This letter appeared in my upper desk door this week by means I can’t explain. One continues to be astounded at how much jealousy, gossip, and spite is by nature the same in every era.
S. Clemens
Amiens, France, March 4, 1918
Darling Céline,
Oh why do I write this? By the time it arrives I may already be in Marseilles! You will have heard the news that the Russians have made peace with the Huns, the traitorous animals. Now the German war machine will pour its entire might into northern France while the worthless Yanks drag their feet rather than deploy their troops. Amiens will be destroyed—leveled even as Arras has been or the villages along the Somme.
Dear Edgar insists I come to you and Aunt Adele and remove myself from the path of the Hun army. Lucille, our maid of all work, is packing as I write this.
Sabine
I was astonished that you would ask after Rosemarie when you well know I no longer speak to the hussy. Believe me, my brother’s widow has not improved her behavior in the past year, for all she now parades on the arm of a Canadian soldier—as if that would erase the taint of collaboration with a German. Rauol himself told me what she did before he died. Just wait. She will get what she deserves when the war is over.
The boy looks better fed this year, but of course decent women wonder what the trollop does to manage that miracle. The stupid English, now that she sews in one of their workshops, treat her as the would any decent woman. It is almost more than I can bear.
Rosemarie
I will never understand why God blessed her with a son while cursing me with none. Abbé Desjardin, that wrong-headed priest, takes her side. Well, let him protect her when the German war machine rolls into Amiens. She can suffer as she deserves. and she certainly isn’t coming with me. I just wish I could take her son south with me. Life is not fair.
Your loving cousin,
Sabine
About the Book
When it is finally over will their love be enough?
After two years at the mercy of the Canadian Expeditionary
force and the German war machine, Harry ran out of metaphors for death,
synonyms for brown, and images of darkness. When he encounters color among the
floating islands of Amiens and life in the form a widow and her little son,
hope ensnares him. Through three more long years of war and its aftermath, the
hope she brings keeps Harry alive.
Rosemarie Legrand’s husband left her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation when he died. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier, but Harry’s devotion lifts her up. The war demands all her strength and resilience, will the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going?
I trust that you remember me from
your visit to Hadrian’s Wall last summer. You expressed much interest in the
diggings, and despite the severe cold you caught (t’was but a summer squall)
invited me to share updates on the excavations. I do so with great delight, we
have uncovered many items that in combination, allow us to paint a vivid
picture of a time lost to us for two thousand years.
Vindolanda discoveries
The site of Vindolanda is a
treasure of ancient artefacts. The site conditions can at times be grim – there
is no winter season, and the Summer season is brief and intense. The colder
months are devoted to cleaning and recording our finds.
The fort itself was manned from
around 85AD to 370AD, thus spanning much of the early days of Roman occupation.
The fort was manned by a troop from Gaul. The site so far consists of a
bathhouse, many layers of wooden structures, the stone buildings of the fort
and a larger town to the west, where many native Britons would have lived, and
the families of the garrisoned soldiers.
The site is fascinating. It is
buried deep in rank muds, but that is its glory. The mud is low in oxygen,
which is the enemy of preservation of objects. So many things have emerged from
this mud that it staggers the imagination. There would be few sites indeed that
allow us to get a glimpse into the day to day lives of people two thousand
years past.
The town itself would have been a
hive of activity, perhaps typical for the towns along the Wall, close to the
forts – where the money and markets were. We have uncovered spinning whorls in
great quantity, a business important for textile manufacture. The town – or
vicus – as it is known in latin, also had an animal butchery, with excellent
drainage. We know that the soldiers consumed vast quantities of bacon, sheep
and used goat hides for their tents. There is also a bathhouse, which would
have been heated, and used by locals and soldiers.
But the finds are what has made
Vindolanda famous. Hundreds of leather sandals have been uncovered, and of all
sizes – from children shoes, to the dainty lattice patterned ladies sandals,
and rugged soldiers foot wear. Other leather goods include goathide tents, the neat
lines of stiches joining the hides still intact.
Wooden objects such as combs, and
many pieces of horse harness, game pieces, weaponry, arrowheads, and textile
fragments are also well preserved. You will pardon the personal nature of the
following, but we also found the first known wooden toilet seat, its design
similar to the ones in use today.
The most fascinating of all has
been the Vindolanda tablets. Written on thin sheets of oak, and a similar size
to a modern postcard, many tablets have been uncovered, and to our joy, the
writing (in a blackish mix of ink gall) is still readable. While many are like
a modern shopping list one might give a servant, some are letters home from
soldiers complaining about the weather, and one is a party invitation from a
young lady.
I will finish up, Mr Clemens, in
the hopes that you will find this of sufficient interest to publish in your
newspaper. We trust that should you visit England again, you will pay us a
visit, and perhaps participate in the diggings yourself.
I have taken the liberty of
enclosing some photographs of the finds.
About the Druid’s Portal Series
The Druid’s Portal series is a
genre blend of action, adventure, romance, time travel and magical historical
fantasy. Set in Roman Britain in the Hadrian’s Wall and Northumberland region.
On the First Journey, travel back
in time with modern day archaeologist Janet and meet Roman soldier Trajan.
Described as the book the writers of Indiana Jones wanted to write, and a
runner up in the Raven awards for dark fantasy.
The Second Journey is now out on
Amazon. Join Ethan, son of Janet and Trajan as he follows his heart into danger
and an alternate history that will lead him from Hadrian’s Wall to the dark
past of Stonehenge.
A love that can never be.
Ethan—latest guardian of the Arwen pendant—finds
his heritage of time travel a burden he can scarcely endure. Rowena—last of the
line of Daman—is a soldier in the Celtic army, forced to perform deeds that
haunt her. Both tormented by visions of the other, separated by barriers of
time.
A time that should not exist.
Rowena flees the catastrophic end of her time
but is trapped by an ancient family pact with an evil goddess. Desperate to
save her, Ethan crosses over into her timeline, where his parents never met,
and Daman—their greatest enemy—rules.
The past is ruled by a man who knows the future.
Thirty days to stop a goddess taking over her
body. Thirty days to save his timeline. Together they will fight their way
through an altered history to the dark past of Stonehenge.
Time is
running out – for everyone.
An excerpt from Druid’s
Portal: The Second Journey
Then a sound… soft laughter… and
he gazed at the woman with hair the colour of moonlight and eyes as dark as the
night. Coloured mist wrapped around her, tight woven as destiny. Dark threads
of death and red banners of danger – all centred around and surrounding the
woman.
His love.
She filled a hole in his heart he
had always known was there, but had never known the shape of it was her. The
sense of completeness hit him like a blow.
“I will find you… ” he shouted
as she faded. “I will protect you, always… ”
But she was gone, leaving nothing
but a ghostly fragrance of flowers, and he was alone once more.
Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre
writer. Escape the everyday with time travel action adventure novels, scifi and
fantasy stories or tranquil scenes for relaxation.
Find a world where the heroines
don’t wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way.
The little Sussex village of Boltwood is in
a sorry state indeed—or so I learned during a visit to my mother’s dear friend,
Mrs. Ponsonby of Chichester.
I stopped by for tea and found Mrs.
Ponsonby already entertaining Lady Ariadne Luttrow, one of the ton’s worst
gossips. She never hesitates to tear a character to shreds. Poor Mrs. Ponsonby dislikes
backbiting, but she cannot afford to offend the daughter of an earl, so she
puts up with Lady Ariadne’s occasional visits.
I, on the other hand, was delighted. As a
regular contributor to the Teatime Tattler, I am not in the least averse to
listening to gossip, especially the scurrilous sort. After giving Mrs. Ponsonby
a sympathetic glance, I prepared to enjoy myself.
“My dears,” Lady Ariadne said, “we are
overrun with smugglers.” Her hands fluttered here and there as she spoke. “They
have become so bold that one can scarcely sleep at night. Trains of pack ponies
pass without hindrance through one’s property. These dreadful criminals even
store some of the smuggled brandy in one’s own outbuildings!” She helped
herself to one of Mrs. Ponsonby’s delicious drop cakes. I took one in a hurry,
for the plate was almost empty.
“Surely,” I said, “your husband can put a
stop to that.” Sir William Luttrow is dead set against smuggling—officially, at
least, for like everyone on the coast, he gets his brandy from the free
traders.
Lady Ariadne took a sip of tea. One restless
hand hovered over the last cake on the plate. “Yes, but we are often in London,
and meanwhile the servants do their best to aid and abet the smugglers. I
suspect that my head groom, a violent sort of man, is actually a member of the
gang.” She snatched the cake and devoured it.
“How terrifying!” Mrs. Ponsonby cried.
“The stuff of nightmares,” Lady Ariadne
said, but I didn’t believe that for an instant. The smugglers are no threat to
her. She was enjoying herself, leading up to something even more shocking.
She glanced about, as if she feared being
overheard, and lowered her voice. “As if that weren’t bad enough, there are
rumors that the gang is now led by…a woman!”
“Surely not,” Mrs. Ponsonby bleated, but I
rather liked the notion. Women so seldom get to run any sort of enterprise.
“It is a disaster in the making,” Lady
Ariadne said with a pout. “This creature, whoever she is, will bring the whole
smuggling gang to ruin.”
It was one thing to tell frightening tales
to an elderly lady, and another entirely to wax indignant at the possible
failure of the local gang. How strange. Why would Lady Ariadne care?
“Surely the arrest of the gang is ‘a
consummation devoutly to be wished?’” I asked.
The quotation sailed right over Lady
Ariadne’s head, but Mrs. Ponsonby, who adores Shakespeare, said, “Not for the
wives and children of the smugglers. It is foolhardy of the men to put their
faith in a mere woman.”
What nonsense. “A clever woman is just as
capable as a man of running a successful enterprise—legal or illegal,” I said.
Mrs. Ponsonby shook her head. “My dear
child, you will never find a husband if you insist on such opinions. We are the
weaker sex. Men are naturally superior in every way.”
On this, Mrs. Ponsonby and I will never
agree. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to digress, for Lady Ariadne’s conflicting
sentiments about the smugglers had aroused my curiosity. However, that
talkative lady had already moved to another subject.
“Dear Lord Boltwood, who would have dealt firmly
with the smugglers, is not expected to live out the week,” she said.
“Poor Lady Boltwood,” Mrs. Ponsonby said. “She
is a close friend of mine.”
“Of mine as well,” Lady Ariadne said
soulfully. “She suffers doubly, for while her husband is on his deathbed, her
only son, Richard, cavorts in London. If you had heard the tales about him, you
would faint on the spot! He’s a dreadful rake and a bitter disappointment to
his unfortunate mother.”
With that, we turned to rather more scurrilous
gossip. Lady Ariadne moved from drop cakes to macaroons and did her best to
shock us, and Mrs. Ponsonby sighed with relief when she finally left.
Well, now. I have met Richard Boltwood. He
is a devilishly witty man, and a great favorite with the ladies—and perhaps
with females of another sort. But no mother could be disappointed in such a
handsome, charming son.
Why, I wondered, does he absent himself
from his father’s deathbed? Might there be an estrangement of which society is
unaware?
And who is the intrepid female smuggler?
It is clearly my duty to find out.
After escaping the guillotine, Noelle de Vallon takes refuge with
her aunt in England. Determined to make her own way, she joins the local
smugglers, but when their plans are uncovered, Richard, Lord Boltwood steps out
of the shadows to save her. Too bad he’s the last man on earth she ever wanted
to see again.
Years ago, Richard Boltwood’s plan to marry Noelle was foiled when
his ruthless father shipped him to the Continent to work in espionage. But with
the old man at death’s door, Richard returns to England with one final mission:
to catch a spy. And Noelle is the prime suspect.
Noelle needs Richard’s help, but how can she ever trust the man who abandoned her? And how can Richard catch the real culprit while protecting the woman who stole his heart and won’t forgive him for breaking hers?
“Open it, my love,”
Richard said. “If you don’t like it, the jeweler will allow us to exchange it
for something else.”
Slowly, almost
reluctantly, Noelle opened the little box. Nestled inside was a delicate
necklace of diamonds and sapphires. “It’s beautiful.” She closed the box and
returned it to his hand.
“Take it, sweetheart. It
will suit you admirably and as befits my wife.”
She sighed. “As I have
told you over and over, I will not marry you.”
He tried to drum up his
usual lighthearted retort, but fortunately she forestalled him. “I will accept
your gift under one condition,” she said.
He managed a smile. “A
condition. How delightful! Do tell me.”
Noelle, his darling, the love of his life, said, “Will you take me as your mistress instead?”
About Barbara Monajem
Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at
eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy
when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency
romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa).
Regency mysteries are next on the agenda.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups.
She used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding
(because it was too weird to resist) and to succeed at knitting socks. She
managed the first (it was dreadful) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the
second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She
lives near Atlanta, Georgia with an ever-shifting
population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.
I write to you today to share my
outrage at occurrences in Dudley Crescent. I simply cannot abide the recent
changes and must have your advice.
Two years ago, a murder occurred at
Number 10. The horrid matter was quickly resolved when the culprit was
identified and put away from fine society.
But the greater scandal was that the widowed lady of the house had
intimate relations with her butler! Then last year, a noted member of society
hired a young woman as ward to his child…and later, did marry the woman! She
was far below his station, though, I do understand, an heiress of considerable
worth. I must tell you the man is one of our finest gentlemen with a spotless
reputation and high military honors. Yet, I worry.
Another event occurring last week causes
me to question my presence here!
I understand that one noble gentleman
has paid attentions to one of his servants! This time, said woman is not a
governess. No, indeed, she is his maid-of-all-work! Can you imagine? I’ve been
inconsolable, riddled with a nervous stomach and headaches. My usual little
dose of laudanum is simply not enough to calm me.
This causes me to ask you if you think
I should move to a better part of town. Is there a curse on the Crescent? Must
I expect more servants who will climb above their station to enthrall their
masters or mistresses? Worse, will such an affliction affect my own house? I
must tell you, quite confidentially, that my only daughter, Lady Mary, seems
far too taken with one of our own servants. The new…dear me, I can barely write
this…stable boy. Yes! He is most definitely not
a boy. Not by any means. He is thirty years of age or more. Tall, taller than
my dear departed husband. And devilishly handsome with hair the color of coal
and eyes like lavender. He is quite ethereal.
I do rattle on!
Advise me, please!
Most sincerely,
Catherine, the Viscountess of Trelawny
Dudley Crescent is a verdant parcel of land in London, granted by King Charles II to the Earl of Dudley who was one of his staunchest supporters. With gold he’d stolen as a highwayman during Charles’s exile on the Continent, Dudley put his ill-gotten gains to good use and built the finest town homes in the capital. Renting the land in perpetuity to certain Royalist friends quadrupled his fortune.
Today, those who have townhomes surrounding the verdant park are a few of the wealthiest and most influential lords and ladies in the kingdom. But scandals abound on Dudley Crescent. You can find them here:
The Bluestocking Belles are getting ready to party, and they promise a surprise!
“I did well for the Teatime Tattler when I employed Mademoiselle F.,” Sam Clemens, editor of that organ of gossip and scandal, said to himself as he read the latest missive from that lady.
Sam, who was the only person in London–perhaps the world–who knew the lady’s identity (and she was, in point of fact, a lady, the sister of an earl), counted her occasional letters as pure gold. The word from the horse’s mouth, they were, if ‘the horse’ was a reference to those at the pinnacle of London Society. Only through ‘Madamoiselle’ could he hope to hear exactly what they did and said, not from a distance, but through the eyes of one of their own.
Take today’s report. The Bluestocking Belles, a coterie of lady authors, were putting on a party. Something of a literary salon, from what he could tell, but between them, they represented some of the most scandalous gentlemen and ladies every to grace the pages of the Teatime Tattler. Decent types as well, but one couldn’t have everything.
Perhaps the Marquess of Dansbury would attend. His charm would make things interesting. Or Captain Fred Wheatly, a scoundrel of the most charming sort. Daniel Ridgeway was another possibility. Rumor said he was a spy. Would the party welcome such a one as the Duchess of Stonegreave? Mlle F. insisted that all were invited. If the assembly included Lady Miranda de Courtenay, sparks were certain to fly.
A Facebook party. What on earth was a Facebook party? Sam shrugged. He’d let readers work that out for themselves. Of more importance was the prize. He did not know what a kindle was, but it seemed that the Bluestocking Belles were gifting one lucky attendee with a library! Now that was a princely — or princessly– prize.
Join the Bluestocking Belles and a dozen of other great authors of historical romance for a celebration of summer reading.
Enjoy fun, games, new releases, and an announcement or two from wherever you happen to be. The party access is through your own electronic device and Facebook. Go check out the event now, and be there on Saturday, 13 July 2019 (US time) to be able to enter for the Grand Prize. The party is from 13:40-21:00 EDT.
The party is available around the world, so check a time conversion chart for your local time.
Did we say prize? We’re giving away a Kindle Fire loaded with first in series books by every one of the Belles. We will post the opportunity to enter in the form of a poll throughout the event on July 13. Attend and respond to enter.
What’s the poll about, did you say? Now that’s the surprise!
