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Who did the young earl marry? And what happened to the other bride?

Your tip was a good one, Sam, though none of the villagers of Rorrington will admit to sending it. They had a front-seat row to the goings on at Thorn Abbey, and you’ll be pleased to know that even out here, they’ve all heard about the scandal of the Earl of Spenhurst and his bride. Indeed, since the wedding was at their own Thorn Abbey, and some of the main actors stayed at the village inn at the time in question, they feel quite a sense of ownership.

Rorrington is a tiny village in the wilds of Shropshire, with the border of Wales so close in two directions that, or so the local joke goes, if your cow runs away, you have to go to another country to get it back.

They keep their own counsel, here. Certainly, the lord that owns Thorn Abbey heard nothing of what I am about to relate to you, for nobody can appear less intelligent than a countryman of Shropshire who doesn’t want to answer a question.

But the Teatime Tattler’s sympathetic treatment of the earl and countess had acted as my introduction, and so I am hopeful that, by the end of my visit here, I’ll have as much of the story as these people know.

It seems that the Earl of Yarverton used to be the owner of Thorn Abbey. The ownership was to pass to the Marquess of Deerhaven as part of the marriage agreement between their children, but I don’t know what will happen to it now. But I get ahead of myself.

What I can tell you so far is that Deerhaven’s son was delivered to Thorn Abbey in chains and Yarverton and Deerhaven arranged for the local vicar to perform a marriage ceremony between him and Yarverton’s daughter.

Young Spenhurst dug his toes in and said he would marry Miss Miller or no one. He wouldn’t consent to the marriage, and the good vicar refused to go ahead with the ceremony. Apparently, after he left the mansion, Yarverton beat the poor young man so badly that one of Deerhaven’s guards had to intervene to stop the assault from becoming a murder.

Remember, that the boy was chained!

What happened after that? I hope to know more tomorrow, when I meet with a fellow who was a footman at the Abbey at the time. But I have been able to confirm that there was a wedding a few weeks later, that the two fathers left the Abbey satisfied that the marriage had been consummated, and that the young couple left a few days later. Looking happy, say those who saw the carriage on its way.

The bride must have been Yarverton’s daughter, surely. So what happened to Miss Miller? And who were the couple seen recently in Leicestershire?

 ***

For the solution to the mystery, read Weave Me a Rope, currently on preorder and released on 26th January. Weave Me a Rope is Book 5 in A Twist Upon a Regency Tale, and is inspired by Rapunzel.

Weave Me a Rope

By Jude Knight

When the Earl of Spenhurst declares his love for a merchant’s niece, he is locked away in a tower. Spen won’t get out, the marquess, his father says, until he agrees to an arranged marriage.

After the marquess unceremoniously ejects Cordelia Milton from his country mansion, she is determined to rescue her beloved, but it all goes horribly wrong.

She needs time to recover from her injuries, and Spen has been moved across the country under heavy guard. It seems impossible for two young lovers to overcome the selfish plans of two powerful peers, but they won’t give up.

Click below to buy.

News of a Rushed Wedding

Dear Reader,

Most interesting news has arrived. A wedding apparently has taken place officiated by a very high-ranking clergyman. I herewith share a partial letter I received from our local correspondent:

My Dear Mr. Clemens,

I hasten to send you this news, though I daresay given the state of the roads it won’t reach you before the event I report has occurred. Wet, wetter, and wettest; that is how this weather has been. I only pray that my report reaches you safely, for it is a—dare I say—juicy revelation.

To begin at the beginning, the esteemed and ancient Episcopal See which I will refrain from naming is to be the sight of a wedding—a rather rushed wedding to be officiated by no less than a bishop–between a high-ranking young clergyman and a local woman, the hired companion of one of the prosperous parishioners.

As to how this came about, you must have heard in town about the abysmal snowstorm that struck locally on Twelfth Night. The soon to be happy pair (or already happy, if this letter is delayed) found themselves on an improvident—dare I say imprudent—social call and snowbound. Sheltering together in a vacant cottage, they spent an entire night alone together before returning and announcing their engagement.

If it would not be indelicate, I might add that one would hardly doubt what went on that night. Those acquainted with the happy groom found the affair shocking. Parishioners had thought him to be upright and sober. (Though there were, of course, others who found his probity veering toward the pompous.)

Ah, but the next piece of news will explain everything. Concerning the bride     

~~~

Dear Readers,

The roads must have been wet indeed, for the rest of this letter has been soaked beyond my ability to trace the letters.

I shall endeavor to find out more of this interesting story for you in my next edition.

Or, you can find out more in Twelfth Night Treasure, by Alina K. Field, in Christmastide Kisses, a Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends

The Bluestocking Belles and Friends brighten your holidays with:

  • A beleaguered uncle whose wards have run off every governess–what he needs is a wife, if only he can persuade the latest applicant
  • A country solicitor who becomes an earl and then finds a secret that changes everything
  • A very proper clergyman who battles very improper urges when he and a lady with a murky past find themselves snowbound
  • A viscount whose search to unearth generations-old family secrets kindles the fire of love for his lovely search partner
  • A former army captain who wonders if the best friend of his ex-fiancee is the woman he should have married
  • A vicar with a misspent youth and the duke’s daughter who brings out the best in him

Six gentlemen and the ladies with whom they discover the power of a Christmastide Kiss.

Release date: December 26, 2023

Pre-order your copy for only 99 cents:

Amazon US

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https://books2read.com/u/m26VG6

 

Meet Blaise Arquette, formerly of Wellington’s Army

Blaise Arquette has just returned from a position at the Home Office where he had served since Waterloo. Prior to that he served nearly two decades in the War with France, lately as an exploring officer with the Duke of Wellington. Just one day prior to this scene, he had met a lovely seamstress in his brother’s haberdashery shop. The rest of Blaise and Susana’s story, A Seamstress, a Soldier, and a Secret will appear in an updated version of Desperate Daughters, which you can get for free in January 2024 if you have previously purchased the ebook version.

You can meet Susana Bigglesworth here.

18 December 1816

Leeds, West Yorkshire

Early afternoon

Blaise knew that finding work would not be an easy task; his time at the Home Office had shown him that. Soldiers and sailors trudging London streets desperately trying to feed their families, many reduced to begging in the streets. Those who returned without limbs had even less to hope for; they would end among the parish poor, no doubt in some workhouse or another. He always felt a flutter of guilt when he came upon them; wishing there were some way to help them but at the same time perceiving that, but for the grace of God, he might even now be among them.

He at least had his brother to fall back on, although he had no intention of remaining a hanger-on. He had no clear idea of what sort of position he might find; the skills he had mastered in the Army—namely marksmanship, horsemanship, map drawing, and writing—were not transferable to any sort of trade he could think of. The government was eliminating positions right and left as the post-war economy hurtled the country toward disaster, his own with the Home Office included.

That morning he rose early, determined to do a bit of reconnaissance in the neighborhood to assess the situation. The tradesmen he chatted with were impressed with his military service, but few were taking on employees, and even fewer—none actually—were the sort of jobs suitable for Blaise. Young boys who could be apprenticed to learn a trade without pay had more choices than he, he mused grimly. Returning to France to fight for his inheritance might be his only option.

Heading back to Fanshawe & Sons, he noticed a tradesman’s carriage harnessed to a pair of black Percherons, Macclesfield Silks painted on the side. Inside, he found his brother and Louise poring over ells of colorful fabric arrayed on the counter, a stranger—presumably the silk merchant—running his hand over the wares.

“Thomas Pemberton,” he introduced himself after Benoît had presented him. “Grandson of Joseph, founder of Macclesfield Silks.”

Pemberton was middle-aged, a few streaks of gray in his dark hair, hazel eyes, and a jovial manner. He regarded Blaise with new respect when he heard of his military career.

“Served with the duke, did you? This country is in your debt, sir.” He tilted his head and regarded Blaise with furrowed brows. “So, what does a soldier with your experience do with himself after the war is over?”

Blaise grinned wryly. “I’m still looking for the answer to that, Pemberton. There doesn’t seem to be much of a use for soldiers in peacetime.”

“Thomas. Do call me Thomas.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Look, I may have something that will suit. I’m short an assistant at present, a traveling man to demonstrate our wares to shops like your brother’s.” He blew out a puff of air. “This,” he said waving at the wagon in front of the shop, “isn’t my strong suit and I’m needed at the mill. Is this something you could consider, for the present, at least? I might have something better in the future.”

Blaise’s eyes widened. “Certainly,” he said slowly, unwilling to dismiss any possibility. “But I don’t know much about silk.”

Thomas laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That can be rectified,” he asserted. “Come and see me in Macclesfield after the holiday, and I’ll show you around the mill, introduce you to the weavers, give you a bit of an apprenticeship. If it’s not to your taste, you’ll at least come away with a better acquaintance with the textile industry.”

Benoît and Louise looked at him hopefully. Blaise chuckled. “I can see you are already anticipating the discount for silk wares for the shop.”

Turning to Thomas, he held out an arm. “I’m honored to accept the offer, sir.”

Louise squealed, and Susana, needle and thread in hand, peeked out of her “office” to investigate. “Oh, the silks are here,” she exclaimed, misunderstanding the situation. “I can’t wait to see them! I shall be out as soon as I finish the hem on Miss Delphi’s dinner dress. I expect her momentarily for a final fitting.” She rushed back into her workroom.

Thomas appeared momentarily stunned by her appearance. Noticing his interest, Louise said helpfully, “That’s Susana, Miss Bigglesworth. She’s our modiste.”

Running his hands through his hair, Thomas swallowed. “I beg your pardon, but she looks familiar. Although I can’t place her. Or the name.”

“She’s from Harrogate,” Louise offered. “Comes from a family of ten sisters.”

“Ten!” Thomas’s eyes widened. But then he shook his head. “Doesn’t bring back anything. It’ll come to me, I suppose.”

He straightened his back and offered his hand first to Benoît and then to Blaise, subsequently tipping his hat for Louisa.

“I thank you for your business, sir,” he said to Benoît, and then to Blaise: “I’ll write you soon, Mr. Arquette, er, Blaise. We’ll expect to see you in Macclesfield after the New Year.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” Blaise accompanied him out of the shop to the driver’s seat of the wagon, beginning to feel hopeful for the first time in a while.

Desperate Daughters

This story was written for the readers of the original version of Desperate Daughters who expressed concern over the absence of Susana’s story, since she played a key part in the other sisters’ stories.

Her story deserves to be told.

Susana Ellis is a retired teacher, part-time caregiver, sewist, cook, and fashion print collector. Lifelong reading and a fascination with history led her to writing historical romances.

After January 1, 2024:

To update your Kindle book version, go to Manage Your Content and Devices. Search for Desperate Daughters. If available, select Update Available, then select Update.)

Might Scottish History Repeat Itself?

Gentle Readers,

The following tidbit of long ago doings in Scotland was recovered by an anonymous source. We read with interest the, ahem, musings of Lady Peigi about her sister. We are sure you will enjoy them too, especially given the antics of a certain Lord MacDonald at Almack’s last evening.

Yuletide. 1546. Lady Peigi Grant’s account of her sister’s marriage.

There’s something in James MacDonald’s eyes when he gazes at my wee sister, Aileana. He is one of our clan’s greatest enemies, the Devil, we call him. And his reputation is well-earned. He’s demanding my brother marry one of us to him to compensate for her stealing food from his hunting camp, and yet, he doesn’t want to marry me, Lady Peigi Grant. Nay… He wants Aileana. There’s vengeance in his eyes. I can see it brimming there. Unhealed anger betwixt his folk and mine, too. She defied him. And challenged him. She dared to steal from him when he’s stolen from us for years. And therefore, he has singled her out for his punishment.

“I’ll never make ye marry a man ye nay want,” my brother is whispering to us in the corridor, as we peer through the archway into our castle’s great hall to watch MacDonald twist his brimming goblet in slow, calculating revolutions, when we have barely any food or drink for ourselves as it is from MacDonald’s raids. “But Peigi is demure. Older. Well trained in a lady’s pursuits. She’d make a more suitable bride—”

“I’ll nay see Peigi punished for my actions,” Aileana argues, shielding me with her body as if my brother might pluck me right up from the floor pavers himself to deliver me to the Devil. My wee, fierce sister, always protective when I’m frozen with fear just looking at that terrifying warrior in our hall, blond like his Norse heritage, eyes so icy blue. Knuckles so battered from a life lived with a claymore in his fist. “I’ll—I’ll be the one to marry him.”

“Aileana,” I beg, grasping her. “Nay do this.”

“Sister…” Seamus is frowning, but our wee sister just darted away, and sakes, but I can nay stop her!

“I’ll do it,” she’s just announced to the Devil as we chase after her, even though she’s quaking in her boots.

“I accept,” the Devil rumbles in reply without giving any pause.

And there’s a twinkle in those icy blues I didna’ notice before, a promise as he assures my brother that Aileana will nay be mistreated, that any lady of his castle will be afforded all the comforts of her station. There’s something solemn in the way he’s wrapped their hands in a strip of his tartan wool to handfast them—to claim her as his—as if he’s taking this moment seriously.

I realize in awe… “He likes her,” I whisper.

Our people are enemies, but I see curiosity in MacDonald’s astute gaze. Most men overlook the things that make Aileana beautiful, for she is brash, bold, and never afeared of rolling up her sleeves to get work done. God knows we’ve endured enough raids over the years that there is always plenty of work to do. And mayhap, just mayhap…this handfast will be a Christmastide miracle that ends our clan’s bitter feud?

About Twelfth Night’s Bride: Lady Aileana Grant just wants to help her starving clan at Christmastide. So she pilfers some vegetables from the bastard Laird James MacDonald–the Devil, they call him. When the Devil shows up and demands marriage as recompense for the thievery, Aileana can’t believe it when her brother agrees. Even if she’s able to negotiate a severance on Twelfth Night, that’s still two weeks to put up with the laird in enemy territory. She’s counting down the days, even if James isn’t quite the disgusting cretin she’d imagined.

James needs to marry an enemy bride in order to inherit his fortune. Cursed restrictions. He’d been unable to look away from Aileana’s untamed beauty ever since she squared off with him. He might as well handfast with the infernal lass. He’d get his money and perhaps some peace among the clans. He has a fortnight to win the heart of the lady with the voice of an angel despite her sharp tongue.

Twelfth Night is merry and bright as Aileana and James realize a true connection between them. But when Aileana discovers the reason the Devil forced her into marriage, how can she ever believe he truly wants her?

Available Now: https://www.amazon.com/Twelfth-Knights-Bride-Elizabeth-Watson-ebook/dp/B08LC6NDB3

News from the West of England

Gentle Readers, we quote here the greater part of an anonymous letter. We are fascinated, but you may make of it what you will.

Have you heard? The duke’s daughter’s been arrested. Now, do I believe it’s true? I’m afraid I do indeed and not only that, but they’ve thrown her maid in gaol. Her maid, you know, is a gypsy girl, and she’d be pretty if only she were English. I heard the guards talking about how she stole her eggs and she had lace about her person too. I’m certain this must have been pinched also because how else might that kind of beggar afford lace?

The guard walks out with my maid’s sister, you know, so I speak with authority. He says the maid was due to wed before she got herself arrested and I wonder at the wisdom of allowing such folk to purloin such Christian traditions as greedily as they do our legally gained produce.

The duke’s daughter is a lady Lydia and I’m not sure if you recall it, friends, but we came out together three Seasons ago, though she was never so fortunate as I. I married my Yorkshire lord and settled right to breeding, whereas the lady Lydia ran out on her earl. She might have been a countess by now, if she’d not caught herself up among such gyspy folk. What can one expect though, when one’s brother is already married and living among them?

It’s a terribly sad moment, you know, to see one’s former schoolfellows fallen in the world. Not just her, but all her family must now become barred. She’ll not be able to set foot in society again, I shouldn’t wonder, and who can survive without it? I, for one, cannot admit to ever having known her at all anymore. Not even to despise her at a summer ball.

This is what comes, you see, of losing your mama so young, for I’ve always had you to guide me away from such indecent connections. I am grateful, Mama, for your counsel, and your society which is a gratitude not all married matrons recollect to their mothers. Today’s events have put me in mind, however, of the warnings you were kind enough to proffer, regarding associations with such tribes and I wished to express my gratitude as soon as three sets of twins might allow me, which is to explain why these events occurred before Christmas, and I am only now passing on such vital outcomes.

About A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall:

Yorkshire, 1821:

The Romany have been barred from Lancashire for ten years under the old duke. The new duke, however, has new rules and encourages them to travel thither this Christmas. It’s a special season for the royal Romany House of Brishen. They have a new royal babe and a wedding to celebrate.

Or do they?

Stari Besnik is betrothed to Chal Brishen, the Romany King’s youngest brother. The marriage negotiations have taken so long, she doubts his commitment to her. Meanwhile, Chal is doing everything he can to meet her father’s demands for Stari’s bride price, as is the Romany men’s tradition. He determines to do this without his brother’s help. He wants no man aiding him to earn his bride!

Impatient to be with the man she loves, Stari seeks to gain what’s required at an old market. When she’s accused of theft and imprisoned, her life with Chal seems further away than ever.  The penalty for theft in a market town is death by hanging – and no Romany does well under English law.

Can Chal gain his bride by Christmas? And who’s the real thief with such a strong connection to Clifton Hall?

A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall is a Regency Christmas novella following on from Always a Princess and The King’s Mistress.

It includes the prologue to the final title in this series: An Impossible Duchess.

Available Now: Amazon

Excerpt:   “We’ve brought no trouble here,” Stari declared quietly. “However, the trade is fair.” She spoke through gritted teeth, extending her palm.

The fellow shrank away as though she’d the pox. “I’ll not take yer hand, gypsy. I’ve still business to make today.” His glance raked once more over her skirts, glaring disdain.

Despite his rudeness, Stari hoped Lydia wouldn’t seek another stall. They’d been among the English long enough. She longed to return to the woods outside this dark, dank, ill-scented town.

“Oi!” A shout behind made them all turn. The providore stood, red-faced with fury as he waved an empty basket in one huge, hammy fist. “Thieves!” he bellowed, his glare riveted on Stari. “You’ll pay for my eggs, girl! One way or another.” He advanced menacingly towards her as louder shouts came from the growing crowd behind him.

“No!” Stari cried out, aware the gallows awaited any thief in a market town – and a Romany woman had precious little with which to barter. “I’ve taken nothing.”

Lydia’s palm slid into hers, tensed and ready. “We’ve taken nothing.” Out of the corner of her eye, Stari  spied the Frenchwoman hurrying away, her little boy lifted up into her arms, clutching something close inside his coat. Eggs?

She raised her free arm to point out the true culprits, remembering, suddenly, the desperation in the woman’s face. The joyless stare from her young son. What if eggs are all they have for Christmas? Like all Romany, Besnik had endured lean times, but the Romany aided each other. If a Romany house had no meat for Christmas, another furnished it in a fair trade. A Frenchwoman struggling to feed her hungry child in England had no recourse at all.

Stari’s arm fell slack. She closed her lips, praying the French mother and her son stayed safe. Meanwhile, the crowd hemmed right round her, louder, larger, and more menacing as they called for the law.

“Fetch the Watchman! Hang the thieves!” Their cries grew uglier. The pushing and shoving sent her forwards, practically into the goosepen.

Stari’s gut lurched as she struggled to hold her stance, flushing as cruder suggestions were made about disposing of two women in the Oldyards. They’d be lucky if the watchmen arrived in time.

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