Home of the Bluestocking Belles

Because history is fun and love is worth working for

Tag: gossipmongers (Page 1 of 3)

A Box of Tittle-Tattle

Tin Box1914. The date, printed on a tin box got our attention. One supposes it could be an error of some sort, the date being one-hundred years in the future, but given the odd goings on at Vauxhall last week and at the Marquess of Dansbury’s estate—blue lights and claims of travel to distant times—your Teatime Tattler staff believes the date is correct. Besides, it purports to hold tobacco from “Princess Mary’s Christmas Fund,” and who, pray tell, is Princess Mary?

What was inside, once we pried it open, however, was not tobacco. A folded sheet of paper, oddly yellowed, lay in it. When unfolded (carefully so as not to damage the brittle pages) the text turned out to be in French. Luckily, the Tattler staff was up to the task of translating.

Amiens, Christmas 1916

Dear Aunt Lumina,
The family sends greetings of the holy season along with our hope that those of you in Marseilles, far from the pounding of the guns, fare well and have plenty to eat.

We eke by here in Picardy, with fighting all around. In spite of it all the Christmas market went on in front of the Cathedral as it has in the past. If the booths held fewer goods, the cheer made up for it. The people of the city hold on to hope and (with a few exceptions) good morale.

Tin Box

Rosemarie Legrand

I regret to tell you that one exception is your niece by marriage Sabine Legrand. Even you must know she has ever been a bitter woman and the war has not softened her. I often thought the Good Lord chose to withhold the blessing of motherhood from her lest she inflict her misery on a child. Her jealousy of her poor sister in law Rosemarie—obvious for years—became a river of bile after the birth of little Marcel.

As you know Raoul Legrand died at the hands of the Germans last year, leaving Rosemarie in poverty and at the mercy of his sister. She was forced to move to her father’s cabin in the Floating Islands. Sabine would have us believe that that Rosemarie collaborated with German soldiers, selling her body for food and money. I could almost forgive a mother desperate to feed her son for doing something of that sort, but I find it difficult to believe Sabine. Bernard says Raoul made similar accusations in the taverns during his last leave. He told anyone who would listen that the German boy found dead among the Islands was Rosemarie’s lover. I don’t know what to believe.

Harry Wheatly, her Canadian soldier

Since the Christmas Market Sabine has taken up a different story. We all saw Rosemarie and Marcel walking about with a Canadian soldier who bought sweet cakes for the boy and his mother. Rosemarie certainly couldn’t afford them herself. Sabine tries to make this something dirty and scandalous. I refuse to listen to her.

The British, Canadian, and Australian troops stationed along the Somme have been kind in our dealings with them. One of them gave my Papa the enclosed box still half full of tobacco after commandeering use of his farm wagon to haul supplies. Papa as you know does not use tobacco. He asked me to send it on to Uncle Herbert.

Pray for us in Picardy, particularly for poor mothers such as Rosemarie Legrand struggling to survive long enough to see this war end. I hope she finds joy with her Canadian soldier, if only to spite Sabine. She deserves a crumb of happiness.

My love to the rest of the family,
Josephine

We at the Tattler hope so too.


 

 

About Never Too Late

Eight authors and eight different takes on four dramatic elements selected by our readers—an older heroine, a wise man, a Bible, and a compromising situation that isn’t. Set in a variety of locations around the world over eight centuries, welcome to the romance of the Bluestocking Belles’ 2017 Holiday and More Anthology.
It’s Never Too Late to find love!

Click here for a list of retailers and to find out about each story.

Click here to climb into the Bluestocking Belle’s Time Machine and hop through time with the Bluestocking Belles.

Caroline Warfield’s contribution, “Roses in Picardy” takes place in 1916

tin box

About the Author

 Caroline Warfield has been many things. Now retired to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, she divides her time between writing and seeking adventures with her grandbuddy and the prince among men she married. Her new series sends the children of the heroes of her earlier books to seek their own happiness in the far-flung corners of the British Empire

 

The Occult Eavesdropper

Greetings, readers of The Teatime Tattler. ’Tis I, Mr. Palmer, lifelong seeker of occult knowledge and experience. For those unacquainted with my talents, allow me to explain how I eavesdrop on history. To see and hear the echoes of a location, I need only stand in the space, close my eyes, and enter a trance which allows my soul to flee its mortal home and explore the boundless realm of the spiritual plane. Perhaps you read of my adventure at Ravenwood Keep in Northumberland. Shortly thereafter, I journeyed farther north to Nihtscua, a castle ruin whose name—meaning “Shadow of Night”—sparked my interest at once. I felt compelled to view its past, though I was unprepared for what awaited me.

occult          A word of warning. Many would deem the scene I witnessed to be of a delicate nature. Some might say scandalous. Keep your smelling salts close if you choose to read on.

A lord and his lady stood alone inside a well-appointed bedchamber. The woman motioned toward the blazing hearth, before which sat a round, wooden tub lined with white cloth.

“Your bath, my lord,” she said.

He turned to her. “Really.”

The hint of a smile touched her lips. “Really.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to relax. Go on. Disrobe and get in while the water is still warm.”

His eyes narrowed. “And where will you be?”

She shrugged, seemingly nonchalant, but her eyes twinkled. “Why, here, of course.”

He frowned. “Don’t you need to visit the garderobe or something?”

“Why so modest? You’re beautifully built.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye, and you know it. But if ’twill appease you, I’ll go to the garderobe.” She started toward the door, then paused and turned. “You’re not undressing.”

“You’re not leaving,” he countered.

She twisted her lips and exited the chamber. When she returned a short while later, the lord sat submerged from the ribs down in the water. She shut the door and leaned back against it. Motionless, she stared at him.

“Jocelyn?”

She blinked. “Aye?”

“Would you be so kind as to hand me the soap?”

“Oh. Of course.” She advanced toward him. “Would you like me to wash your hair?”

His chest muscles flexed. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

He scooped soft soap from the container she held out to him and worked it into his wet hair. Then he took another handful of soap and began to wash his body.

She moved to stand behind him. Studiously, he ignored her, even as he rinsed his hair.

Until she stepped into the tub with him.

She wore only her chemise, of which the bottom third became soaked. The cloth hugged her knees and shins as she sat on the opposite rim of the tub.

The lord frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I would’ve thought ’twould be obvious.”

His gaze was riveted on her legs. “Where are your garments?”

“I’m still wearing one.”

“But the others?”

“Beside yours, by the fire.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. “By all that’s holy, why did you remove—”

“Between the fire and the warm water, ’twas too hot.”

“Yet you put your feet into the water. Doesn’t that make you hotter?”

“Oh.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ve been standing all day, and my feet ache.” She squirmed on the edge of the tub. “My feet feel better, but now my backside is sore.”

“What?”

“My backside, buttocks, derriere. Take your pick.”

A muscle worked in his jaw.

“Wulfstan?”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should stand up.”

Again, she shifted her position. “I think I just need to…ah!” She pitched forward into the tub, and water splashed everywhere.

The shock of the moment wrenched me from the vision and sent me back to the castle’s present ruin. Yet the lady’s face stayed with me. Clearly, she endeavored to seduce her husband, while he seemed determined to resist her. What do you suppose happened next?

Excerpt from Soul of the Wolf by Judith Sterling

Occult  Wulfstan pushed open the bedchamber door but hesitated on the threshold. Pale and wide-eyed, Jocelyn stood motionless in front of the gaping window. She stared at him as though he were the Devil incarnate.

“Is it the wolf you fear?” he questioned. “Or is it me?”

Jocelyn lifted her chin. “That depends on how much the two of you have in common.”

Curbing a grin, he entered the chamber and shut the door. “We have more in common than you’d suspect.”

“Oh, I suspect quite a bit.”

“I suppose you would.”

She crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

Careful. Tell her gently. He gestured to the hearth. “Come sit by the fire.”

“I’m warm enough, thank you.”

“Then sit on the bed.”

Her arms tightened against her torso. “I’d rather not.”

He sighed heavily. “I’ll keep my distance. You’ll be quite safe.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she lowered her arms. She marched to the bed, and as she sat, her tan tunic seemed to meld with the various shades of the pelts around her. Her long, elegant fingers raked the fur. “Happy?”

He swallowed hard. “Rapturous.”

His mutinous mind conjured an image of her lying beneath him on the soft fur, arching toward him with the same abandon she’d shown at Woden’s Circle. It stirred his blood, and his manhood. By law, her body was his to claim, his to devour at will.

Outside, the wolf howled a second time, prolonging the highest note with seeming ease. The sound shattered Wulfstan’s fantasy, reminding him of his mission and the discipline he dared not forsake. He took a deep breath and quelled his arousal.

“Well?” said Jocelyn.

He cocked an eyebrow. Had she intuited his dilemma?

“Your vision,” she prompted. “I’ve waited a lifetime to hear it.”

He gritted his teeth. ’Twas now or never. “I see my visions from the viewpoint of the person I’m touching.”

She gave him a nod. “In this case, from my point of view.”

“Exactly. I was in a large, ornate bedchamber, standing before a woman with brown hair and amber eyes…”

occultAbout the Book

A Norman loyalist, Lady Jocelyn bristles when ordered to marry Wulfstan, a Saxon sorcerer.  She nurses a painful secret and would rather bathe in a cesspit than be pawed by such a man…until her lifelong dream of motherhood rears its head.

A man of magic and mystery, Wulfstan has no time for wedded bliss.  He fears that consummating their marriage will bind their souls and wrench his focus from the ancient riddle his dying mother begged him to solve.  He’s a lone wolf, salving old wounds with endless work.  But Jocelyn stirs him as no woman ever has.

Their attraction is undeniable.  Their fates are intertwined.  Together, they must face their demons and bring light to a troubled land.

Buy it here:

Amazon https://amzn.com/B06WP4GSCR

Barnes and Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/soul-of-the-wolf

The Wild Rose Press https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/soul-of-the-wolf

About the Author

Judith Sterling’s love of history and passion for the paranormal infuse everything she writes. Flight of the Raven and Soul of the Wolf are part of her medieval romance series, The Novels of Ravenwood. The third in the series, Shadow of the Swan, will be released soon. The Cauldron Stirred is the first book in her young adult paranormal series, Guardians of Erin. Written under Judith Marshall, her nonfiction books—My Conversations with Angels and Past Lives, Present Stories—have been translated into multiple languages. She has an MA in linguistics and a BA in history, with a minor in British Studies. Born in that sauna called Florida, she craved cooler climes, and once the travel bug bit, she lived in England, Scotland, Sweden, Wisconsin, Virginia, and on the island of Nantucket. She currently lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her husband and their identical twin sons.

Website – https://judithmarshallauthor.com/

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/judithsterlingfiction/

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16291161.Judith_Sterling

Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B01MT3KB7L

The Wild Rose Press – https://catalog.thewildrosepress.com/2212_judith-sterling

 

Bootleggers, Rum Running, and Bathtub Gin

Article Clipped from The Cedartown Review, Summer of 1929 —

G.L. Adams reporting here in mid-Michigan, The Cedartown Review, on news from the lovely little village seven miles west of Howell—Livingston County’s own sleepy, little Cedartown. Possibly not as quiet as we’ve all known, though. Such juicy goings-on to relate during these warm summer days.

First off, let me explain. Before yesterday, using names of those involved was verboten, but now, with those in question no longer around, time to talk. Unexplained disappearances of four persons has left many puzzled. Anyone speaking of this claim no foul play, which is intriguing to a point. Don’t you agree? But now, I’m here to offer up full-disclosure tidbits for speculation over your next cup of tea.

BootleggersLong has everyone suspected a local woman being a bootlegger north of town. This secret—maybe no different

than how President Herbert Hoover keeps the best whiskey on hand in the White House for his esteemed guests—remained unspoken in polite society. Word is out now, though. Even if you’ve not been aware of how Hulda Pearl Rose commissioned locals to supply her with rye mash, juniper berries, and anise, maybe you’ve wondered about her odd little family, housemate, Izzy, and baby, Frannie. All three recently vacated the house north of town, vanishing in the dark cover of night, never to be heard from since. Odd, to say the least.

Izzy might just be the sweetest thing since the discovery of honey so I’d never want for hurting her. But, my goodness, a week or two ago, was there ever a row to be had next to the flour and sugar shelves in Mr. Navarro’s grocery store.

Sweet Izzy got in a tussle going up against a matron of advancing years, both reaching for a lone bag of sugar. Hackles went up, words were exchanged, and the entire five pounds of pure white cane sugar scattered like falling snow over the rough wooden floor. That wasn’t the end of it, though. According to one spectator, right at that moment, who but Rita Mae, best friend to Tilly Miner (another celebrity of sorts since her husband, Johnny, has gone missing) walked right up to Izzy to stand side by side while widow Barnerd raked the poor girl over hot coals claiming she was consorting with the Devil. The Devil being Hulda Pearl Rose for making rot-gut, giggle juice, moonshine; whatever label you want to put on this sinful substance, according to the old woman.

The accusations slinging throughout the store would have made an albino blush. Rita Mae and Izzy locked arms against the wordy assault until Mrs. Barnerd ran out of breath. With what looked like a stand-off, the two young gals turned to leave but the old woman grabbed at one of their dress sleeves, missed, slipped on the sugary powder, and landed smack-dab on her rump. A plume of white dust billowed up around her. Oh, what a sight she must have been.

The young ladies left the store with their dignity intact. Yet, now, Hulda Pearl Rose, Izzy, baby Frannie, and Tilly’s husband, Johnny, are no longer around and one wonders if foul play is involved or are they hiding from the sheriff. More to come as the snooping continues. ~~Your Editor in the News, G.L. Adams

 About the Book: Juniper and Anise

Hulda Pearl Rosenowski chose to survive, no matter the consequences. Poland may have been her homeland but, when murderous scavengers kill her mama and dear father, and brother Josef, during a raid on their house, she finds a way to escape. Unharmed physically but damaged forever, Hulda arrives in America with only the clothes on her back and a tattered potato bag containing a few scarce coins and precious family jewels.

Dreams of becoming a “flapper” girl and brushes with members of the Detroit Purple Gang dominate Hulda’s life as she counts down dwindling reserves, takes care of a broken-down farmhouse, a baby, and hides a secret that could land her in prison. Years later, as told through the eyes of small-town sheriff Claude Calkins, a story of rum-running and bootleggers stealing away in the dead-of-night with stashes of bathtub gin emerges and changes a young girl’s life forever.

Bootleggers

 About the Book: Tilly Loves Johnny

Newlywed Tilly Miner turns a deaf ear to rumors and gossip her husband, Johnny, is running parties where “complimentary” hooch loosens lips as well as pocketbooks for those looking to gamble. Some nights he crawls into their bed, smelling of sour rye mash; others, not even making it home until early morning. But her loyalty remains unwavering. And then, the unspeakable happens.

A few days before Christmas, Tilly discovers a bloody atrocity dumped on their kitchen table. A warning from the Ku Klux Klan? Johnny laughs it off as a joke. But, when he goes missing one cold night in February, 1929, Tilly is convinced someone or something prevents his return.

Her undying faith in Johnny is tested by righteous attitudes from her best friend’s mother and a too-cruel mother-in-law, while a recalcitrant sheriff is convinced the man merely ran off.

About the Author

Marion Cornett, like many novelists, began her career in a steep learning curve that ultimately lasted over some forty years before having her first story published. That meant having national magazines publish original patterns for knitting, crocheting, and needlework, while perfecting her journalistic abilities through motorcycle road racing reporting.

Her claim to fame, at this point, is all about Michigan’s past. Two volumes on the history of her adopted town, Fowlerville, proved to be a great research tool to then write two historical novels set in a small town that looks a lot like their village in the early 1900s. “Juniper and Anise,” a story of a woman bootlegger selling bathtub gin during the Prohibition Era, was published by Whiskey Creek Press in 2014 and “Tilly Loves Johnny,” a murder/mystery tale centered around the illicit activities of a blind pig, was published by the Wild Rose Press in 2016.

“The Fowlerville Chronicles” (2010), a compilation of the village’s history from 1836 to 2010, and “Through the Eyes of a Country Editor” (2012), the writings and life of G.L. Adams, publisher and editor of the newspaper, “The Fowlerville Review,” are available in used and new prints.

As research continues, more stories are in the works. All happening while continuing to travel around the country on named “awesome road trips,” hiking portions of the Appalachian and Arizona trails, and thoroughly enjoying time with her husband, Doug, since falling deep into retirement.

mcdesign159@gmail.com

www.marioncornett.com

 

Loved and Lost

Fira poured the last of the ale into a goblet held out in front of her, yet her attention remained on the man across the Great Hall who paced in front of the turret stairs. A pinch to her already bruised back side tore a snarl from her lips as she swatted away the outstretched hand of a knight.

“Not tonight, Sir Turquine,” she bellowed, causing the knights at the table to chuckle.

“I told you ’twas a lost cause, brother,” Taegan laughed. “She has her mind set on another this eve!”

“You cannot blame me for trying,” Turquine retorted. “Be a good lass, Fira, and bring us more ale. We have a long night of drinking afore us.”

Grumbling to herself, Fira returned to the kitchen to refill her pitcher. The knights had a mighty thirst this night and she would be lucky if she saw her bed afore the dawn. Her gaze traveled through the doorway and her heart flipped with his nearness. No other man in the hall held her interest, although she had taken several of them to her bed at one time or another. Nay, the only one she cared about was the clan’s piper.

He was a handsome man with his tawny colored hair and bright green eyes. She had thought she had a chance with Garrick of Clan MacLaren. After all… he had never once made any advances towards her, not like the rest of the men she had bedded. Mayhap ’twas why she was attracted to him… he had never been anything but respectful towards her and because of this, he had unknowingly slipped into her heart.  They had been on friendly enough terms for a while now and she had thought she was making progress in possibly wringing a proposal from him, or so she had assumed. Then she arrived at Berwyck and everything had changed.

’Twas as though the other women in the kitchen knew where her thoughts had led as she began overhearing their conversation about her nemesis.

“She be a true lady, that one is. No uppity airs, no demanding ways. She does her deceased brother proud, she does,” boasted one of the serfs.

“Do not forget she is Laird Dristan’s cousin and as such ’twould be wise tae treat her with respect lest ye wish tae feel the heat o’ the Devil’s Dragon’s wrath,” another replied with a shudder.

“Bah!” Fira fumed. Slamming the pitcher down upon the table, she wagged her finger at the women who had no issue gossiping amongst themselves. “She doesna belong here and should go back tae France or wherever Sir Morgan found her.”

“Yer just jealous because ye have lost the favor o’ our handsome piper.”

“I havena lost him,” Fira boasted, “and I can have him in me bed with a crook of me finger, I can.”

“Ye may get him in yer bed, but yer reward will likely be a babe in yer belly and nothing else,” another called out.

“He willna marry ye, ye silly girl.” A chorus of laughter erupted from those near enough to hear the conversation.

“Besides, I have heard Laird Dristan say he will look no lower than a knight fer her husband.”

“Then ’tis settled. Since Garrick holds no title, he is considered beneath her station in life so our laird willna let them marry,” Fira retorted with a smirk.

“Ye think that matters when yer in love? Ye best set yer sights on someone else fer ’tis plain fer all tae see Lady Coira has won Garrick’s heart.”

“Ye know nothing of Garrick’s heart,” Fira yelled.

“Then take a look,” the woman mocked, taking Fira by the arm and pushing her towards the doorway to observe what was taking place inside the hall.

Fira’s heart lurched when she espied the Lady Coria and Sir Morgan descend the stairs and Garrick bowed low afore the lady. Their conversation was brief but ’twas enough to see for herself the man she wanted for her husband had eyes only for another. Even whilst he took his place at the table to break his fast did he continue to stare upon Lady Coira. Only when the lady raised her chalice in a silent salute and Garrick returned the gesture with a smile did Fira finally begin to realize she had lost him.

“Heed my words, Fira, and leave him be. Another has already claimed him,” the woman taunted afore returning to the kitchen.

A sob tore from Fira’s lips. Life was so unfair and more so for someone in her position. She ran from the Great Hall to find her home, not caring if she would be punished come the morn for leaving the hall without finishing her duties for the night.


This original piece is a companion to The Piper’s Lady by Bluestocking Belle Sherry Ewing. The Piper’s Lady is one of eight novella’s within the Belles’ 2017 anthology, Never Too Late.

Never Too Late
A Bluestocking Belles Collection

Release Date November 4, 2017
Special Pre-order price ~ $0.99
25% benefits the Belles’ mutual charity The Malala Fund

Buy Links:

Amazon US  | Smashwords

Amazon AU  |  Amazon BR  |  Amazon CA  |  Amazon DE  |  Amazon ES  |  Amazon FR  |  Amazon IN  |  Amazon IT  |  Amazon JP  | Amazon MX  |  Amazon NL  |  Amazon UK

You can learn more about Sherry on her page here with the Belles or find her on her website here. Sherry loves to interact with her readers so be sure to sign up for her newsletter or join her Facebook Street Team to keep up-to-date.

 

Whispers in a Corner of Cairo

The dining room of the Hotel des Anglais in Cairo hummed with conversation and bustled with activity. Waiters in white saw to every comfort. Gentlemen in formal dress surveyed the diners from their perch near the door, ready to step in if needed. Della Faulkner thought that they well should. A baronet’s granddaughter, she had fine sense of what was due her sort.

Cairo

The Dining Room, Hotel des Anglais, Cairo (later Shepheard’s Hotel)

She huddled at a table in the far corner with two other ladies in perfectly proper English dress, and perfectly proper English bonnets, their faces bright with a sheen brought on by Egypt’s oppressive heat. They lingered over after-dinner cordials, their husbands having departed in search of something more fortifying. After a voyage on the new mail steamer and a harrowing trip across the desert from Suez, they were in great need of civilized comforts.

“Tell me exactly what you heard Mr. Badawi say,” Della demanded for the second time. As the eldest and, in her opinion, highest ranking of their number, she assumed the right to demand. Frustration that she had missed a confrontation between the Egyptian manager for the Nile and Oriental Company, their local contact, with a scandalous fellow passenger gave her voice more force than normal.

Alice Fuller, the nervous woman next to her, jumped at the sound. A tiny woman, she blinked several times while she babbled, “He said, ‘if you are not married.’ I heard that distinctly, didn’t you Bertha? ‘If’ he said.”

Cairo

The Lobby, Hotel des Anglais, Cairo (later Shepheard’s Hotel)

The third woman, a sour-faced matron of indeterminable years glowered at Alice and sighed deeply. “We weren’t eavesdropping, mind, but when we saw Captain Wheatly conversing with Mr. Badawi in the lobby, we feared yet more difficulties and moved closer. This entire journey has been a nightmare. I so regret letting Albert talk me into the overland route.”

Della brushed that aside. “Yes, yes, but what did you hear?”

“He all but accused Wheatly of lying to him, but I did not hear the proof.”

“Tell me ladies, did the couple act as if they were married when aboard ship?” The speaker, the lone man in their company, leaned forward. Della detected an unattractive eagerness behind his air of unconcern. Egbert Weaver appeared encroaching to her, though the others professed to find his quiet manner charming. Quiet he may be, but the man didn’t miss much that went on, always hovering nearby listening.

“Well, the way they carried on on deck, they should be married,” Alice giggled. “Remember Bertha? Right there in front of us?”

Della sniffed. “No better than she ought to be if you ask me, latching on to an officer and pretending to care for those children of his.” She shuddered.

“Is there something odd about his children?” Weaver asked, his face a mask of sympathy.

Alice leaned toward him to whisper, “They are dark. Indian, no doubt. His but not hers—you know…” She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh say the word, Alice! Bastards, Mr. Weaver. I would bet my bonnet on it,” Della proclaimed. “And if he isn’t married to the woman traveling with them—well!”

“We don’t know that, Della. He told me he was widowed. As to his current companion, they had two cabins, as I recall,” Bertha pointed out.

cairo steamship

Della rolled her eyes. “You are too softhearted, Bertha. None of that means squat and you know it. Who slept in which bed and why, I should like to know,” she hissed under her breath.
“Are you saying they are married, but slept apart,” Weaver began, “Or—”

“Look!” Alice said bouncing in her seat and wagging her head toward the door. All eyes followed her direction. The subject of their little talk, Captain Frederick Wheatly, led his “wife,” Clare into the dinning room. Two dark-skinned girls followed, gazing around at the room and the diners.

“Who is that young man who stood up to greet them?” Alice whispered, when the boy seated the two little girls as if they were grand ladies.

“I don’t know, but the fool acts like they belong here.”

All four pairs of eyes watched the tableau on the far side of the room, as if trying to ferret out the truth. Moments later, an older man with the air of great consequence entered accompanied by an outburst of excessive bowing and fussing on the part of staff. He stood well over six feet tall, his white-blond hair reflecting candlelight. He walked directly to the Wheatlys’ table, and the diners rose to greet him.

Della gasped.

“What is it?” Bertha asked anxiously.

“Not what. Who. Wheatly just introduced that woman to the Duke of Sudbury. I believe that young man dining with them is his nephew, Richard Mallet.”

Alice covered her mouth with her serviette, eyes wide, unable to speak. Bertha, too, stared back at the group. Before their fascinated eyes, the duke smiled at the children, spoke briefly with Wheatly and his companion, and left, taking the captain with him.

“Well!” Della declared. “I should like to hear that conversation.” She turned her attention back to her companions only to sigh with an irritation she didn’t attempt to disguise. “Mr. Weaver, what are you scribbling?” The little man bent over a small notebook writing rapidly.

“Merely taking a few notes, ladies,” he said ,snapping the notebook shut and rising to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll have a chat with Badawi before I turn in to catch up on my correspondence.”

“Correspondence with whom, Mr. Weaver?” Della demanded.

A slow smile lit his face. “Why, with my friend Mr. Clemens, editor of The Teatime Tattler. He will love what I have to share.” With a tip of his hat, he left them.

cairo empire reluctant About the Book

The Reluctant Wife:  Children of Empire, Book 2

When all else fails, love succeeds…

Captain Fred Wheatly’s comfortable life on the fringes of Bengal comes crashing down around him when his mistress dies, leaving him with two children he never expected to have to raise. When he chooses justice over army regulations, he’s forced to resign his position, leaving him with no way to support his unexpected family. He’s already had enough failures in his life. The last thing he needs is an attractive, interfering woman bedeviling his steps, reminding him of his duties.

All widowed Clare Armbruster needs is her brother’s signature on a legal document to be free of her past. After a failed marriage, and still mourning the loss of a child, she’s had it up to her ears with the assumptions she doesn’t know how to take care of herself, that what she needs is a husband. She certainly doesn’t need a great lout of a captain who can’t figure out what to do with his daughters. If only the frightened little girls didn’t need her help so badly.

Clare has made mistakes in the past. Can she trust Fred now? Can she trust herself? Captain Wheatly isn’t ashamed of his aristocratic heritage, but he doesn’t need his family and they’ve certainly never needed him. But with no more military career and two half-caste daughters to support, Fred must turn once more—as a failure—to the family he let down so often in the past. Can two hearts rise above past failures to forge a future together?

Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Reluctant-Wife-Children-Empire-Book-ebook/dp/B06XYRRR1R/

Children of Empire: Three cousins, torn apart by lies and deceit and driven to the far reaches of the empire, struggle to find their way home. The first book is The Renegade Wife

About Caroline Warfield

Traveler, poet, librarian, technology manager—Caroline Warfield has been many things, but above all she is a romantic. Having retired to the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania, she reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows while she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Caroline is of course, a Bluestocking Belles. In addition to  The Teatime Tattler, she regularly writes for  History Imagined.

Website http://www.carolinewarfield.com/

Amazon Author http://www.amazon.com/Caroline-Warfield/e/B00N9PZZZS/

Good Reads http://bit.ly/1C5blTm

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7

Twitter @CaroWarfield

Email warfieldcaro@gmail.com

 

 

Page 1 of 3

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén