still talking.
“I must say, he was not at all what I expected. To hear Hythe, one would think him a wild barbarian, uncouth and fierce, without manners or education.”
Sophia repressed a snort with some difficulty. “Hythe has been listening to the wrong Haverford. Our Godmama knew Lord Sutton, his father, when he was only a third son, before he left England to seek his fortune. Aunt Eleanor says that Lord Sutton was married to a Persian princess, and his children were raised as royalty, as well as English ladies and gentlemen. They were, Aunt Eleanor says, given the finest education.”
“His Grace of Haverford has forbidden Her Grace and Lord Aldridge to attend any event at which they might meet Lord Sutton or any of his children. Is that because she and Lord Sutton were once acquainted?”
Sophia knew that look on Felicity’s face. With the least encouragement, she would be interrogating the dowagers and the old maiden aunts, and increasing the storm of scandal around Lord Sutton and his family even further.
“Hythe says that the Duke is incensed at the dilution of another duke’s blue blood.” Felicity gave a little skip at the horror of it all. Hythe did say that, but Sophia was sure Haverford’s virulent enmity was more personal than a distaste for miscegenation.
“Apparently, Haverford believes that English dukes should marry only English ladies of an appropriate rank,” Sophia replied. “Foreign princesses need not apply.”
“If, in fact, Sutton did marry the foreign princess.” The scandalous nature of the conversation was delighting Felicity.
Sophia looked back over her shoulder. The horsemen were visible in the distance, just cresting the hill beyond the village. One of them had stopped — his horse gleaming golden in the sun. It was foolish to think she could feel his intense gaze from this distance. She couldn’t even see his features. But she did see one hand raised in salute before he wheeled the horse to follow his companions.
March 25, 2019
Tea with memories of Eleanor
Now for something different — the scene is about the Duchess of Haverford, but she only makes a brief appearance. This is an excerpt from the rewrite of what used to be The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. In To Wed a Proper Lady, the Earl of Sutton meets the woman he once loved at a ball, and afterwards thinks about the days of their youth.
The muttering of the assembled guests swelled and then stopped abruptly when the Duke of Haverford crossed the floor, and stopped in front of the Earl of Sutton.
Sutton inclined his head, his face impassive.
Haverford sneered and turned on his heel. Sighting his wife at one side of the room, talking to their hostess, he marched twelve paces and spat out, “Lady Finch, that man is an imposter. The duchess and I will not visit any home where he and his devil-spawn are welcome. Duchess!” He beckoned to Aunt Eleanor, as Sophia called her godmother, and stalked off up the stairs.
The duchess followed, hesitating for a moment as she passed Sutton. Their eyes met. Sophia could have sworn that his had a question. If so, the duchess didn’t answer. She hurried up the stairs after her husband. Most of the room watched the earl’s party crossing to Lord and Lady Finch, but Sophia continued to watch the duchess, and may have been the only person who saw her stop at the top of the stairs, to look after the earl.
***
“It went well,” Georgie proclaimed, once Drew and the girls had retired and only the older members of the household remained to consider the evening. “Haverford was a horse’s rear end, but that was to be expected.”
Yousef, the head of Sutton’s household staff, had been leaning against the back of his wife’s chair, but he came alert like the old campaigner he was. “What happened?” They had all agreed only the family would attend the ball, the first social outing from the house of Winshire since Sutton and his children arrived in England. Sutton’s closest friend and advisor had clearly been fretting the entire evening.
Sutton answered before his sister or one of the other ladies could. “Nothing much, Yousef. He left when we arrived, after announcing that the Haverfords and Winshires were at odds.” He took a sip of his drink. “I agree the evening was a success, Georgie.”
“Our girls made an impression,” Grace commented. Her smug smile at Lettie hinted at the hours the two women had spent concocting the scene that began the evening: the four Winderfield cousins at the top of the stairs, each beautifully coiffed and dressed in vibrant colours that contrasted and complimented each other.
“Keeping young Jamie in reserve was a good idea, Patience.” Georgie raised her glass to Yousef’s wife, who made a return salute with her teacup. “It worked just as you suggested,” Georgie continued. “They are intrigued. If I had one person ask me if the heir was as good looking as Drew, I had twenty. And I told the biggest gossips in the ton how glad I was that you were so wealthy!” She grinned at her brother. “When Jamie arrives back from the errand you sent him on, make sure he knows not to be alone with any marriageable female, anywhere, at any time.”
The others continued to dissect the evening, prompted by questions from Yousef and Patience. Haverford’s claim that Sutton was an imposter could be ignored, they all agreed. If recognition by his father and sister was not enough, at least a dozen people at the ball last night had known him as a young man. Sutton did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting back to the encounter with Haverford and the glimpse he’d had of Haverford’s duchess.
The old man, he’d called him when he was twenty-four and a fool. “You can’t marry her to that old man,” he’d screamed at Eleanor’s father when his own suit had been rejected because she was already promised. Haverford was thirteen years his senior, and that seemed old to him then, especially compared to Eleanor’s seventeen. The man would be in his seventies now—an old man in truth, gnarled and bent as an old tree, the once handsome face withered and twisted into a peevish mask.
Eleanor, though… Sutton would have known Eleanor anywhere, as soon as her lovely eyes met his. Through a long and happy marriage to the mother of his children, the bittersweet memory of the young Eleanor had lingered in a corner of Sutton’s heart, and seeing her had brought all those memories flooding back.
She was older, of course, though if he’d not known she was approaching her fifty-second birthday he’d have guessed her no more than forty. Time had delivered on the promise of great beauty and grace.
From what his sister-in-law said of her—they were dear friends, it seemed—time had also honed the strength under the softness that made her submit to her father rather than run away with Sutton. His Eleanor had become the Duchess of Haverford, a grande dame known for her works of charity, her kindness to those who fell afoul of Society’s censure through no fault of their own, and her generosity to her husband’s poor relations and a whole tribe of godchildren.
Such a pity that the feud with Haverford would mean they could not meet. He would have liked to know the woman his Eleanor had become.
