Home of the Bluestocking Belles

A Plea From Rome

On April 15, 2020

A plea from Matthew Blakely, brother to Charlotte Blakely:

Do you know how it feels to be a third wheel? Well I do, quite thoroughly. I’ve been sent to Rome by my older brother, the new viscount, for one reason only: to keep an eye on Charlotte and act as her damned chaperone. I am not a companion, especially since she’s got this ridiculous idea in her head to go haring off in the hopes of finding the Veil of Veronica.

Yes, my sister’s got it into her head that she’s a bona fide treasure hunter instead of staying in London like a proper ton lady should. Even worse, she’s brought along a man who’s sweet on her but hasn’t committed. Truly, their displays of affection are sickening, and it’s quite scandalous. To say nothing of the mysterious visitors to the ambassador’s residence… Makes me uncomfortable.

About as uncomfortable as when she forces me to sneak into dusty passageways beneath churches and into tombs. And do you know how difficult it is to translate Latin? I’m afraid I wasn’t one to pay attention to that at school, and she thinks I have hero potential. Me. I’m not sure about that.

However, the whole idea of what she’s trying to accomplish is quite amazing. As time goes on and we move deeper into the puzzle, I’m gobsmacked. And I’m coming to understand my sister better. I had no idea how fearless she is, or how determined, and quite frankly, if the ambassador doesn’t come up to scratch and offer for her, I might need to force him into it… purely to halt the gossip’s tongues and the scandal that will follow.

Oh, and by the way, if you see me about Rome, send help, and not the Carabinieri. They’re quite certain my sister is wanted for murdering a monk…

About Ladies Prefer Adventure

Fulfilling a lifetime mission is much more fun when romance is woven into the adventure.

Mr. Everett Desmond spends far too much time behind a desk and entertaining dignitaries. He thought that was what he wanted from life… until an intriguing lady gave him a taste of adventure. But treasure-hunting comes at a price and, thanks to a failed engagement, he’s leery of romance.

The Honorable Charlotte Blakely is closing in on the actual location of the Veil of Veronica, carrying on her beloved late grandfather’s quest. Satisfying his last wish is all she’s ever wanted from life… until the possibility of a courtship with the handsome English ambassador to Rome made itself known. But does love mean giving up her hard-won independence?

Balancing each leg of the quest with the heat and passion simmering between them keeps Charlotte and Everett on the razor’s edge. When danger and death collide with the joy of adventure, truths they’ve denied themselves come into sharp focus. But with a bit of faith, they may discover a treasure far more priceless than a religious relic in their hands.

Find more and a trailer here.

Excerpt

Across the table, Matthew sipped his tea while watching passersby.

“I agree, and it came about so suddenly. After attending finishing school with her and keeping in touch, I never thought Callie would ever wed. She’d seemed content with her office job, and she is rather… unique.”

“Any woman worth her salt is,” he murmured softly.

Her cheeks heated again. She scanned the rest of the page. “Oh, bother.”

“Trouble?” Beneath the table, Everett laid a hand on her knee and slowly slid it upward, leaving tingles in his wake.

Concentration became difficult as she remembered the night she’d spent in his arms, but she prevailed. “You are mentioned here.”

“How so?” A frown marred the handsome perfection of his face.

“’Ambassador Desmond has once more left London for Rome. Rumor says he is accompanied by the late Viscount Hadleigh’s daughter, who studies in the same city. Is there a romance in the making?’”

A red flush crept over his collar. “I did not authorize that.”

He seemed so discomfited that Charlotte laughed, which brought Matthew’s attention back to her. “No one ever does in the gossip pages.” But she wondered too if there was a romance between them. It had been an age since they’d been able to talk about a future together. She continued to read and finished with a groan. “’We fear the ambassador wastes his time on an insane quest of Miss Blakely’s making, but perhaps he’ll come to his senses soon.’” She tossed the paper across the table at her brother. “Bah. What do they know?”

No one had ever believed in her apart from Everett, so why should the writer of the society piece be any different?

“You ought to listen to them, Char,” Matthew said as he took yet another sandwich. “It is rather ridiculous to traipse about the world. Not natural at all.”

She blew out a breath. “Not the world, brother, just Rome.”

Matthew snorted. “Be that as it may, this business with the ambassador needs settled and soon. It’s this side of scandalous.”

As if the scandalous sort of things men indulged in was merely men being men. Well, she’d never liked those unspoken rules, and she’d lived her life accordingly, for she’d been rather shocking herself while in Rome. No one needed to know, and it had helped grow her independence and sense of worth more than wasting time in England’s drawing rooms.

“Then it suits me fine, don’t you think?”

The men of the world and the catty gossips that made up the backbone of the ton didn’t have the right to deem her behavior overly scandalous or sexual. Only she had that power. She lived her life as she saw fit, and until men began seeing women as equals instead of objects, she’d keep doing as she pleased. Respect was earned, not blindly given due to status or whether one had certain pieces of anatomy between his thighs.

He glanced at Everett. “You truly mean to go haring after a rag with her?”

“I do.” The ambassador squeezed his hand on her knee.

Charlotte squirmed from the delicious sensations that lodged between her thighs. “It’s not a rag, Matthew. It’s a relic.”

“Semantics.” Her brother shrugged. “I cannot believe you would let your woman lead you in a chase like that, Ambassador. Fine kettle you’ll find yourself in should the two of you marry.”

“I should think so.” Everett’s chuckle danced over her skin and heightened her awareness of him. “And, I don’t let her do anything. I encourage her and follow. Quite frankly, I cannot wait to start.” He looked at her with a certain heat in his eyes. “On many things.”

“Oh.” A blush warmed her cheeks. That was the man she remembered. How she wished to kiss him, but Matthew’s presence put a damper upon that. Instead, she addressed her brother. Time to deliver a proper dressing down and put herself back in control. “First of all, I might be with the ambassador, but he doesn’t own me. I am neither a head of cattle nor am I a bookshelf to be moved about or tossed aside. Secondly, the world is growing. Women are contributing amazing things just as the men are. In fact, one of my friends is a doctor, and she fought for that honor. She plans on traveling to Africa of all places. We’ve all fought for what we want. Third, I know my own mind and will do as I please. Your approval is not needed.”

Matthew’s lower jaw gaped open before he remembered himself. “You will do this with Mr. Desmond regardless of his plans?”

“If he chooses to support me.” She smiled at Everett and ran the risk of tumbling headlong into the deep dark pools of his eyes. “In all honesty, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t believe in me or my quest. His plans will, of course, be taken into consideration.” Then her smile faltered. Had their romance stalled before it had had a chance to proof? Was it more than never having a moment alone? Did he value his position as ambassador more?

“Indeed.” Everett’s fingers danced along her thigh in erotic reassurance. “I’ll remain here until you have no more need of me.” He dared to edge his fingers to the vee of her thighs, but the copious layers of her skirts dulled the caress even as the heat of it rolled over her.

For the moment, she savored the shivers going down her spine. “I look forward to the adventure, wherever it takes us.”

About the Author

Sandra Sookoo is a USA Today bestselling author who firmly believes every person deserves acceptance and a happy ending. Most days you can find her creating scandal and mischief in the Regency-era, serendipity and happenstance in Victorian America or snarky, sweet humor in the contemporary world. Most recently she’s moved into infusing her books with mystery and intrigue. Reading is a lot like eating fine chocolates—you can’t just have one. Good thing books don’t have calories!

When she’s not wearing out computer keyboards, Sandra spends time with her real-life Prince Charming in central Indiana where she’s been known to goof off and make moments count because the key to life is laughter. A Disney fan since the age of ten, when her soul gets bogged down and her imagination flags, a trip to Walt Disney World is in order. Nothing fuels her dreams more than the land of eternal happy endings, hope and love stories.

Find me on social media:

Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/sandrasookooauthor/

Private reader group on FB: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1985711228318050/

Amazon page: amazon.com/author/sandrasookoo

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IS DUKE BEHIND ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT?

By Jude Knight

On April 11, 2020

In Jude Knight, Teatime Tattler

Sam, did you hear the Earl of Sutton was attacked earlier today? Footpads, they said. About twenty minutes later, a carter lost control of his horses just as his dray was passing Sutton’s children on a schoolroom outing. And you know assailants have had a go at both of Sutton’s sons in the past few days, too.

As an aside, Sutton beat his assailants to a pulp. He’s as tough as his sons, it seems. And the one still in the schoolroom whipped his schoolmates out of the way of the dray. He’ll be another formidable warrior when he grows up.

But that’s not the point, Sam.

I’ve found out who paid for all the attacks, and you’re never going to believe it. I was told in confidence, mind, and if we want the servants inside of Haverford House to keep slipping us bits of news we can’t use it. It’ll be a start to our own investigation, though.

That’s right. Haverford House, and yes, it was the Duke. The Merry Marquis is furious. He’s threatening to have his father locked up. Can he do that, Sam?

***

The Children of the Mountain King

Welcome to Jude Knight’s new series.

In 1812, high Society is rocked by the return of the Earl of Sutton, heir to the dying Duke of Winshire. James Winderfield, Earl of Sutton, Winshire’s third and only surviving son, has long been thought dead, but his reappearance is not nearly such a shock as those he brings with him, the children of his deceased Persian-born wife and fierce armed retainers.

This series begins with a prequel novella telling the love story of James senior and Mahzad (Paradise Regained), then leaps two decades to a series of six novels as the Winderfield offspring and their cousins search for acceptance and love.

To Wed a Proper Lady, the first novel, is on preorder and will be released on 15 April.

Follow the links for more details and for buy links.

Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt about the assaults from the point of view of the Duchess of Haverford. It appears in Paradise Lost, a novella about the duchess that I’m giving away free with my next newsletter in a couple of days. It tells of how Eleanor Creydon became Eleanor, Duchess of Haverford, a lynchpin character in my Regency and Victorian stories, and also backgrounds the series.

Haverford House, London, July 1812

The Duchess of Haverford took tea in her rooms this quiet Monday afternoon. She was alone for once; even the maid who brought the tray sent off back to the servants’ hall. Her life was such a bustle, and for the most part, that was how she liked it, but just for once, it was nice to have an afternoon to herself. No meetings. No entertainments to attend or offer. Not even any family members—her current companion had gone to visit her mother for her afternoon off, Aldridge was about his own business, her youngest ward was at lessons, and the two older girls had been invited on an outing with a friend.

As to Haverford, who knew where he was? But he would not disturb her here.

The thought had barely crossed her mind when a knock sounded; not the discreet tap of a servant, but a firm rap. Not the duke. He wouldn’t knock. “Enter,” she called.

Aldridge let himself into the room. He greeted her with his usual aplomb, asked after her day, but she could tell immediately that he was agitated. “What is wrong, my son?”

“I have no easy way to say this, Mama.” He knelt before her and took her hands. “Sutton has been assaulted in the street, and his schoolroom party was also attacked. A runaway brewer’s dray that was not a runaway at all.” He squeezed her hands, pulling her back from her sudden dizziness. “Sutton gave his assailants a drubbing, and the children and their attendants are unhurt, thanks to swift action on the part of their escort.”

Eleanor let out the air she was holding. “Thank goodness! And thank you, my dear, for letting me know before gossip made it so much worse.”

Aldridge frowned slightly. “There is more. I heard of the assault on Sutton before it happened, and arrived with help just after. Mama, my secretary was asked to be the paymaster for the assailants. And guess who gave him the command.”

She knew before her son said it. Breathed the words with him. “His Grace? Surely not. After the assassin at the duel, why would he do something like this again?”

“His Grace.” Aldridge confirmed. He leapt to his feet and paced the room, not able to keep still for a moment, his body expressing the agitation his face refused to display. “He is getting worse, Mama. Whether it would have happened anyway, or whether the arrival of Sutton lit the flame, he lives on the point of explosion.”

“I know, my dear.” She knew better than Aldridge, in fact. Despite the long estrangement between her and her husband, they nonetheless lived in the same house, attended some of the same social gatherings, worked side-by-side for the same political causes. Aldridge kept largely to his own wing when he was under the same roof as his parents, which was increasingly rare. He managed all the vast business of the duchy, but Haverford had long since let go those reins to the extent that his only association with Aldridge tended to be through the bills and notes of hand that arrived regularly to be paid.

Aldridge thumped the mantlepiece. “This latest start… if word gets out that Haverford was behind the attack on Sutton and his family, it will be a disaster. Sutton would be well within his rights to demand Haverford’s trial for attempted murder. This family is no stranger to scandal, Mama, and there’s no doubt in my mind His Grace deserves to be hanged, silken noose or not, but…”

Eleanor’s distress was such she found herself chewing her lip. “Thank God no one was seriously hurt.”

“Thank Sutton and his sons for their warrior-craft, and my secretary for telling me in time to lead a rescue.” Aldridge heaved a deep sigh and took another fast turn around the carpet. “He intended murder, Mama, and when I confronted him with it, he laughed and said he did it for England. He has gone too far, Mama. If he is found out, he puts us all at risk. What if the Regent decides to regard a murder attempt on another peer as treason?”

Eleanor had not considered that possibility. The title could be attained, the lineage considered corrupt. Aldridge had worked for years to rebuild the wealth of the duchy after his father’s mismanagement. He could lose it all, including the title, and the Prince would be delighted to benefit.

Haverford had become more and more erratic as the year progressed. He insulted and alarmed other people at every event he attended, completely ignoring social conventions and saying whatever he thought, often using the foulest of language. Thankfully, he was showing less and less inclination to go into Polite Society. Even so, the duchess frequently needed to use all her considerable tact and diplomacy to soothe ruffled feathers and quiet the gossip that claimed the duke was going mad.

“He is going mad,” she acknowledged to her son, the one person in the world who could be trusted with the knowledge. “It is the French Disease, I am sure. It is rotting his brain.”

“We cannot bring in doctors to examine him, Mama. Who knows what would come of that; what he would say and who they would tell? He cannot be allowed to continue, however.”

Eleanor frowned. It was a conundrum. Who could prevent a duke from doing whatever he pleased?

Aldridge, apparently. “I have made arrangements. He has been persuaded to travel to Haverford Castle. When he arrives, trusted servants know to keep him there. He will be comfortable, Mama. I have arranged for him to be entertained, and have nurses on hand in case he needs them. The disease will kill him in the next year or two, probably, and he is likely to be bedridden long before the end.”

He was brave, her son. He was breaking the laws of God and man in showing such disobedience to his father and a peer of the realm. She was sure God would understand, but the Courts might not. She would not ask about the entertainment Aldridge had provided. Knowing Haverford as she did, she did not want to know details. “He must never be set free,” she concluded. Should anyone find out he was insane, the scandal would be enormous. Worse still for Aldridge.

“I understand that such spells may come and go, so we need to be prepared for him to return to sanity, at least for a time,” Aldridge cautioned. “But if that does not happen, my instructions are to keep him from understanding he is imprisoned for as long as possible. With luck, the confusion in his mind will prevent him from ever working it out. I needed you to know, Mama, for two reasons. First, we need a story for the ton. Second, if he does not recover and if anything happens to me, it will be for you to keep him confined until Jon returns to be heir in my place.”

“I hope dear Jonathan comes home soon, Aldridge. I miss my son. But do not speak of your demise, my dear. I could not bear it.”

Aldridge stopped beside her and bent to kiss her forehead. “You are the strongest woman I know, dearest. Fret not. I am careful, and I intend to live to grow old.”

Eleanor hoped so. She certainly hoped so.

The Organist’s Lucky Escape

By Caroline Warfield

On April 8, 2020

In Teatime Tattler

The Lower Bottleby Weekly Register, October 27, 1814

The village bade farewell last week to Miss Ann Dunwood, heretofore the resident organist and choir director at the our dear church of Saint Cunigunda in the Fields. The lady actually left rather abruptly and folk hereabouts had little opportunity to bid her farewell or any wishes whatsoever. There have, however, been reactions.

Margaret Plumbottom informed the Register that Miss Dunwood, while a pleasant enough young person, often expressed tastes in music so questionable as to put many in dislike of her. She hinted the woman may have been forced out by “certain persons prone to vicious talk.” Mrs. Plumwood insists she herself is not inclined to be so harsh. “The chit simply needs to grow up a bit. She’ll understand the importance of the soothing and familiar when she is mature.”

Can questionable music be at the root of the matter? “Likes them German composers, the modern ones like Ludwig van Beethwhatnot. I heard her pounding out some such wild music on the vicarage piano—loudly—when our beloved Reverend Pettigrew and his good wife were away,” Lorena Blodget informed our reporter. This woman felt it her Christian duty to report the incident to the vicar. “The vicar saw to it she was counseled on the matter,” the woman told us.

When asked, Mabel Crouch, first soprano in the Saint Cunigunda choir these many years, refused to speak on the matter. “What’s done is done,” she said. “We will go back to the way things ought to be with proper hymns next Sunday.” After thought she recommended the reporter speak to Ernest Hackett, the church custodian.

Mr. Hackett professed to have no information about why the woman left. “Don’t know much about th’ music, but that woman were hard on the organ I can tell you that. Th’ village is lucky to have one, small though it is. Had to repair it twice when she played on it too hard. Sweet girl though. I wish her well.”

Reverend Pettigrew gave our reporter short shrift, claiming he had to work on Sunday’s sermon, though it was only Wednesday. We could only squeeze a few comments about the departed musical director. “She played well enough for a woman,” he said. “Left us in a lurch though.”

He pulled the door shut before the reporter could ask another question, but it opened back up, and the vicar’s wife’s head popped out. “You should be asking where she went,” the woman whispered. “Off to the wilds of Ornkey, up there in the far north. Uncivilized, I say.” She dropped her voice even lower, but we believe she said, “Left with that man from Edinburgh they call the Marriage Maker. Make something out of that.” The door shut for good.

About the Book

Sir Alexander Bradshaw needs a wife, a sensible woman to manage his unruly sons and sullen daughter. No suitable candidates appear, however, and Alec resigns himself to spend another long, dark Orkney winter companionless. When an acquaintance suggests a music teacher might occupy his daughter, he embraces the idea.

Ann Dunwood travels to Orkney for the opportunity to play the Kirkwall organ. For the beauty of the instrument, Ann endures the conservative choir members who wish to perform the most banal of hymns; she’s done it before. She knows how to fade into the shadows and keep to her place.

When he happens upon Ann in the cathedral, Alec is enchanted by the woman at the keyboard, who fills the room with a Bach fugue. Yet, when the music ends, the object of his fascination turns into a demure mouse. Alec determines to reignite the passion he glimpsed in her and fill his home with music.

Available October 1. Pre-order now.

About the Author

Caroline Warfield has been many things.Now in at least her third act, she works 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.

1919: Letters in a Time of Epidemic

By Caroline Warfield

On April 4, 2020

In Teatime Tattler

**The Teatime Tattler has come into possession of a cache of letters and notes from the Kinmel Repatriation Camp, Wales. They appear to be from another time.**

Elks Corner, Saskatchewan, January 15, 1919
Dear Harry,
It is glad we were to receive your Christmas greetings, even though they reached us the first week in January. Now the war is over I can tell you of the relief with every letter that came; it meant you were alive and well. This time we can breathe a permanent sigh of relief, no?
As to your question, yes, the influenza found the province, but we got off easy here in Elks Corner. A few folks came down sick. Old Mrs. Butterworth, you may remember from church when you visited us summers—she was ninety—didn’t make it. Come November the epidemic died back mostly. Your grandmother and I escaped it entirely.
Christmas in Ypres, huh? Maybe next year we’ll see you here at the farm again. Your grandmother is already planning what to bake.
She tells me to stop writing nonsense and just send her love.
Grandpa Matthews.

Ypres, Belgium, January 16, 1919
Dear Madame Laporte,
It is my sad duty to report that your son Emile, corporal in my unit, passed away in the army hospital in Ypres. He fought bravely alongside my company through three years of the war, only to succumb, worn out by fighting, to the demonic Spanish flu. He was buried with honors in the cemetery near Elverdinghe, along with hundreds of his fallen comrades. I was with him in the end; he died peacefully.
Lieutenant Henry W. Wheatly, Canadian Expeditionary Force

To: The priests remaining at the cathedral, Amiens, France, January 16, 1919
Reverend fathers,
I write again in hope you have some word of Rosemarie Legrand, resident of Les Hortillonnages Amiens. We lost touch some months ago, and it is imperative that I find her. I am currently confined to the Kinmel Repatriation Camp near Bodelwyddan in Wales. They plan to send us home. I need to find Rosemarie and marry her quickly so I can arrange passage as a war bride.
I continue to hope that my old friend Abbé Dejardins has returned.
Lieutenant Henry Wheatly, Canadian Expeditionary Force
letter marked returned to sender

January 27, 1919, Regina, Saskatchewan,
Dearest Harry,
Just the one letter after Armistice telling us you are well? Not well done of you.
Your father has been bursting with pride since word of your promotion came and he is anxious—we both are frantic, really—to have you back. He heard your regiment has been delayed in some pokey camp in Wales waiting for transport home, and he is furious. He has taken the lieutenant-governor to task, I can tell you.
Please write often.
Love, Mom

February 5, 1919
My darling Rosemarie,
I am writing once again to your cottage among the islands of les hortillonnages. I pray that you and Marcel have returned there safely. Send word to me at the address on this envelope and I will come immediately. Your letters to me have gone astray and I suspect mine to you as well.
Please know that I love you and that has not changed.
Harry
letter marked undeliverable and returned

February 10, 1919
Mother,
Sorry I have not written often. Even though the fighting has stopped, my life is not my own. Please tell Father to stay away from the lieutenant-governor and to stop sending me letters about what he wants me to do when I get home.
Harry

To Sabine Legrand, Rue du Moulin Neuf, Amiens, France, February 18, 1919
Madam
We have not had the best of relations in the past. I write to beg, however, for any word of your sister-in-law Rosemarie. I am frantic to find her.
Lieutenant (formerly Corporal) Henry Wheatly
A note on the returned envelope :
Monsieur Wheatly, Sabine fled to Marseilles when the Krauts advanced in the summer. She has not returned.
S. Thierot, neighbor

February 24, 1919
To whom it may concern:
It has come to our attention that no action was taken on our recommendation of commendation for Pvt. Ezekiel Willard for his actions at Vimy Ridge. As we wrote, he charged into a gun nest, capturing the gun and several enemy single handedly, likely saving two of our squads during the first day of the offensive. Witnesses can be supplied, but they will soon be repatriated and dispersed. We urge action on this.
Lieutenant Henry W. Wheatly
Sergeant Angus McNaughton

Telegram
February 28, 1919
From: Lieutenant Henry W. Wheatly, Kinmel Repatriation Camp, Wales
To: Mrs. Martha Wheatly, 538 West Marlboro, Regina, Saskatchewan
Mother: Tell father to cease writing to Gen Fitzgibbon. STOP Tell him I demand it. STOP Don’t listen to stories about Spanish Flu. STOP Have things to do before I come home. STOP Be there soon.
Harry.

March 5, 1919
Willard,
Tell the boys the Spanish crap got the lieutenant. He’s in hospital. He says watch your back from Walker. Get me if you need me.
Mac

Telegram
March 18, 1919
From: Lieutenant Henry W. Wheatly, Kinmel Repatriation Camp, Wales
To: Mrs. Martha Wheatly, 538 West Marlboro, Regina, Saskatchewan
I am well. STOP. Don’t listen to Father. STOP Down with influenza but recovered. STOP Do not worry.
Harry

March 21, 1919
Regina, Saskatchewan,
Dearest Harry,
Your father tells me you’ve gone off in search of a woman. She obviously means the world to you. Go get her Harry, and bring her so we can meet her. Ignore your father’s interference, I beg you. He means well, truly.
Please take care of yourself, darling boy. You haven’t been well. Find your Rosemarie and come home.
Love,
Mother

About the Book

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 gardens 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, but the hope of peace and the promise of Harry’s love keep her going.

In the confusion at war’s end, will their love be enough?

More information and buy links: https://www.carolinewarfield.com/bookshelf/christmas-hope/

About the Author

Caroline Warfield grew up in a perapatetic army family and had a varied career (largely around libraries and technology)before retiring to the urban wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, and divides her time between writing and seeking adventures with her grandbuddy and the prince among men she married.

Harry’s lovely story is a departure. She writes primarily family-centered Victorian and Regency novels and believes firmly that love is worth the risk.

Pranksters—Beware!

By Bluestocking Belles

On April 1, 2020

In Teatime Tattler

The reporter we sent to investigate the rash of pranks and pratfalls that have plagued London today was unable to identify any single culprit. On the contrary, his report, reprinted below, implies this is a well known custom! Really? One can only shake one’s head!
S. Clemens. Editor

There are several theories regarding this holiday, which encourages pranks and mischievous behavior. One popular legend is that April Fools’ Day began with France’s 1564 Edict of Roussillon, which decreed that New Year’s Day be moved to January 1^st.

Those who continued to celebrate the old New Year around Easter were called “April fools.”

Another possible precedent is the Greco-Roman festival called Hilaria, which was March 25. The festival honored Cybele, the ancient Greek Mother of Gods, and its celebrations included parades, masquerades, and jokes.

And yet, a third idea suggests that April 1^st became the fool’s holiday due to Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, wherein he includes a playful reference to “32 March,” or April 1^st. However, most scholars consider it to have been a mere copying error.

Wherever it may have originated from, April 1^st has become world renowned with practical jokes and amusement.

About the Author

This interesting report came to us from Tabitha Waite. Her sources:

https://www.dictionary.com/e/fool/

https://time.com/4276140/april-fools-day-history/

Home of the Bluestocking Belles

Because history is fun and love is worth working for

A Plea From Rome

About Ladies Prefer Adventure

Excerpt

About the Author

IS DUKE BEHIND ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT?

The Children of the Mountain King

The Organist’s Lucky Escape

The Lower Bottleby Weekly Register, October 27, 1814

About the Book

About the Author

1919: Letters in a Time of Epidemic

**The Teatime Tattler has come into possession of a cache of letters and notes from the Kinmel Repatriation Camp, Wales. They appear to be from another time.**

About the Book

About the Author

Pranksters—Beware!

About the Author

This is her new series!