If it sometimes seems that The Teatime Tattler has nothing but scandal and bad news, then do not blame us, dear reader. Such stories are sadly plentiful. But every now and then a story comes across our desk that touches even our calloused hearts, and that reassures us that courage, perseverance and loyalty still exist in this war-weary world.
Such is the story of Maggie Parker and her children. Picture, if you will, the daughter of one of our brave soldiers, a sergeant, who died in the service of God and his country. Maggie, a good and modest girl for all that she had been raised by her father in the army’s train, was told to choose a husband. And quite right, too, dear reader. The army is no place for a virtuous single girl with neither father nor husband.
Dear reader, Maggie was fortunate. There was a corporal she liked, a William Parker, and he like her, and so they were married, and for a time they were blissfully happy, even in the midst of war. Their son was born, and named for his father, and little Billy grew and prospered. Never was a little family so content.
But war is a dreadful thing, and when the French were driven from Spain and Will’s regiment were given their orders to march after them and end the long war, Billy had one of those childhood illnesses that are short duration but terrifying to parents. Maggie, who was also ill as her second confinement approached, remained behind.
And that, dear reader, was the last this gallant lady heard of her dear husband.
By the time she, her son, and her new daughter were well enough to follow him to France, the peace had been signed, his regiment had been sent elsewhere, and nobody could – or, perhaps, would – tell her whether Corporal William Parker was still in the land of the living.
Maggie returned to Spain, and worked to save money to travel to England, where she hoped to find Will’s mother. A determined woman can conquer mountains, and Maggie made it to England, but on the way she found a difficulty. Parker is a common name, and the only thing she knew about Mrs. Parker’s address was the name of the village. Ashton. How many villages are there in England with the name Ashton? Twenty or more, spread across the land.
But that did not deter Maggie Parker. She arrived in Portsmouth, purchased a wheelbarrow, set her baggage and her son in it, strapped her daughter to her back, and set off to find her mother-in-law.
Spare a thought for this gallant woman, the flower of English womanhood, marching the roads of England with all the determination of a conquering army.
Dear reader, I am certain you join with all of us at The Teatime Tattler in wishing her God Speed, and a Happy Ending.
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Maggie’s Wheelbarrow in Merry Belles
A year ago, Maggie’s husband marched out of Spain with his regiment to invade France. She hasn’t heard from him since, and when she followed him, the battles were over and his regiment was gone. Letters to the army, him, and his family have brought no answers, so she and her children are off to find him, even if they have to walk the length and breadth of England.
(Merry Belles is a Bluestocking Belles collection.)
Hearts in Bloom: A Regency Anthology
Mia Selwyn lives in the shadows, an unwanted poor relation in the house of her viscount uncle. When her cousin’s hoydenish attempt to meet the supposed heir sees her drenched, ill, and in need of nursing, Mia is sent to care for her. Though warned to stay clear of the despised Kendrick, she is drawn into the dark undercurrents among the mismatched collection of residents and enthralled by the enigmatic Mr. Kendrick.
And where is the duke? Find out in Duke in Name Only 
It has come to the attention of this author that the London season, already awash with its usual trifles and dalliances, has a new and most peculiar drama unfolding within its very heart. One might even say it has bite. The whispers begin not in the gilded ballrooms of Mayfair, but in the hallowed halls of Harley Street—a place one typically associates with ailments of the body, not affairs of the soul.
A Taste of Gold
The season has barely begun, and already the rumour mill churns with a tale so delicious it threatens to overshadow the usual fare of lackluster courtships and ill-advised elopements. It seems a familiar face has returned to the unforgiving glare of the London ballroom, though under circumstances far from joyous.
Instead of Harmony