Category: Teatime Tattler Page 54 of 152

Runaways or a Clandestine Tryst?

On July 24, 2021

Molly,

When I visited Ashmead last summer, I am certain you told me the Duchess of Glenmoor was a recluse. You were quite firm that she rarely left the Clarion Hall dower house. What is she doing barreling on past Birmingham on the coaching road?

We arrived stopped to refresh at the Crippled Cock on our way south and noticed a carriage with the Clarion crest in the yard. I hoped to catch sight of the Earl of Clarion, but who did we see leaving the private parlor but the duchess herself. She and her companion made no greeting and departed smartly. A male companion! I saw no sign of a respectable woman with them. assisted her into the carriage and road up behind on a fine mount.

An illustration of “The Follies & Fashions of our Grandfathers: 1807” by Andrew W Tuer. Getty Images

The innkeeper proved closed mouthed, but the serving wench talked freely. The duchess claimed the “companion” was her brother. Isn’t the earl her only brother, and him fair of hair and complexion? In all my years visiting Ashmead I’ve never seen a Caulfield with hair as black as this gentleman, if I can call him that.

Do you have any notion who it might have been or why they were in such urgency to travel east? Write to me as soon as you can to the Thomas’s townhouse in London.

Your devoted etc.

Maudy Flint

About the Series

The Duchess of Glemoor’s flight east takes place in The Defiant Daughter, Book 2 in Caroline Warfield’s The Ashmead Heirs. It will come out in October 2021. She is the sister of both the earl and of Sir Robert Benson.

The Wayward Son, Book One is available now.

About the Book, The Wayward Son

Sir Robert Benson’s life is in London. He fled Ashmead the day he discovered the man he thought was his father had lied to him, and the girl he loved was beyond his reach. Only a nameless plea from his sister—his half-sister—brings him back to discover he’s been left an estate with a choice piece of land. He will not allow a ludicrous bequest from the earl who sired him turn him into a mockery of landed gentry. When a feisty little termagant with flashing eyes—and a musket—tries to turn Rob off the land—his land—he’s too amused and intrigued to turn away. But the longer he stays, the tighter the bonds that tie him to Ashmead become, strengthened by the powerful draw of the woman rooted on land he’s determined to sell.

Lucy Whitaker’s life is Willowbrook, its land, its tenants, its prosperity, but she always knew it wasn’t hers, knew the missing heir would come eventually. When a powerful man with military bearing rides up looking as if he wants to come in and count the silver, she turns him away, but her heart sinks. She can’t deny Rob Benson his property; she can only try to make him love the place as she does, for her peoples’ sake. A traitorous corner of her heart wishes Rob would love it for her sake.

His life is London and diplomatic intrigue; hers is Ashmead and the land. How can they forge something lasting when they are torn in two directions?

Available on Kindle Unlimited or for purchase at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09484DC1D/

About the Author

Award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Links

Website: http://www.carolinewarfield.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/WarfieldFellowTravelers

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

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

Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/caroline-warfield

A Shocking Turn of Events at the Siltsbury Ball

By Guest author

On July 21, 2021

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Dear Reader,

I must report to you a shocking set of events that has the polite world reeling and convey to you my deepest regrets that, if all is proven true, a stalwart fixture of society will no longer be received.

Lady Witherspoon, who rarely misses an event of importance, was a guest at Miss Jocelyn Stafford’s birthday ball. While the guest of honor seemed to comport herself with the refinement one has come to expect from a gently-bred maiden, Lady Witherspoon sensed something was amiss and made a point of seating herself at the young lady’s table when the buffet was set out.

Her guardian, Lord Ralston, never left her side and answered most of the questions put to the girl. When Lady Witherspoon peered into Miss Stafford’s face, she detected a tan. A tan! Miss Stafford never leaves home without her bonnet and was as pale as a ghost just last week. When she remarked on it, Ralston said Miss Stafford had taken up strolling in her mother’s garden without her head covering. Not only that, the girl’s spoken words seemed to have odd inflections.

Could this be an imposter?

Rumors, spread by servants who should know not to speak of their betters (and of course, we never listen to such gossip), have speculated that a guest spirited into Lady Siltsbury’s house two days ago late at night is not a widowed relation seeking total privacy, but another daughter who closely resembles Miss Jocelyn. Could Jocelyn have a sister? Surely not a twin.

I shudder to think of how this could be true as Lord Siltsbury departed these shores and hied off to the colonies years ago and has never returned. Of course he was a mere second son at the time. He generously allowed his wife, who is terrified of sea travel, to remain.

I will leave this with you, dear reader. If indeed Lady Siltsbury has tried to fool polite society by foisting an imposter on the ton, then shame on her. And if it is true (and I sincerely hope for the sake of all involved it is not) who is this mysterious look-alike and where is Jocelyn?

Ah, these mysteries are enough to still my faint heart. I must ring for my vinaigrette before penning my next report.

—An Anonymous Correspondent

Scandal’s Deception

Jane Stafford, raised in America, is shocked to learn she is a wealthy heiress, her late father was an earl, and her English mother is alive. Anxious to meet the woman she long-thought dead, she travels to London, only to be whisked away by her sinfully handsome guardian to a remote estate to be “schooled” in the ways of the ton.

Gilbert Carmichael, Lord Ralston, chafes at having to make a rebellious young heiress acceptable to society, especially one who is impetuous and blatantly democratic. Because the instruction she needs is more than deportment and dancing. It’s also about how to spot a rake who might woo her for her fortune.

When Ralston learns his ward is to be used as a pawn in an elaborate scheme involving a secret impersonation, he will move heaven and earth to keep her safe. Because proximity has brought the uncomfortable knowledge that his interest may be more than duty—it just might be love.

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B098BBLPR4/

Excerpt

Jane lowered her head as she entered Papa’s room, loathe to gaze on her father in his pale, weakened state. The darkened room smelled of camphor and some other sickly-sweet substance she couldn’t place. She dragged a wooden chair to the side of the bed and sat, her hands clasped firmly in her lap.

Papa turned his head to face her. “My dear.”

She leaned closer to hear what he had to say, her throat tightening once again.

“I’m here.” She swallowed and forced herself to look into the feverish eyes.

“You will be amply provided for. Hornsby has the details.”

“I know, Papa. I’m not worried about my future.”

He smiled and her breath caught. “After…after my funeral, he has instructions to purchase passage for you on a ship bound for England.”

Jane leaned further forward, not sure she heard correctly. “England? I shall stay here in Maryland. I do not know anyone in England.”

He turned his face away, his breaths coming faster. The doctor rose from his chair by the fire and peered into his patient’s face. “You need to rest, Mathew. Speaking is taking your energy.”

“No. I have to tell her.”

Jane picked up his cold hand, a chill skipping along her spine despite the heat in the room. “Tell me what?”

He turned back to her. “You have relatives in England who will care for you.”

She hunched her shoulders and bent closer, astonished by her father’s words. “Who?”

He closed his eyes, as if gaining strength, then opened them.

“Your mother.”

Jane squeezed his hand and shook her head. Poor Papa. How cruel for such a brilliant man to be delusional at the end. Her mother was dead. Died in childbed. She’d been told as soon as she was old enough to ask.

“I’ve written to her,” he whispered. “She’s expecting you.”

He lapsed into a coughing fit, the doctor by his side. Janie rose and moved away, her brain unable to process what she’d been told. His mind was tricking him. It must be the pain.

Maddie, standing by the door, hurried in and led Jane out of the room, seating her in a chair in the hall. She handed her the glass she still carried and told Jane to sip slowly. “You need this, child.”

Trying to process Papa’s words, Jane took the glass and held it in both hands, mesmerized by the candlelight playing on the facets of the crystal.

England. Your mother. I’ve written to her.

How odd for him to say such a thing.

She sipped from the glass and handed it back. “Maddie? Wasn’t I born in this house? You were here, weren’t you?”

“You were nearly a year old when your Papa offered me the position of both housekeeper and nanny. It was difficult for me to care for a house and a child, but he paid well so I accepted. I’ve never regretted it.”

You have relatives in England.

“Did you ever ask about my mother?”

“It wasn’t my place. I assumed she must be dead, although I found it odd he never spoke of her.”

“I assumed the same. Whenever I asked about her, he said it was too painful to discuss. So I stopped.” She stared at her tightly clasped hands. “You heard what he said?”

“I did and I have to tell you I’m bewildered.”

The door opened and the doctor came out. A long-time friend of Papa’s, Dr. Hadley shook his head. “He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

Maddie shrieked, her hand covering her mouth. Jane sat silently in the chair, cold to the core, chilled by an ugly premonition.

Her life was about to undergo a momentous change.

And not for the better.

Meet Pamela Gibson

Author of eight books on California history and seventeen romance novels, Pamela Gibson is a former City Manager who lives in the Nevada desert. Having spent the last three years messing about in boats, a hobby that included a five-thousand-mile trip in a 32-foot Nordic Tug, she now spends most of her time indoors happily reading, writing, cooking and keeping up with the antics of Ralph, the Rescue Cat. If you want to learn more about her activities go to https://www.pamelagibsonwrites.com and sign up for her quarterly newsletter and occasional blog. Or follow her in these places:

Bookbub: www.bookbub.com/profile/pamela-gibson

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The Most Hated Clan in Scotland

By Rue Allyn

On July 17, 2021

In Teatime Tattler

In the mid-13th century the Bishop of Durnoch was involved in a land dispute with Baron MacFearann. After exchanging several messages and suffering the disappearance of at least one messenger, the Bishop decided to attempt to resolve the problem in person. He gave notice to the baron that he and his entourage would arrive in time for the Shrove Tuesday feast.

On arrival, the bishop’s escort was welcomed and housed in the MacFearann barracks. The bishop and two of his most essential attendants were greeted with great courtesy and shown to lavish rooms in the MacFearann keep. It was only after a long and in the bishop’s opinion very delicious dinner that he was able to speak privately and at length with the baron.

The bishop did everything he knew how to do to persuade MacFearann to tithe the lands as ordered. But even the threat of ex-communication fell on deaf ears. The last thing the bishop did was to ask if MacFearann had encountered the friar sent more than a month earlier?

“Oh, aye, that I have,” assured the baron.

“Then do you know what became of him,” queried the bishop.

“Aye, I do, and so do yer excellency.”

“Then might you tell me where he is?”

“But ye know that already, excellency.”

The bishop was of course puzzled. “Would I ask you if I knew?”

“Mayhap ye’re a bit confused. Yer friar was present at dinner.”

“I did not see him.” The bishop shook his head.

“Och but ye did. He was setting on the table right before ye.”

The bishop’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. “But that was . . .” he swallowed, clearly discomfited. “That was a roast.”

“Aye.” The baron nodded. “Ye told me from yer own lips how much you enjoyed the roast and the spiced gravy served with it.”

The bishop’s face turned green. “The spiced gravy?”

“Yer friar contributed to every part of the meal, in one way or another.”

The bishop tried to speak but his stomach overcame him and he cast up his accounts into the rushes. “What vile trick is this?” he asked when he could finally speak.

“Why ’tis no trick.” The baron stood and walked to where the bishop sat. “Ye wished to tithe the life blood from Clan MacFearann. I couldna let that happen. So when ye announce ye would visit–note that I dinna invite ye–I decided to take some of the church’s blood, but feeling guilty I then decided to give it back. Yer friar will be a part of ye always.”

*With that MacFearann stabbed the bishop doing severe damage that would lead to a slow death. Above stairs his two most trusted men were enacting the same punishment on the attendants, whose only crimes were to serve the bishop.

The dead bodies were put on display at the border of MacFearann lands and the story was told far and wide by every MacFearan to any and all who would listen. They wanted to be certain that everyone knew what might happen if an attempt was made to take from MacFearann what belonged to MacFearann.

The result was that the Scottish people have long feared and hated the entire clan for daring to so desecrate God’s bishop and his men. This evil has lived so long in the memories of the local folk, that even today the baron’s ancestors are reviled and despised.

Dear Readers,

We beg your pardon for publishing this lurid history, but assure you as gruesome as the tale may be the events are securely in the past. No such actions would be possible in this modern day and age–at least we most sincerely hope so.

As you know our intrepid reporter in Scotland has been researching the histories of various clans connected with the Duke of Cowal and the approaching marriage of his heir. Among these clans the most prominent are the MacTavish, MacKai and Marr. Each of these clans is dominant in regions blanketing Scotland’s Western coast and territories. However, our reporter discovered an obscure and ancient connection between Clan Marr, famous for its Strathnaver Whisky, and a small, currently quite poor clan whose lands once stretched from Thurso to Dornoch. As the history above explains Clan MacFearann was once the most hated of all Scottish clans and the most feared.

The Tattler and its staff, most sincerely pity any family having even a distant connection to such a clan.

From the author, Rue Allyn: Members of the MacFearann clan appear frequently in my fictional version of Scotland. The MacFearanns had their strongest impact to date in Knight Protector – Knight Chronicles Book Two. Because of that story and a few others, at least one member of the clan will appear briefly in The Pirate Duchess – Duchess Series Book Two, one of my current works in progress. You may purchase Knight Protector from your favorite retailer https://books2read.com/u/bwjMAP. Or join my mailing list to receive my latest news and most recent deals. Here’s the link to my website homepage where you may find the subscription form at the bottom of the page.

*The black and white image on the right depicts Tantalus who was condemned after death to starve for all eternity for the grievous sin of serving his dead son as a meal to the gods.

Regarding the Dangerous Population of Rakes in Our Midst

By Guest author

On July 14, 2021

In Guest author, Teatime Tattler

Dear Readers,

No one will deny that there is a veritable plague of rakehells, rogues, and young blades in the fair city of London. However, it has recently come to the attention of this publication that there has been an incursion of young men of this nature in our very own neighbourhood.

Furthermore, it is disturbingly evident that many residents—young women in particular, believe the countryside to be lacking in men of such vices and are therefore sadly lacking the essential knowledge of how they must be avoided.

We feel it is our duty to expunge this misconception and to caution our young ladies and their Mamas and Papas that nothing could be further from the truth.

In the interest of the public good, we have thereby taken it upon ourselves to put to paper a list, Dear Reader, of five mistakes not to make when in the very dangerous, very deadly (when one considers the potential for spiritual and moral decay) presence of such ones so lacking in tender feelings.

Avoid immodest dress

To begin, we urge young women to be always perfectly neat and clean, both in your person and clothes. Be not swayed by ill-suited finery, excessive ornamentation, or worst of all, styles which reflect an indelicate mind and may lead to loss of innocence. We speak, Dear Reader, of that depraved London fashion of wetting one’s dress.

Avoid improper diversions

Time is invaluable and its loss irretrievable. Look on every day as a blank sheet to be filled with worthwhile pursuits. Diversions, properly regulated, are not only allowable for young women but necessary to youth. But when taken to excess, when they lead to indiscretion or an excess of passions, they grow distasteful. Therefore, guard most carefully against that pastime which may be a danger to your modesty and even womanly chastity itself. We refer, of course, to that insidious fashion—the waltz.

Avoid foolish adventures

Neither knowledge nor pleasure can accrue from indiscreet attempts by youth to seek out adventurous undertakings. We refer, of course, to the pastime of excessive walks and the seeking out of unusual locales for picnics and the like, for during such foolhardy and even dangerous excursions young women may find themselves alone and in perilous situations which the libertine or rake may use to their favor.

Modesty and silence are a woman’s best weapons against the rakes and libertines who hide among us

We wish to warn young women of taking indiscreet freedoms, particularly in conversation with men. Many are of opinion that a very young woman can hardly be too silent and reserved in male company, but we recommend even more strongly that young women avoid the majority of such company altogether for fear their ears be insulted by the words of the unprincipled and their minds contaminated beyond repair.

Pay no heed to erroneous advice

“A reformed rake makes the best husband” is a common opinion oft resulting in unhappy victims of the female persuasion. A man who has long been in the company of the worst sort of women is very apt to contract a contempt for females in general. Incapable of esteeming any woman, the fairer sex is a continual source of ill humour. What prospect of happiness can there be with such a companion?

Further guidance shall appear in subsequent issues of this publication.

The Editors

The Bedford Chronicle

June 3, 1818

MISTAKES NOT TO MAKE WHEN AVOIDING A RAKE

“The enemies-to-lovers trope is Elizabeth-Darcy on steroids. […]If you love small cottages, villages, and dangerous English rain, you will love this novel’s vibe!” – Katherine Grant, Author of The Countess Chronicles

“I was absolutely bitten by the Bridgerton bug. […] I’m so happy I went with this debut novel by Fenna Edgewood. It was a perfect ‘break into Regency’ read. […] Claire and Thomas immediately had serious Regency style chemistry and once they gave into it, they were moths drawn to a flame.” – Made Me Blush Books

A cynical rake…

The arrival of Thomas Campbell and his elder brother has the village of Bedford abuzz with excitement. Not only is Thomas tall, dark, and handsome, he is also rumored to be a most notorious rake.

Claire Gardner is young, innocent, and completely infuriating. Yet given an opportunity, Thomas can’t help teaching the headstrong beauty a lesson in desire.

A quiet life for a lady…

Content with a simple rural life, Claire Gardner has no wish for a season in London nor is she eager to wed. But after a catastrophic mistake compromises her honor, Claire finds herself ensnared in scandal.

Claire is quite certain reformed rakes do not make the best husbands. She would rather face shame than lose her freedom to a man she is convinced does not love her. But as rumors swirl regarding her ruined reputation, the condemnation of her neighbors becomes more than she can bear.

Tormented by a bitter betrayal, Thomas has steeled himself against ever loving again—but he harbors a secret which leaves him in need of a wife. Will the truth about the other woman in Thomas’s life destroy their marriage before it has even begun?

Meet the Gardner Girls:

Four devoted sisters must face pride, peril, and adventure before each finds a love that conquers all.

The Gardner Girls series is composed of standalone stories which may be read in any order. Mistakes Not to Make When Avoiding a Rake is the first book in the series, but the second chronologically.

Book Details

No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a happily ever after.

Heat Level: Sweet-with-Heat, Slow Burn

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0927W7QF9?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

Pity the Duke!

By Bluestocking Belles

On July 11, 2021

In Teatime Tattler

Cairo, 1839

My dear Mr. Clemens,

Our Rambles have taken us to Cairo where we have found refuge in Shepheard’s Hotel des Anglais, a tolerable semblance of a civilized hostelry in this exotic outpost. The drinks in the private dining room and outdoor veranda are at least satisfying to the palate and a blessing after heat and sand threaten to choke one.

I digress. As I have throughout our travels, I notice here a tendency of otherwise well-bred English travelers here to throw off the ornaments of their breeding and behave in ways that would shock their peers in London. I am pleased to report that observation does not apply to that illustrious personage, the Duke of Sudbury, ambassador to the Sultan’s viceroy here. When I observe him arriving and departing Shepheard’s he is always perfectly groomed as befitting and English gentleman.

The duke does strike one as high in the instep, and has haughtily rebuffed attempts to approach him on numerous occasions—but again I digress.

I have been quite amazed at the number of travelers taking advantage of Waghorn’s Overland Mail to travel from India via Suez. They cross to Cairo via caravan and sail the Nile to embark from Alexandria via steamer. All and sundry pause here at Shepheard’s for a restorative rest. All are generally respectably turned out if dusty from sand and in need of ablutions.

Imagine my horror this morning when three of Wagner’s latest arrivals sauntered into the hotel not only in native dress, but filthy. The greater shock, Mr. Clemens, came with recognition. The duke’s own nephew, Richard Mallet was among them. Though dressed in Arabic garb, and bearing a complexion brown as a native from sun damage, it was he. Piercing blue eyes glared at me from a face so browned by the sun as to look native. I suspected his identity then. When he pulled off his horrid headdress, the blond hair, combined with his great height gave him away. He and his companions, one of them a native woman, were swiftly escorted to the duke’s suite in the exclusive upper floor.

Imagine my relief later. My loyal maid has a gift for befriending local servants, one that has proved valuable at every stop for gathering information. She tells me that the sister of one of the hotel’s under cooks works in the home of Doctor Charles Cloutier, the famous French medical director to the viceroy. She recognized Mallet’s companion as Ana Cloutier, the man’s daughter, and not some native hussy at all.

My relief was short-lived after some thought. Why would a respectable woman, even a French one, wear native dress and come to a hotel of this class looking like she had been dragged through the desert for weeks without bathing? Her feet, bare, but for some sort of native shoe, were visible to any man who cared to ogle her ankles.

How, I wondered, could the Duke of Sudbury abide having such a creature inflicted on his suite? He must be devistated by his nephew’s disgraceful behavior.

Your devoted correspondent,

Eunice Higgenbloom of Sussex

PS—We have since discovered more peculiar information. My maid’s acquaintance has since discovered that the lady in question cannot possibly be Miss Cloutier for that poor lady is most certainly dead. The reports of her demise come from impeccable sources.

About the Book

Richard Mallet comes to Egypt with dreams of academic glory. He will be the one to unravel the secrets of the ancient Kushite language. Armed with license to dig, he sets out for Meroë, where the Blue Nile meets the White. He has no room in his life for dalliance or entanglements, and he certainly doesn’t expect to face insurrection and unrest.

Analiese Cloutier seeks no glory—only the eradication of disease among the Egyptian women and children of Khartoum. She has no interest whatsoever in romantic nonsense and will not allow notions about a lady’s proper role to interfere with her work. She doesn’t expect to have that work manipulated for political purposes.

Neither expects to be enchanted by the amorous power of moonlight in the ruins of Karnak, or to be forced to marry before they can escape revolution. Will their flight north take them safely to Cairo? If it does, can they build something real out of their shattered dreams?