When the toffs dance the night away, they
spend the morning in bed. The folks who run about to take their coats, clean
their spills, and carry trays laden with delicacies—not to mention deliver
their billets doux and right
scandalous invitations—have no rest at all.
Harold Randal woke at dawn, stuffed his
rumpled shirt into his trousers—no need to look sharp during cleanup—and gulped
down coffee from a tavern on his way to work. He didn’t worry about being late;
that snake Fowler wouldn’t waltz in before ten. Harold prided himself on being
better than that. He would have to get the lazy Forster twins moving on his own
or they would be at it all day.
He found the key in its spot under a brick
by the tradesmen’s door and let himself in. The caterer’s kitchen looked well
enough. They always take their glassware and leave their bill. He wandered down
the servants’ passageway, under the stairs to the musicians gallery, and into
the Octagon. Sun streamed through the east windows, and he wished it didn’t.
They had a long day ahead.
A soft sound from the ballroom startled
him. He thought he was alone. He peeked around the door to see Maudy, the shy
little maid of all work, scrubbing away at a doorknob with an odd little scrap
of flannel. Pretty little thing was Maudy, but how did she get in?
“Good morning, Mr. Randal,” she said
twinkling up at him and not pausing in her work. She peered closely at the
brass handle and rubbed it harder. Harold stood transfixed by the sight. Pretty
and industrious. She glanced up and blushed. “I ’spect you’re wondering how I
got in so early.”
“The thought did come to me.”
“I never went home,” she told him. “I fell
asleep under the counter in the cloak room. Thought I best get to work.” She
stared down at her dress. “Sorry I’m so wrinkled up.”
Harold laughed at that and pointed to his
own clothing. “No need to look fine for cleaning,” he assured her. “Have you
had something to eat?”
“I found a half-eaten cake on a plate on
the counter when I crawled out. I hope no one minds I ate it and all.”
“What were you doing under the counter,
Maudy?” he asked.
She stared at her feet.
“Maudy…”
“Hiding from Fowler,” she whispered,
glancing furtively around. “It doesn’t do to get cornered by that one, and he
was in a taking last part o’ the night. Frightens me, he does.”
“Dirty bounder,” Harold muttered. He groped
for something else to say. “What’s that you’re using to clean with? Looks finer
than our usual.”
She held up a piece of flannel, cut in a
neat square with embroidery clear around the hem. “I found it on the floor of
the cloak room. It’s perfect for shining brass. I can clean it if you think
someone will come looking for it.”
Harold’s brows came together. The edge
looked fancied up, but who would care about a scrap of flannel left on the
floor. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We can clean it if they ask, like you
say.”
He fetched a mop and began cleaning the
floor to the ballroom, moving chairs back as he went. In a half hour, he had a
pile of dust, used tokens, and crumpled valentines fetched up in the middle of
the floor. At least four of the gents had their sentiments rejected, near as
Harold could see.
By that time most of the crew had wandered in. Most needed no direction. They set about dusting, scrubbing and polishing as needed. He reached the rows of chairs where the dowagers and wallflowers generally sat and began moving chairs so he could mop. He hadn’t gone more than a row deep when he heard a scuffle in the Octagon room.
“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?
Maudy Braxton sidled into the ballroom behind Miss Waterson, the subscription secretary, and two of the senior maids. She had been maid-of-all-work at the Upper Assembly Rooms in Bath for all of three days, and she had already learnt not to attract the attention of Mr. Fowler, the manager.
He was there up the front, smarmy toad, but so was another
man – a fine-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed in pantaloons and neatly
fitted jacket, with an embroidered waistcoat that she regarded with the eye of
a connoisseur.
Such fine work had been her ambition when she worked for Mrs
Primm. She was employed to sweep the floors under the cutting tables and to
fetch and carry the threads and fabric needed by the artists Mrs Primm employed
in her workroom. She had been promised lessons in creating the blossoms and
scrolls that decorated the skirts of the gowns intended for fashionable ladies.
Borders and ornate waistcoats such as this – the work of those at the top of
the trade – had been a distant dream.
She nudged Annie, the maid who had been so kind at showing
her how things were done here, and whispered, “who is that with Mr Fowler?”
“That’s Mr King himself; that’s who that is.”
The Master of Ceremonies? What a magnificent gentleman. And
what did he require of all the staff of the upper assembly rooms?
“Quiet, there.” Mr Randal, the senior footman, spoke sternly
but with a small smile playing in the corners of his lips. Mr Randall was ever
so kind. Tall and handsome too, though handsome is as handsome does, Granny
always said. Granny would have approved of Mr Randal.
Mr King cleared his throat. “You may be wondering why Mr
Fowler asked you all together. I wanted to tell you myself that the committee
has approved a Valentine’s Day ball. This will be held on a Tuesday night, not
one of our usual assembly nights, but I am sure you will all work with me to
make it a success.
“I realise it will involve extra work both in the
preparation and on the night itself. I have authorised Mr Fowler to meet the
costs of employing you for the extra hours required. I intend this to be an
event to remember; the highlight of the 1815 Bath Season. Now, does anyone have
questions?”
Miss Waterson raised her hand. “Mr King, will this event be
covered by the usual subscription, or will it require a separate ticket?”
“An excellent question.” Mr King inclined his head to the
lady, recognising her superior status to most of the Upper Room’s other
servants. “The ladies and gentlemen of Bath will purchase tickets to this Ball.
I have suggested to Mr Fowler that, in addition to advertisements in the Bath
Chronicle and notices in the pump rooms and other places where Society gathers,
we send out personal invitations to each of our members and to other prominent
residents. I imagine I can leave this in your capable hands, Miss Waterson.”
After several other questions, the servants were dismissed
and scattered to their work, most of them fervently discussing the coming
event.
“I did not expect all this extra work,” Miss Waterson was
complaining to Mr Fowler. “My sister has been begging me to give up this work
and come and be her companion.”
“Please, Miss Waterson,” Mr Fowler said. They turned the
corner and Maudy heard no more.
Maudy left with Annie, but they separated off, Annie to tidy
the card room, and Maudy to fetch a bucket and mop from the supply cupboard
behind the anti-chamber. The floor in the card room awaited her attention.
She found the buckets easily enough, but as she looked
around for the mops, Mr Fowler entered the covered, closing the door behind
him.
“How are you enjoying working here?” Mr Fowler asked,
prowling closer.
Maudy backed up a step, which was as far as she could go.
“Good, thank you, sir.” Her voice trembled. She clutched the bucket more
tightly, and wondered how long her employment would last if she hit Mr Fowler
with it. Her job with Mrs Primm had not survived her resistance to a man who
mistook her for a seamstress, and mistook seamstresses for loose women.
As if he could read her thoughts, Mr Fowler purred, “I hear
your last job was as a seamstress. Perhaps you’d like to show me a fine — uh
herm — seam?”
“No, sir,” Maudy stammered, “I was Mrs Primm’s maid. I am a
good girl, sir.”
Mr Fowler put out a hand to fondle her cheek just as the
door opened behind him. He dropped his hand. Harold Randal took in the scene in
a single glance.
“Is that door swinging was shut again? We should get the
carpenter to look at it, sir.” He held out a hand for Maudy. “Come along, girl.
That card room won’t clean itself.”
Maudy followed him gratefully, wondering how to explain the
scene he had witnessed. She didn’t need to. As soon as they were out of earshot
of Mr Fowler, Mr Randal said, “I should have warned you, Miss Braxton. I tell
all the girls. Always work in pairs. Never be alone with Mr Fowler.”
Annie was waiting in the card room, already armed with
bucket and mop. Mr Randal left them to their work and the friendly conversation
that helped pass the time. “If you was a lady,” Annie said after a while,
“which gentleman would you choose to dance with at the Valentine’s Day Ball?”
Maudy said she didn’t know any gentleman. Mrs Primm had said
the man who tried to assault her was no gentleman. Annie knew several, having
taken their cloaks and coats on many an occasion here at the assembly rooms.
She was happy to chatter on, comparing their features and deficits.
Maudy listened with half an ear. In her own mind, she was dressed in one of Mrs Primm’s finest ball gowns, and was dancing in the arms of a gentleman who bore a stunning resemblance to Mr Harold Randal.
Join the Bluestocking Belles for five original stories set at and around the Valentine’s Day Ball. On preorder now, and published 9 February.
Jade Calloway made her way into the Great Hall of Berwyck Castle still feeling overwhelmed by the miracle of her slipping through time. She saw Thomas standing near the massive fireplace with a group of his fellow knights. He raised a tankard of mead to his lips but paused when he saw her across the room. A smile reached his eyes and Jade blushed while she remembered their first kiss.
With a sudden urge to be near Thomas, Jade began to make her way through the hall before a serf bumped into her. Wine from the pitcher the young woman held sloshed onto Jade gown. A gasp of surprise rushed passed her lips when her garment became soaked to her skin.
“Ye best leave and return from whence ye came,” the girl said through clenched teeth.
Jade’s brow rose while she tried to remember the woman’s name. “Fira, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
“No apology for ruining my gown?” Jade asked wondering why Fira was looking like she would have no problem thrusting a dagger into Jade’s back.
“He belongs to me,” Fira growled out.
Jade’s gaze went to Thomas who began to make his way towards her. “Who? Sir Thomas?”
“Nay… not him. Sir Gaillard. Stay away from him because he is mine.” Her eyes darted about the hall before she let out a curse and fled.
“Gaillard? You can have him,” Jade murmured watching Fira’s departure before she felt Thomas’s hand reach around her waist.
“Is she troubling you?” he whispered in her ear causing Jade to shiver with his nearness.
“No but that one is trouble, mark my words.”
“She is but a woman,” Thomas replied taking her arm.
“Said all men throughout time when they can’t see what is right before them,” Jade said with a laugh.
“Go change your gown and let us be about our day. Forget about Fira. These things have a way of working themselves out for the best,” Thomas said ushering Jade to her chamber.
And with his words, Jade forgot about the angry serf who was under some impression that Jade was after Gaillard. She had better things to do with her time here in twelfth century England than worry about a jealous woman.
You can learn more about Jade and Thomas by reading One Last Kissby Belle Sherry Ewing found in the Bluestocking Belles’ holiday box set Follow Your Star Home.
Sometimes it takes a miracle to find your heart’s desire…
Banished from his homeland, Thomas of Clan Kincaid lives among distant relatives, reluctantly accepting he may never return home… Until an encounter with the castle’s healer tells him of a woman travelling across time—for him.
Dare he believe the impossible?
Jade Calloway is used to being alone, and as Christmas approaches, she’s skeptical when told she’ll embark on an extraordinary journey. How could a trip to San Francisco be anything but ordinary? But when a ring magically appears, and she sees a ghostly man in her dreams…
Dare she believe in the possible?
Thrust back in time, Jade encounters Thomas—her fantasy ghost. Talk about extraordinary. But as time works against them, they must learn to trust in miracles.
Can they accept impossible love before time interferes?
Sherry is proud to be one of the Bluestocking Belles. Sherry picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical and time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time. When not writing, she can be found in the San Francisco area at her day job as an Information Technology Specialist.
You can learn more about her on the tab above or visit her on one of these social media outlets:
The ring recently sold by auction by Bowker, Bowker and Bowker is not the famous ring of Follow Your Star Home, or if it is, the ring does not work.
Your intrepid reporter can state this categorically, since he managed to borrow it from the auctioneer to try its power. His sister wore it for a whole afternoon, and was not united with the young man she desired.
The Teatime Tattler leaves no stone unturned to bring you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter the scandal.
We caution readers that the auctioneer could not prove that said ring was the ring in the stories, which continue on the Belles’ blog hop.
Does the true ring bring true lovers together? Could it be that your reporter’s sister is merely infatuated, and not truly in love? Could it be that the ring is a fake, while the true ring is the real deal? Read the stories, dear reader, and make up your own mind. And while you do, listen to the playlist chosen by the authors for each story.
