They call me harlot.
For I got my belly full.
But I will survive.
They left me to die.
Fallen Lady in St. Giles.
A year on, I thrived.
Hunger, pain, and fear,
Kept me company at night.
My thoughts on revenge.
The prince who trained me
Coaxes vengeance in my heart.
Villains must be stopped.
This is my warning, to members of the Society for the Purification of England. We are coming for you.
Signed,
A Fallen Woman
London
5 May 1808
Have our standards truly sunk so low? Whereas once our superior paper printed articles on proper etiquette, interesting insights into the movements of Society, and important information regarding current events affecting our great nation. Must we now resort to reading the type of drivel that was posted on the 1st of May? And from a self-proclaimed Jezebel, no less? What is happening in this great nation, when the words of a fallen woman are being forced upon persons of superior standing and greater morals?
This type of behavior—nay, this type of voice—leads to women having ideas. Demands. Entitlements.
What’s next, then? Women voting? Wearing trousers? Going to school?
This must stop, before our great nation falls to ruin!
Signed,
Hester T. Smythe
4 Poston Houses
Little Nottingshire, Sussex
6 May 1808
Hester, you old hag. Put a stocking in it.
Signed,
Lady Harriett Ross
—Self-proclaimed Matchmaking Motley Meddler—Mistress of Destiny—Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella
Bloomfield Place Bath, England
I’m just an old woman with opinions. On everything.
Woman Reading Book in Wooden Landscape Edouard Jean Conrad Hamman (Belgian, 1819–1888)
It has been heard about Auckland
Town that Mr. von Tempsky, that intrepid adventurer, (and don’t try to tell me that a man who has fought in the
jungles of South America would ever truly settle to such a staid existence as being
merely a newspapermen, even in as wild a place as the mining towns of the Coromandel),
a newly made commander in the Colonial Army, is currently involved in the
rescue of a female settler-to-be somewhere in the wild Hunua Ranges, to the
south of our good town.
This female, they say (and I hesitate to call her a lady, or perhaps even a person of womanly means), has made her way, alone, all the way from the feral East Coast of our fair land to Auckland, riding a wild Indian pony. It appears she had finally, after some searching, found Mr. von Tempsky, an acquaintance of her husband, after riding (swimming?) her Mustang across the large swamps between the town of Thames and Pukorokoro, (at the Miranda Redoubt). The good commander, in the middle of his preparation for war against the wild men of the Waikato, had rightly sent her north to abide in safety with his wife and children. However, after some bungling by the men sent to guide and protect her, it appears the girl has disappeared—and foul play is suspected.
Awaiting the news with bated breath, I remain,
Yours, etc.
Mr. Samuel Clemens
A Sea of Green Unfolding
December 1863, Maketu Pā, south of Auckland, New Zealand
“I
appreciate the Pākehā working so hard to help us.” Tangawai watched the
uniformed men in the distance to the southwest of his outpost, high atop the
Maketu pā.
“They
clear the bush beside the Great South Road to keep their supply trains safe
from us, not to help us,” Mahi replied in Māori, his brows drawing
together as he looked at the young rangatira from the corners of his
eyes.
“Their
stripping back of the bush from the road also lets us see who comes and goes on
their road.” Tangawai grinned and raised the telescope back to his eye. The
colonial army soldiers continued to toil and wear themselves out in the morning
sun. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. The weather was
already hot and humid for this hour, and he wasn’t swinging an axe.
As
he scanned the Great South Road northward from the loggers, three mounted men
came into view, trotting toward Auckland. Two wore military uniform and one was
clad in a ragged-edged leather tunic.
“Tangawai,”
a female voice called up to him from below.
He
handed the scope to his cousin and leaned over the wall. The woman was climbing
the steep side of the pā before him, a flax kete on her back. He
threw a coil of rope to her and she climbed the last bit with its help.
Tangawai
smiled as he took her hand and helped the slim, but heavily pregnant, young
woman over the last parapet. “It must be getting difficult to climb, my Tūī.”
He pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head on her glossy black hair.
“It
won’t be long now, and your son will be on my back instead.” She smiled up at
him and pulled his kai from the satchel.
He
sat and ate with her while his cousin kept watch.
“Tangawai,”
Mahi called over his shoulder, “weren’t there three riders heading north
before, from Williamson’s Clearing?”
“Yes,
two in uniform and one other.”
“There’s
only the one Pākehā now.”
“Can
you see the uniformed men?”
“No,”
he said, and watched for awhile more. “Ah, there they are…they’re going away
from us, toward the homesteads on the west side of the road. It might be a
trap.”
“We’d
better go spring it, then.” Tangawai frowned and pulled Tūī to her feet. “I’ll
signal the village to ready the riders, but you’ll need to get down there and
explain. The rest need to be ready to disappear into the bush. The Pākehā
won’t follow them there.” He gave her a quick hug and a kiss, then she slid
over the edge and lowered herself on the rope. Tūī waved from the bottom, then
turned and ran down toward the village.
Yes,
the Pākehā made it easy to see their road…and easy to see the figure on
a small buckskin horse. Alone, when he’d just had a military escort. Why had
they left him alone? This was a new trick.
He
signaled via mirror to the village below and four men made ready. They approached
Tūīwhen she reached the encampment and stood beside her for a few
minutes, gesturing, before they mounted up and raced from the encampment. Their
horses were gaunt and hard from their time in the bush on rough feed, now that
the Māori were beginning to be pushed from the lands of their ancestors.
Tangawai
returned to his telescope and scanned the horizon as his men galloped down the
hill toward the newly-cleared road. The dust cloud raised by their passing
diminished as the warriors settled themselves just inside the bush on both
sides of the track to await the lone rider.
He
was soon in their own trap. Tangawai gripped the parapet before him as his men
surrounded the Pākehā. The rider looked small and puny, now that his whanau
surrounded him. His men seemed to be speaking to the rider, then the little
horse made a dash to escape, but its way was blocked. The Pākehā’s horse
reared and sunlight glinted off metal near the hand of the rider as his men
rushed toward him.
The
rump of the gray horse was stained scarlet by the time the diminutive rider was
dragged off the buckskin by two of his remaining, seasoned warriors. The man
who’d been riding the gray crouched next to his horse, holding his bleeding
forearm, and the other lay face-down on the ground. Tangawai shook his head and
swore, while the men beside him on the walls stepped further away from him. He
watched as his men picked the rider up off the ground and shook him.
And
knocked his hat off.
Tangawai
took the telescope away from his eye and blinked, glanced at the telescope,
then peered through it again.
It
was still there.
The
blonde hair, down past his knees.
Pākehā men didn’t wear their hair that way.
The
man who’d just bested two of his finest warriors had blonde hair cascading down
past her knees…for it had to be a wahine.
This
wasn’t normal, by anyone’s reckoning.
A Sea of Green Unfolding
When you’ve already lost everything, the only place left to go is up…
Tragedy strikes in Aleksandra and
Xavier’s newly-found paradise on their Californio Rancho de las Pulgas and
newspaperman Gustavus von Tempsky invites them on a journey to a new life in
New Zealand—where everyone lives together in peace.
Unfortunately, change is in the
wind.
When they reach Aotearoa, they
disembark into a turbulent wilderness—where the wars between the European
settlers and the local Māori have only just begun—and von Tempsky is leading
the colonial troops into the bush.
Lizzi grew up riding wild
in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine veterinarian at UC Davis
School of Veterinary Medicine and practiced in the Gold and Pony Express
Country of California before emigrating to New Zealand. She is the proud mother
of two boys in that sea of green. When she’s not writing, she’s swinging a
rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb, riding or driving a carriage,
playing in the garden on her hobby farm, singing, cooking, being an equine
veterinarian or high school science teacher. She is multiply published and awarded
in special interest magazines and veterinary periodicals.
With her debut novel, A
Long Trail Rolling, she was Finalist 2013 RWNZ Great Beginnings; Winner
2014 RWNZ Pacific Hearts Award for the unpublished full manuscript; Winner 2015
RWNZ Koru Award for Best First Novel and third in Koru Long Novel section; and
finalist in the 2015 Best Indie Book Award.
It is with great reluctance and heaviness of
heart that I write to you today, but decency demands I must. Were that it not
so! A most intriguing stranger arrived at the Pump Room not a fortnight past —
you’ll note I hesitate to call him “gentleman”! The Chevalier d’Aubusson — if
indeed he holds the honor — has charmed all and sundry with a practiced grace
and the face of an Adonis, but I rather suspect –nay, I am certain! — he
means to abscond with one of our impressionable young ladies. For their part,
the young ladies are only too happy to comply!
His attention has fallen upon the rather
tragic figure of Lady Emilia Lloyd-Marshal, known to some by the affectionate
appellation “Lady Taffy” because of her unfortunate Welsh roots. As you well
know, Lady Emilia was presented late, and is now on her sixth — sixth! —
season with not a suitable swain in sight. What does she expect, carrying on
the way she does? She shocked the assembly into silence with an impromptu harp
recital whilst we were attempting to take the waters in peace. She discarded
her gloves, then emptied her glass into a ficus — a ficus, I ask you! At the
ball this Thursday last, I espied her sneaking gin from a flask concealed on
her person, then she stole a dance with the chevalier from my daughter, and deported herself like a veritable harlot. If that
isn’t enough to scandalize you, my dear Mr. Clemens, you may need to find your
seat for what I am about to impart.
Lady Emilia Lloyd-Marshal is to appear in a
play with none other than the infamous Countess of Somerton — in a theater!
Truly, some Good Samaritan ought to save that
girl from her own worst impulses. I suppose it cannot be helped. Though I have
not seen her parents in your scandal sheet of late, I can assure you their behaviour
is as reprehensible as ever. It is an open secret Lord Brecon lives in sin with
a fishwife in some Welsh backwater, while Lady Brecon frequents the bawdy
houses of Soho with her retinue of misguided lords, chief among them the
hapless Lord Dorchester, who seems quite devoted, poor lamb. In such a
household, I daresay Lady Emilia hadn’t the slightest chance of reaching
maturity unscathed. But I digress–!
Mr. Clemens, I only wish to caution the
unmarried ladies of the ton against this mysterious chevalier. He must be a
pretender, for what gentleman would ever seriously court Lady Taffy? Fortune
cannot make up for shamelessness or ill manners, and I’m afraid Lady Emilia has
an abundance of both. I shudder to think what machinations the “chevalier” has
in store for her, but whatever fate awaits her, I am assured she brought it on
herself.
Regretfully,
Lady C—-
Beauty
and the Bounder by Jessica Cale
He’s a
liar and a fortune-hunter . . . and exactly what she needs.
The moment Lady Emilia sets eyes on the Chevalier d’Aubusson, she knows their fates are tied together. For good or ill, she cannot say. A mysterious aristocrat with a tragic past, the chevalier makes waves with his considerable charm.
Seb
Virtue is not as he seems. A once-famous actor with a limited options, his
future depends on him catching a rich bride. He thought it would be easy, but
he didn’t count on Emilia.
There
are cracks in Seb’s story, and Emilia never could resist a mystery. Whether
he’s a gentleman or a bounder, he might just be the man for her.
Seb had as much right to be here as
anyone. Birth be damned, he was just as good as them if not better. Hadn’t he
fought and nearly died for his country? So, he didn’t have a fortune or an
ancient name that meant anything outside of Southwark, but he knew how to treat
a woman. If Emilia took a chance on him, she’d find out just how good he was at
that.
As the couples split into pairs, Seb took Emilia in his
arms. She looked startled as his hand found its natural place at the base of
her back. At a loss, her free hand skimmed his chest and settled behind his
neck. Holding their joined hands tighter, he led her around the room. As he
spun her in clockwise circles in an anticlockwise direction, the unavoidable
dizziness gave one the sense of flying.
Emilia followed him easily, but he had the sense he’d
shocked her. They were moving too quickly to properly converse, and he
preferred it that way. He relaxed into the familiar steps and focused on her
face. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and her lips parted in
surprise. She was a little breathless, but not nearly breathless enough. As he
twirled her, a sprig of lavender fell from her hair and was crushed underfoot,
adding to the perfume of beeswax and warm bodies in the air. She gasped as he
caught her and held her to his chest.
Her gaze fell to his lips. “I’m quite scandalized.”
He regarded her with interest. Not yet, she wasn’t.
Jessica Cale is an
author, editor, and historian based in North Carolina. Originally from
Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned her B.A. in
History and MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles for history
magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough)
and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one
understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History, and you can
visit her at dirtysexyhistory.com.
Website: http://www.dirtysexyhistory.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/dirtysexyhistory
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/JessicaCale
Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/caleisafourletterword
“Mama, why must we,” Emma twitched at her crinoline with a scowl in an attempt to keep it clear of the mud and manure in the middle of the main thoroughfare, “wear the height of London fashion in this God-forsak—”
“Emma!” Mrs.Wyndham-Smyth hissed. “Ladies do not use that
sort of language.” She flicked glances over both shoulders, her face paling.
Her daughter continued like she hadn’t heard her. “I thought we were moving to the wilderness when we came all the way to New Zealand and we’re still stuck in this filthy town. At least if we went to the provinces we could have some fun and not dress like trumped-up—”
“That really is enough, young lady.”
from http://www.aucklandcity.govt.nz/dbtw-wpd/heritageimages/index.htm
Emma took a deep breath to steady herself before she went
on. “Tūī says we wear too much clothing. I agree. It’s steaming hot in these
woolen dresses. We should dress like—”
“Heathens!” her mother declared. “You pay no mind to what
the servants say. They are servants and we are their masters.”
She stared at her mother. “Tūī is my friend. She works for us, even though New Zealand is their land. The Māori’s land. I’m not sure why you treat them with the disdain you and so many others do.”
“It’s just the way it is.” Her mother tried to look
indignant, but she seemed to be losing ground and stole more looks around her. As
if her friends might be nearby.
“Anyway, I want to go live in the provinces. Coromandel Town seems a nice place.”
Driving Creek, Coromandel
“The mines?” Mrs. Wyndham-Smyth’s eyes goggled and she
turned a shade whiter. “Wherever did you hear that claptrap?” Her knuckles
whitened on her shopping basket and she walked faster toward the market.
“From that nice Prussian newspaperman, ummm…”
“You mustn’t say ummm, my—”
Emma went on. “That Mr. von Tempsky whom Papa invited to supper last month.”
Her mother’s lips tightened. “He’s not a newspaperman any
more. He’s leading our colonial troops into the bush… against the Māori. To ensure the successful invasion of the Waikato.”
von Tempsky
“But…” Emma froze, then finally slapped her mouth shut a full half minute later. “That can’t be true.”
“True it is,” the woman said, turning back toward her. “And don’t let your father hear you say that. He’s the one who secured the commission for ‘The Prussian’ to help our army.”
“But we can’t…” Emma whispered. “It’s their land. They
have all the land south of the—”
“Not any more.” Her mother gritted her teeth. “Seems the land
in the Waikato has already been offered to the Australians and mercenaries who
are coming to help fight.”
“Clear the way, prisoner coming through!” shouted a burly man. It was the jailor, bundling along a tall, dark man who would’ve been as handsome as Mr. von Tempsky if only he wasn’t so dirty and wearing manacles.
“Do you know who that is?” Emma whispered to her mother.
“It must be that Spaniard—Xavier Argolli or something, I think they said. The constable just caught him. He’s been running free after murdering his ship’s captain on the voyage to New Zealand.” She sniffed. “Imagine that.”
The prisoner looked up then and his eyes met Emma’s. He shook his head and just had time to whisper something before his captor dragged him past.
Fort Britomart, Auckland
“Find von Tempsky,” had been his words.
Emma stared after the prisoner. He must’ve heard her mention the Prussian’s name. “Excuse me, Mama, I’m not feeling well,” she said as she spun on her heel and raced for home, already planning what to pack in her saddlebags. She’d find him.
Excerpt from A Sea of Green Unfolding:
December 1863, Auckland
Crowned by a spired white
church, a high, rocky headland jutted out of the coastline to their port side.
The captain of the whaler steered wide of the breakwater extending from the
point and headed his ship into the next big bay.
“Auckland,” the captain said,
nodding his head at the sprawling city behind the ships filling the inlet and
docked at the wharves.
Upon the headland ranged
several cannon and many one- and two-storied stone buildings. A Union Jack,
flying from a flagpole, presided over the site.
“Complete with fort?” Xavier
said.
“Fort Britomart, on the point
of the same name.” Thompson nodded at the cluster of buildings. “Built on an
old pā site.”
“Big ditches around the
outsides and all,” Xavier said, staring up at them as they passed.
“They’d be the original Māori
trenches,” the captain said, never taking his eyes from the rocks to their port
side. “We’ll dock at Queen’s Wharf,” he added.
The city of Auckland spread out
before them, rising up the gradual slope beyond the bay. The fort was sizable,
but the church dominated the skyline behind Point Britomart. Warehouses and
stores lined the road running along the water’s edge and houses covered the
hills in the background.
“That’s a bit grand for this
little place,” Xavier said, pointing to the church.
“Eh? Oh, that’s St. Paul’s
Anglican. It was the first one here. It’s been there for twenty years, already.
And up there,” he jutted his chin up the hill a little further, “is St.
Patrick’s. Take your pick. They’re both grand.”
“I think I’ll find Aleksandra
before I start looking around at churches,” Xavier said, with a grin.
The sounds and smells of port
hit him when they edged up to the wharf and threw out their hawsers to the
waiting men. As soon as the boat was moored, Xavier grasped the hand of the
captain and thanked him profusely, then climbed down the rope ladder to the
dock.
“Von Tempsky shouldn’t be too
hard to find,” the captain called down after him. “Just ask at Fort Britomart.
They’ll know where to find him.”
“Thanks again,” Xavier said,
waving, as he headed for the point.
The rough scoria of the road
surface grated on the soles of his boots as he passed the church. With its tall
spire and elegant lines, it was truly beautiful. Certainly a finer building
than he’d expected to find here. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a backwater, after
all.
His legs were proving a bit
unsteady from his time at sea, so he stretched them out as he walked, nodding
to passers-by, many of whom turned their faces away as he neared them. He
grinned, despite himself. He must smell like a fiend after being on ship for
three months, and the last of that on a whaler. Once he set the wheels in
motion to find von Tempsky and Aleksandra, he’d get a room and a bath. He could
almost feel the warm water of a scented bath enveloping him.
“Hold there,” the guard at the
entrance to the fort challenged.
He held up his hands and stood
still, coming out of his daydream.
“Hello,” Xavier said. “De
veras, of course.”
“State your name and business,”
he barked.
“Xavier Argüello, looking for
Captain Gustavus von Tempsky. I understand he may be near Drury?”
Several men looked up at his
comment, brows narrowed.
“Right this way,” the guard
said, giving him a sideways glance, his hand on his sword hilt.
The other men melted away, then
the guard stood aside for him to precede him into a stone building.
The door slammed behind him and
metal scraped upon metal.
Xavier turned, but the guard
was nowhere to be seen.
He surveyed the waiting room. A
five by five room, with only a wooden bench against one wall and a high, barred
window.
Some welcome.
If they were trying to discourage
visitors, they were doing a good job. He knocked on the door. A shiver ran up
his spine when no one replied. He tried to lift the latch, but it wouldn’t
budge. Even when he shook it. “Hey, you’ve locked me in! Guard!”
Only silence, then retreating
footsteps on the boardwalk outside the door.
It finally clicked.
This was a gaol cell. But why?
Had von Tempsky disgraced himself?
Xavier sat down to wait
patiently, but eventually he rose to prowl from one wall to another. He pulled
the bench before the grilled window, but it didn’t give him enough height to
see out, so he put it back and continued to walk the walls.
There must be some mistake.
A Sea of Green Unfolding
When you’ve already lost everything, the only place left to go is up…
Tragedy strikes in Aleksandra and
Xavier’s newly-found paradise on their Californio Rancho de las Pulgas and
newspaperman Gustavus von Tempsky invites them on a journey to a new life in
New Zealand—where everyone lives together in peace.
Unfortunately, change is in the
wind.
When they reach Aotearoa, they
disembark into a turbulent wilderness—where the wars between the European
settlers and the local Māori have only just begun—and von Tempsky is leading
the colonial troops into the bush.
Lizzi
grew up riding wild in the Santa Cruz Mountain redwoods, became an equine
veterinarian at UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine and practiced in the
Gold and Pony Express Country of California before emigrating to New Zealand.
Busy
raising two boys, farming, and running her own equine veterinary practice, she
never thought she’d sit down long enough to write more than an article. A
serious injury, however, changed all that, and planted her in one place long
enough to jump-start her new career as an author!
With Lizzi’s
debut historical romance, A Long Trail Rolling, she
was: Finalist 2013 RWNZ Great Beginnings; Winner 2014 RWNZ Pacific Hearts Award
for the best unpublished full manuscript; Winner 2015 RWNZ Koru Award for Best
First Novel and third in the 2015 RWNZ Koru Long Novel section; and Finalist,
2015 Best Indie Book Award. She’s working on her eighth story!
When
she’s not writing, she’s swinging a rapier or shooting a bow in medieval garb,
riding or driving a carriage, playing in the garden on her hobby farm, singing,
cooking, practicing as an equine veterinarian or teaching high school science.
She is multiply published and awarded in special interest magazines and
veterinary periodicals.
Lizzi loves
the friendships she’s developed with the rest of the Belles. She adores how
they’re so progressive, organized, and fun. Best of all, they are all willing
to put themselves out there, together, to achieve
more, create more, than would be possible going it alone.
Lizzi
loves to connect with her readers. How would you like to connect?
Today’s Topic: Classical Mechanics or the Magic of Numbers. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure which.
It is with great honor that I announce that none other than the reclusive Dr. John Edward Hartwell has agreed to give a lecture on Mathematics and Sir Isaac Newton’s Laws of Classical Mechanics as well as discuss his own theories, recently printed, with regards to chaotic tendencies in orderly systems, at my home near Bath on Monday the 9th of January.
Perhaps, after I attend his lecture, I will understand what, precisely, all that means.
In the meantime, my guests and I await with baited breath, the arrival of our mysterious genius. Never fear, dear readers, for you will be the first to hear all the delicious details regarding this elusive man. Here. In the Teatime Tattler.
My Umbrella is at the ready.
Signed,
Lady Harriett Ross —Self-proclaimed Matchmaking Motley Meddler —Mistress of Destiny —Wielder of the Infamous Umbrella
Bloomfield Place Bath, England
I’m just an old woman with opinions. On everything.
Editor’s Note:
More Information to follow as Lady Harriett Ross and author Amy Quinton reveal more of what’s to come in the 3rd Installment of the Umbrella Chronicles: John and Emma’s story. Due in time for Valentine’s Day, February 2019.
The image is an engraving of Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727), English scientist and mathematician. It captures the story of Newton’s dog, Diamond, who once knocked over a candle while Newton was out of the room, causing the papers piled on Newton’s desk to catch fire. Those papers contained some pretty important information – they were filled with calculations which had taken him twenty years to make! Upon finding nothing but ashes remained of all his hard work, he cried, “Oh, Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done!”
Edward Hartwell has agreed to give a lecture on Mathematics and Sir Isaac Newton’s Laws of Classical Mechanics as well as discuss his own theories, recently printed, with regards to chaotic tendencies in orderly systems, at my home near Bath on Monday the 9th of January.