Regency - Vanessa Riley's Regency Reflections

Tag: Regency

29
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 8 and a Chance to Win

To kick off our second year of celebrating Inspirational Regency fiction, we are presenting the serial story, A Suitable Match. At the end of the month we’ll be giving away a fabulous prize package filled with items tied to the story. For a chance to win, find the item mentioned in this section and leave a note in the comments. Details and a list of prizes can be found here.

Missed an earlier section? Read it here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

On the road somewhere between Somerset and London
April 1818

Pain laced through Chard’s insides like acid. He’d come from the woods, his anger cooled, ready to continue his conversation with Cressida. She’d admitted she’d loved him. Now, he dared allow himself to believe that love might be rekindled.

Only to find her in the arms of another man—that swarthy looking knave with a scar like Blackbeard’s, kissing him with all the signs of a woman wholly abandoned to her passion.

The next instant Chard’s hurt transformed once more to anger—blood red rage.

With a bellow he charged at Ainsworth.

Clutching him by the lapels, Chard threw Ainsworth to the ground and proceeded to smash his face with his fist.

“Chard—no!” Cressida’s scream barely penetrated his hearing but her lunge for his arm stopped his fist from connecting with Ainsworth’s jaw.

He tried to shake his arm free but she held on with both her hands gripped so tightly they threatened to cut off his circulation.

“Leave me, Cressida, to finish this blackguard, this ill-begotten son—”

Twiford shook him by the shoulders. “Enough, Chard! Wrestling her coachman will solve nothing.”

With the two of them tugging at Chard, Ainsworth managed to twist away from him.

Still seething, Chard finally allowed himself to be pulled away by his friend and slowly stood to his feet, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Cressida stepped back a few paces, keeping her eyes fixed on him as if not trusting him to stay calm.

“I will not hurt your lover,” he spat out, turning away from her in mingled disgust and anguish.

“He is not—” Cressida began shouting then stopped.

The thud on the ground was so unexpected, Chard swiveled back.

Stomping her foot, her hands fisted on her hips, her amber eyes spitting sparks, she glared at them. “I’ve had just about enough from all of you.” She focused on each in turn. “From the moment I set foot outside of my cottage yesterday morning, I have been accosted, browbeaten, threatened, accused by men—” she spat out the term as if it were the lowest form of existence, “who claim to be my friends or…f—family.” She stumbled on that last word but as if ashamed of weakening, she took a deep breath. “I have only one thing to say to all of you. Leave me alone!

“I am going to London to get married!”

Chard stiffened. Was she betrothed? His heart contracted with absolute misery and hopelessness.

“And I do not need the help of any of you to accomplish my goal. I shall be one-and-twenty in a month, and I do not plan to remain on the shelf.” Her glance fell on Ainsworth. “Thanks to your grandmother, Ross, I shall be independent. She has left me a sponsor and I intend to enjoy my next season.” Her withering glance landed on Chard. “Unlike my last one. Within three months, I will be married, and free of all of you!”

With those words, she whirled around, kicking up the dust under her feet and stalked back to the carriage.

A groom hurried to open the door for her and let down the step. She clambered within and swung the door shut herself.

In the reverberating sound of its slam, Chard looked at Ainsworth and Twiford, both appearing as astounded and abashed as he.

Chard cleared his throat but didn’t know what to say.

Ainsworth dusted off the back of his coat.

Twiford was the first to speak. “I believe the lady has made her sentiments abundantly clear. She wants none of us.”

Chard narrowed his eyes at his closest friend. “Why do you include yourself in that pronouncement?”

Twiford had the grace to look abashed. He kicked at a dusty tuft of grass growing on the edge of the road. “Ahem. I feel I did Miss Blackstone a disservice when you were courting her three years ago.” He raised his chin, fixing his eyes on Chard. “I doubted her when I should not have. Time has proved her a woman of more noble heart than any lady of the ton. I would have you know that I wish to pursue her myself.”

Chard growled low in his throat. His best friend, most trusted confidant, had betrayed him.

As if reading his thoughts Twiford raised a hand. “I have never made my feelings known to Miss Blackstone. But I would like to do so now.” Before Chard could say anything, he glanced at Ainsworth then back to Chard. “I would like to propose something to both of you.”

They waited, the air charged with suspicion. “Since Miss Blackstone has made it clear she intends to be married in the next three months, why shouldn’t we have an equal chance as any young buck in London?”

“I don’t see what her blasted hurry is,” Chard said. “She mentioned an inheritance. Why should she rush into some fortune hunter’s hands?”

“Because she cannot inherit unless she is married.”

Twiford and Chard stared at Ainsworth who had said nothing until then.

The man with the look of a pirate nodded. “My grandmother, God rest her soul, disinherited me, her only direct descendant, and left everything to her great-niece, Miss Cressida Blackstone.”

Only the rustle of the breeze in the trees and the call of a bird interrupted the silence.

“So, Miss Blackstone is now an heiress,” Twiford mused, rubbing his chin. “I thought as much.” His blue eyes twinkled. “But I had no idea her gain was your complete loss.”

The realization sank in and Chard began to chuckle, which turned into a full-bellied laugh.

Ainsworth grew red in his swarthy face, his fist clenching and unclenching at his sides. But as the other two roared with laughter, a smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

“Confound you all!” he finally said, his mouth splitting in a grin, which quickly turned to a grimace, his cuts and scrapes from the coaching accident still smarting him.

When their laughter had settled, Twiford spoke up. “As I said, I wish to propose something to you gentlemen.”

Chard cocked an eyebrow at his best friend, Ainsworth merely stared.

“I propose that we each have an opportunity to make our case to the fair damsel. She must sit for a few more hours still within the confines of the coach. You, my friend,” he said to Chard, “have already had some time alone with her in the coach. I say allow her cousin here and me a chance to press our suit. If there is time before we arrive in London, then have another go, Chard. It will give your temper a chance to cool.”

Before either man had a chance to agree or argue, Twiford slipped a coin from his pocked. “Heads or tails?”

Ainsworth quickly called “heads.”

Twiford tossed the tuppence in the air. It landed on the back of his hand, which he covered with his other hand. Approaching Ainsworth he displayed it.

“Tails, I have the first go. Cheer up, men, you’ll have more time to plan your campaign.”

With those words, Twiford approached the coach and opened the door.

***

His heart thrumming in his chest, belying his suave words to the men behind him, Twiford climbed into the coach.

“What are you doing in here?” Miss Blackstone demanded, her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared. “I thought I made myself clear.”

With a bow of apology to Miss Knighting, Twiford took the seat in front, facing the two women, then thumped the roof of the coach to signal the coachman to continue the journey.

“I am sorry if my presence here discomposes you, Miss Blackstone,” he began, wiping his palms against his thighs, unsure how to begin. His bravado was fading as quickly as a doused candle flame.

Miss Blackstone crossed her arms in front of her and stared out her window. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Wishing the maid were not sitting there, pretending not to hear a thing, Twiford plunged on. This would be the only opportunity he would ever have of confessing the truth to Miss Blackstone. “Three years ago I wronged you and for that I am very sorry.”

He saw her stiffen at the words. Knowing he had her undivided attention, he continued. “I did not think you were the right woman for my closest friend, Tristram, but I had no right to malign your character.” He kneaded his fist in his hand, wishing he didn’t have to confess the ugliness of his sins, but knowing there was no future if he didn’t come clean. “It was not only for the sake of my friend that I treated you so harshly.”

Her gaze had gone from the window to him and her stare was unwavering now.

“In the face of your courage in braving those society matrons, in confronting a world which thinks it has the right to look down its nose on someone because of her birth, I grew to admire you.” He swallowed and pressed on. “I didn’t want to admire you. But worse, I didn’t want to fall in love with you.”

The words were barely discernible above the rocking and creaking of the barouche but she heard them. The slight gasp of her mouth and her averted gaze told him so. Her clasped hands clenched more tightly.

“If I behaved rude and distant, I ask your forgiveness. You were my best friend’s beloved and I could not betray him. I am sorry for all the hurt I caused you. I hope that you may find it in your heart to forgive me and give me a chance to make up all the harm I caused you.”

Ross’s agitation had grown with each mile along the Bath road to London, wondering what that fellow Twiford was telling Cressida. Now at last they reached the first posting house and he could take the man’s place in the coach alongside Cressida.

It was all he could do not to take her in his arms again, but one look at the forbidding face of her maid, made him take his place on the seat opposite the ladies.

Cressida after one hurried glance, looked away from him, but her heightened color betrayed her awareness of him.

“Hello, Cressida,” he said softly once the coach was on its way again.

Her hands fiddled with a closed fan in her lap. “Please, Ross, please forget what…what happened back there. It was an aberration.”

“Was it?” He kept his look steady on her until she was forced to look at him once more. What he saw was pain and confusion in those chestnut depths. It was the last thing he wanted to cause her, but he had too much at stake to back down. “I meant what I said. I love you and have loved you since we were children. That is why I forced myself to distance myself when we grew older. My parents were against the match.”

“Why?” The one word sounded as if it had escaped from her lips.

“Because your mother had married beneath her in marrying your father.”

She looked away as if in disappointment or disgust.

“My parents threatened to disown me if I went after you.” He emitted a harsh laugh. “After they passed away, and I began my life of debauchery, my grandmother also threatened to disown me. But since the only thing I ever cared about had been taken away from me, I did as I pleased with no thought for anything or anyone.”

He looked down at his hands, wishing he could undo the past. “When I made such a mess of things in Paris, shaming my uniform, my name, I knew I had nowhere else to turn. My family had washed their hands of me. I had…had dishonored a young woman, abandoning her, to die in childbirth…” His voice broke on the last. “Her brother fought me.” He made a gesture to the scar on his jaw, “leaving me with this permanent reminder of my sin. I was left for dead, bleeding in a foul Parisian alley. I knew there would be no reprieve this time and would soon face eternity.”

He drew in a shuddering breath, sensing rather than seeing both women’s eyes riveted on him. “It was then I called out to God, whether conscious or already on my way to Hell, I do not know. I asked for His mercy, knowing I deserved none.”

He paused, struggling for composure. “When I awoke, I was lying in a bed, bandaged and cleaned up, weak as a kitten but alive. I knew God had given me my life back and that I could never—would never go back to that reprobate I had once been.” He gave a glimmer of a smile. “I may look like a blackguard now, but I am a new person within.” He sighed, drawing a hand across his eyes. “Unfortunately, Grandmother never knew of my conversion. She changed her will, disinheriting me of everything before I had a chance to prove myself a different man.”

Chard had fretted and fumed upon his horse as the journey continued to London. He could tell nothing from Twiford’s set look when he had descended at the next posting inn. His friend had remained silent as they continued their journey and Ainsworth took his place in the coach. At last it was his turn. Chard had had ample time to reflect on things as the miles had thundered under his horse’s hooves.

Now, tired and dusty, he settled into the coach after the final posting stop before reaching London.

Cressida merely glanced at him, fanning herself with a pink fan, and said nothing as he sat back. By now, she had heard the other two men, so she must surmise what his mission was.

As the coach resumed its journey, the sun waning on the horizon, Chard drew in a breath.

“So, you are once more a rich lady.”

Cressida’s eyelashes fluttered toward him above the fan but she didn’t meet his gaze. “I suppose Ross told you.”

“Yes. You must wed within six months or lose your newfound inheritance.” Despite his intention to proceed gently, he couldn’t help the tinge of mockery in his tone.

“Three.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Three?”

“Months. There remain but three more months for me to choose a husband or I forfeit my inheritance.”

“When you left me your note and ran away, I sought you everywhere.”

Her eyelids fluttered upward and this time her gaze remained fixed on his, the fan fallen still upon her lap.

“I even hired Bow Street Runners but you had disappeared off the face of the earth.” He gave a bitter smile. “You hid your tracks well. Knowing I was almost destitute, I couldn’t do much. I was angry, hurt and bitter for many months. When I finally had to give up the search—or go hungry—I left England.”

“Wh—where did you go?” she asked in so low a tone, he had to lean forward to hear her above the noise of the coach.

“Jamaica.”

Her mouth formed an O on an indrawn breath.

“I toiled more than any gentleman is accustomed to, as much as any plantation slave.” He gazed down at his palms. “The blisters hardened into calluses and I learned that my body would survive much more than I had ever credited it with.”

His lips stretched in a humorless smile. “You think I agreed to marry you for your father’s wealth. Perhaps my father pressured me to do so, but as soon as I met you, it no longer was about the money. You bewitched me as no woman has since then. When your father lost his money, I didn’t care—about him, yes, but not about our love. I knew our love was strong enough to weather any storm.

“But you had no faith in us, did you?”

She was shaking her head. “It wasn’t that. I…I didn’t want you to suffer.”

“So now you will marry any man just to get your money.” The ire, which was simmering just below the surface of his disarmingly gentle tone, rose again as he leaned across the coach and grasped her wrist. “You will sell your body and soul for some filthy lucre.”

He flung her wrist away. “I have enough money to buy and sell your great-aunt’s estate many times over, I’ll warrant. If you think I care about your money, think again. Give it back to that worthless cousin of yours and prove my words!

* This section contributed by Ruth Axtell, www.RuthAxtell.com *

Did you find the hidden item? Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

The question remaining is… who loves Cressida? Who does Cressida love? Which man do you want to see win her heart, her hand, and her money?

[poll id=”2″]

Voting closes at noon eastern on Saturday, February 23. Find out who wins in Monday’s final installment.

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-22 10:00:00.

29
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 7 and a Chance to Win

categories: A Suitable Match, Contests

Missed an earlier section? Read it here: 1 2 3 4 5 6

On the road somewhere between Somerset and London
April 1818

“No. Yes. I mean . . .I . . .” She clamped her lips together before they could get her into anymore trouble. But the silence filling the space between them didn’t stop her heart’s rhythm from rivaling the quick clomp of the horses’ hooves against the road.

Of course she wasn’t reapplying for the position as his wife. That would be ludicrous.

Insane.

Absurd.

Chard stared at her from where he sat across the carriage, those somber gray eyes waiting patiently for an answer.

“I’m sorry. I was only trying to protect you. I didn’t mean to hurt you when I left.”

“Not mean to hurt me?” he thundered, his eyes turning from patient to murderous faster than she could blink. “You left in the dead of night, and gave me naught more than a note. What was I supposed to do? Whistle as I headed to the vicar’s to tell him the wedding had been cried off? Shrug and say, ‘No bother, I shall simply find another wife at the musicale tonight?’”

Her hands fisted on the edge of the seat. “My father had lost his fortune, and you needed money.’Twas why we were betrothed in the first place.”

“Money.” The word, drenched with bitterness, shot from his mouth. “If you think money my only motive for marrying you, then perhaps it was best you left as you did.”

Cressida swallowed and glanced at her maid. Knighting’s face had grown paler with every mile they travelled. Then she looked out past the road and into the green fields and leafy woods, idyllic as a painting. Finding a husband wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. She’d intended to swoop into London, attend a handful of balls, and make her choice. Or rather, let the man think he was making the choice. Then they would marry and move to Bath, occupy separate wings of the house and be apart more than they were together. That’s how these types of marriages were supposed to work.

But now she sat across from the man she’d once loved, the space around her shrinking with each second she was near him. “You were supposed to marry me for money. Money for you and a title for me. Love should not have been a factor. Just convenience.”

“A convenience.” The muscles in his jaw worked back and forth. “Was that all I was to you?”

Her throat was suddenly too thick to speak, not that she knew how to answer him. She could tell the truth, that she’d once loved him, that it had broken her heart to leave. That she’d had to leave so as not to bind him to her once she’d lost her money. But they were three years removed from those days. He should have married someone else the next day, the next week, the next month, the next year.

She’d told herself she didn’t care when or whom he married.

But he hadn’t married at all, and now she was confined to the same conveyance as he, frustration radiating from his taut body and his gray eyes churning as he awaited her answer.

Perchance she should lie to him. It would be the easiest path, and he’d leave her alone if she told him she’d never loved him.

But then she’d break his heart yet again.

“No.” She whispered into the tense air between them. “You were more than a convenience. I had feelings for you. I loved you.”

“Loved.” He annunciated the d at the end of the word. “As in, something that happened once. Something that’s over and done. You no longer love me.”

She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Did she love him? She didn’t know. Hadn’t let herself consider the possibility. She’d locked that part of her heart away, squirreled those memories into a place so dank and gloomy she’d not visited them in three years. And if she were to go back and open the door to that forgotten part of her life, would she find her feelings unchanged? Did she want to find out? “I don’t know.”

He gave a thud on the top of the chaise, and the conveyance slowed to a stop.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air. And it looks as though your maid is in need of a stop as well.” Chard hopped down from the chaise and headed into a quiet patch of woods, no offer to escort her down, no backward glance over his shoulder, just the sharp, jagged movements of an angry man.

And he had every right to be angry

Cressida ushered Knighting from the carriage, and by the time her feet finally touched the road, Twiford and Ross had appeared.

“What is the meaning of this?” Twiford barked. “There’s a coaching inn a quarter hour down the road. Why stop now?”

“Ask your friend.” Cressida jutted her chin toward the brush Chard had trampled as he entered the woods. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

She helped Knighting into the woods. “Perhaps you’ll feel better after you stretch your legs a bit.”

Or so she hoped, though if her maid’s slow movements and deathly pallor was any indication, nothing but a bed would help her.

Knighting shuffled through the brush beside her. “I’m sorry, Miss Cressida. I’m of no use to you this sick.”

Cressida rubbed her back with soothing, circular motions. “Don’t worry yourself. We’ll reach London tonight and you can get the rest you need. There will be others to attend me.”

Knighting nodded, and the simple movement made her face tint slightly green. “I best return to the carriage. I’m not much for walking at the moment.”

“Let me help you.” Cressida assisted Knighting back, then stood outside the conveyance and tilted her head up, letting the sun touch her skin. Though the air about her was cool, the soft rays felt light, relaxing. She glanced back at the woods, in the direction Chard and the others had headed.

“I don’t like you riding with Chard.”

She whirled around. Evidently Ross hadn’t followed Chard and Twiford into the woods. “Why not?”

“You’ve not a proper chaperone for one, and—”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’re hardly doing anything inappropriate.”

A shadow crossed Ross’s face. “He was your betrothed, Cressida. And he’s never married. That must still mean something.”

Ross had kept track of her former fiancé? She stared up at his dark, penetrating eyes, his wide shoulders, and the scar that marred his otherwise handsome face. Ross hadn’t even been in England three years ago. Yet he somehow knew of her broken betrothal. Was his objection to her spending time with Chard now because of it?

She swallowed. “I don’t see why it should matter.”

“Because . . .” He looked helplessly down at her, as though he had words to say, thousands and thousands of them. His hands thrummed at his sides, and he shifted from one foot to the other. “Oh, blast it, Cressida.”

Then those big hands came up to her shoulders, and he kissed her. It was everything a kiss should be, not soft, not hard, but that perfect melding of somewhere in between. His lips tasted of warmth and honey, tenderness and caring. Her mind emptied as she shifted closer to him, then filled with memories.

She broke the kiss and pulled back. The memories churned through his eyes as well. The childhood fishing trips and races through the fields. The time they’d pulled their stockings off and waded into the pond, only to fall and return to the house soaked.

The time they’d said goodbye. He’d been twenty-one and certain to find adventure on the seas . . . Except he ended up in Paris making a mockery of his godly upbringing. That had been the true end of their friendship. She’d not seen him again until her great aunt’s funeral. The funeral that had given her access to an inheritance at his expense because his grandmother held a grudge to the end.

She shifted away from him. “Ross, I can’t . . . that is . . . you shouldn’t . . . I mean, we—”

“I love you, Cressida. I always have, ever since we were little.” He reached out and drew a hand softly down her cheek. “I thought you knew.”

“No,” she whispered, the word barely more than a breath.

Then he leaned forward and kissed her again. And fool that she was, she sank into the warmth, the feel of his mouth on hers and constant thud of his beating heart, the strong arms that wrapped around her and familiarity of—

“What is the meaning of this?”

Cressida jerked away from Ross and turned to face Twiford, his eyes burning with rage and his fists clenched into hard balls at his side.

But it wasn’t Twiford that made her heart stumble and stop beating. It wasn’t Twiford who caused the moisture to leech from her mouth and heat to sear her cheeks.

Lord Chard stood beside his friend, eyes dark with hurt. “Cressy?” his voice broke on her name. Then he shut his eyes and turned away.

* This section contributed by Naomi Rawlings, www.NaomiRawlings.com *

Did you find the hidden item? It’s a tricky one today! Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

Don’t forget that the readers will ultimately choose who truly loves Cressida, and whom she loves in return. Already have a favorite? Go vote for him! Want everyone else to vote for him too? Grab a voting badge from the Suitable Match Extras page.

There’s no denying that these three men are playing to win. But who just wants the money? What should Cressy do next? Read the next installment!

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-20 10:00:00.

28
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 6 and a Chance to Win

categories: A Suitable Match, Contests

Missed an earlier section? Read it here: 1 2 3 4 5

The George and Pelican Inn, somewhere between Somerset and London
April 1818

“I should have known.” Twiford rolled his eyes heavenward but hesitated to move, seemingly content to stand for a moment and marvel at Miss Blackstone’s usual craftiness.

Chard on the other hand, had no intention of allowing her the formality of wheedling her way out of the slight. Why, she’d fairly convinced the group of them that she’d taken it upon herself to travel to London on foot, and in the dead of night no less. That took some doing. Yes, and it also took about ten years off of his life when he thought of her traipsing around a toll road at night, with a sick maid and not enough sense to have known better.

He turned and stared up at the door, feeling that his eyes narrowed unconsciously. Cressy had better be in there, he thought. Now that he knew she was safe, he’d kill her.

Appearing all too jovial at the prospect of catching her in the makeshift lie, Twiford reached out and took the befuddled servant girl’s tray in hand.

“Allow me.” He cut over to the stairs. And though Ross was quick to take two steps up the stairs behind Twiford, Chard immediately side-stepped them both and bounded up to the second floor without looking back.

Muffled voices and creaking floorboards shifting behind the door signaled she must have known what – or who was coming.

Chard pounded on the door without any sense of decorum. “Open, Cressy. Now.”

Silence.

The three men stood outside the door, Twiford doing his best to balance the tray in his hands and Ross, with his usual glower, staring back at the men as if extremely bothered by the very air they breathed. Chard matched him scowl for authoritative scowl and stood tall despite the bristling.

“I am her cousin.”

“Driver.” Twiford corrected immediately.

“I have just as much right to be here as either of you,” Ross protested as if he actually believed what he said. “And you will not enter that room.”

“You lost the right to voice any concern when you up-turned her chaise in a bog.” Chard’s retort was hardly a whisper and he didn’t care. She was what mattered, the bull-headed beauty behind the door that he’d have to convince to go along with them. That thought was uppermost in his mind.

He tapped his foot impatiently and stared back at the door, willing it to open.

“Open up Cressida, or I am coming in after you.”

“I’d listen to him, Miss Blackstone,” Twiford urged, his tone sarcastic to a fault. “The Viscount Chard seems a mite put out at present.”

That threat seemed to hold some weight, as it was but a moment more of the muffled noises before rusty hinges began their telltale squeaking. The door finally opened wide and there she stood, the most maddening beauty in the world, with her hands clasped demurely and a quite angelic look painted upon her face.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Here,” Twiford said, offering the tray to her. “We thought you might fancy the orange marmalade.”

Chard didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even take the time to wave the tray off. Instead, he stormed into the room and slammed the door back in his friend’s face.

“Must you always pick up and leave in the dead of night?”

To the rather direct comment, Cressida took several steps backwards and sent a woefully helpless glance over at Knighting. The maid shrugged from the corner. She did not appear ready to contradict his authority.

Good, he thought. She’ll have no choice but to face me. “Yes, Miss Blackstone. I am speaking to you.”

“I didn’t leave in the dead of night.”

“Could have fooled me,” he muttered under his breath, both of them knowing full well that he referred to the last time she’d packed up her belongings and slipped out of his life. He didn’t intend to give her a second chance to attempt the same.

He crossed the room and in a veiled fury, began tossing things into her bags. A hair comb. A small, leather-bound Bible. Were those stockings? It wasn’t until he began wadding up dresses that Knighting lurched forward in response, the strict dictations of propriety too much to allow him to be up to his elbows in a lady’s linens. She took up the duty of properly folding her lady’s wares instead, freeing him to turn and face his problem once again.

“Can you give me one good reason why you shouldn’t be accompanied on the road to London? And before you try to pass another sweet-smiled lie on us poor, unsuspecting men, I’d caution you to think twice.” He stood before her with his legs braced apart and arms folded across his chest. When she didn’t answer but twisted her hands and furrowed her brow rather nervously, his anger began to dissipate.

“This is not the time or place to discuss it, Chard.”

Her whispered declaration cut to the heart immediately.

Though he’d been furious at the thought of her venturing out on her own, he had to swallow a bit of guilt at his attempt to reproach her for it. But how could he tell her? How would he find the words to explain that while Twiford and Ross had been arguing over who was at fault for their current predicament, his heart had climbed clear up to his throat and set to beating rather wildly.

He stood then, staring into those eyes he’d once known so well, and caved under her spell again. You fool, he thought. She’ll only hurt you again.

“I’ll be waiting downstairs. Be packed and ready to depart in ten minutes.”

***

Cressida didn’t much take to being hoisted into a traveling coach and plopped down on the seat like an errant toddler, but that’s exactly what had happened. After barging into her room, her former fiancé had insisted that not only was he accompanying her on the trip to London, but that she and Knighting would be riding in his coach for what remained of the journey.

Chard now sat across from her and peered out the window, his head bobbing as the vehicle sailed over the bumps and numerous ruts of the road.

Cressida watched him in silence, noting that he seemed quite austere and …older somehow. As if the past years had treated him coolly. As if he’d changed beneath the familiar façade that was taking such care to ignore her completely. It was off-putting that they had an opportunity to talk and yet he now seemed to earnestly avoid it.

Was he still so very angry with her? Could she believe that anything mattered to him once? That perhaps… she may have mattered to him more than a cache of money to line his pockets?

Cressida broke the silence before she could talk herself out of it. “Is there is no Viscountess Chard?” Her voice cracked slightly, causing her cheeks to warm with a blush.

He turned and stared back at her, the pointed gaze making her feel like melting down into her boots.

“No. There is not, Cressida. Were you planning on reapplying for the position?”

* This section contributed by Kristy L. Cambron, paris-mom.blogspot.com. *

Did you find the hidden item? Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

How do you think Cressida should respond? What do you think the other gentlemen think of Chard’s monopolizing Cressy’s attentions? Read the next installment!

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-18 10:00:00.

28
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 4 and a Chance to Win

categories: A Suitable Match, Contests

Missed an earlier section? Read it here: 1 2 3

The George and Pelican Inn, somewhere between Somerset and London
April 1818

Cressida was momentarily stunned. Lord Twiford was the only one who knew she was here. Had he decided to finally give her a piece of his mind? She rose and went to the door, opening it slowly with one hand, holding her night rail close to her neck with the other. She felt the pearl necklace she always wore there.

Her shock was palpable. “Chard!”

At the same time she heard him say, “Cressy!”

Why hadn’t Lord Twiford warned her that Lord Chard was included in his party? “I beg your pardon, Lord Chard. I am afraid in the surprise of seeing you my manners fled.” She bowed her head, feeling ridiculous, following drawing room protocol while in her night clothes in an inn. “I did not expect . . . know you were here.”

“What are you doing here, Miss Blackstone?” he asked, more reserved now.

“There was an accident with my carriage and Lord Twiford was kind enough to take us up and bring us here.” Funny, after missing Chard for so long, she could think of no other words to say.

***

What the devil was Cressida Blackstone doing at the George? He had rehearsed and rehearsed what he would say to her if he ever saw her again, yet here he stood dumbfounded. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. No! He would not think on that. She had ended their engagement without one thought for his feelings: he would not fall prey to her just because her beautiful hair hung loosely around her shoulders and she stood in a thin night rail ready for bed.

“Lord Chard, is there something that you wished to say to me?”

Indeed there was, but now was not the time. “I beg your pardon, Miss Blackstone, I thought this was Lord Twiford’s room.” Blast! but he was as nervous as a schoolboy.

“My lord, we left many things . . . unsaid when I . . . left London three years ago.” Her voice was small and questioning, the opposite of her normal confident air. “If you would give me a few moments to dress, perhaps we should talk.”

“I assure you, Miss Blackstone, we have said all we need ever say to each other.” He bowed and turned back toward the stairs. He skipped most of the steps in his hurry to get to their private drawing room downstairs. He fought hard against his instinct to turn back and see if she remained in the doorway. He needed to think.

He had needed to marry money, but he had not expected to fall in love with her. He knew she would have been given the cut direct by the highest sticklers of Society. But he believed when they saw her gentle kindness and ladylike manners, they would come around. He would not have thrown her to the wolves, even had he not fallen in love for the first time in his life.

But she left him; disappeared, leaving only a note saying she knew he would not want her without the dowry she was supposed to be bringing to the marriage. She had not cared enough to face him, to hear his views on the matter. And he thought he was over her; he told himself so often that he was.

But the shock at seeing her also affected his heart and he realized he was not over her at all.

He turned around at the sound of footsteps. “Twiford, what is the meaning of this? What is she doing here?”

“My, my, word travels fast. What was I to do, leave her on the side of the road with an overturned carriage and a wounded driver? She wishes to make her own plans from here. I asked her to join our party, as London is her direction, but she seems quite adamant about not going with me. I don’t think I made a good impression on the chit.”

“Stow it! You did nothing but malign her at every turn.” He thought he noted a bit of hesitation before Twiford had switched to irony. What was afoot? “Well, she should not hire a carriage and ride all of the way to London on her own. You will need to convince her.”

Twiford went to the table and poured himself a brandy and downed it in one swallow. “I must convince her?

“You know I cannot. She made her feelings for me quite clear when she left me in. . . London.” How fortunate he now remembered all of the things he wanted to say to her for breaking his heart. “What is she doing traveling to London alone in any event?”

“I have not come to any conclusions about that myself. She seems inordinately interested in the coachman who was driving her carriage. He was injured; mostly cuts and bruises and a wonderful lump on the side of his head. She needed to hear that he is now sleeping peacefully in the quarters over the stable. It did not seem to ease her mind.”

“Leave him or bring him, I care not, but we leave for London after breakfast and you make sure she is with us.” He stomped out of the room, hoping he hadn’t let the feelings he now knew were not gone show in his manner. What would he do?

***

After a fitful night’s sleep, Lord Chard prepared himself to be cool and distant to Cressy . . . Miss Blackstone during the drive. Indeed, he intended to ride next to the carriages so he would not be put in a situation where he must be in close confinement with her.

“Twiford, we must push on if we are to reach London today. Can you not hurry the party along?”

“Yes, I will tell Godfrey he must not worry about how his cravat looks, when we all know it takes him two to eight neckcloths each and every time he gets dressed.”

Chard was immune to his sarcasm.“What about the ladies?” He looked off in the distance, trying to be nonchalant. “Is Miss Blackstone convinced to go with us?”

“I have only now sent a servant up to her asking her to join us in the breakfast parlor. Perhaps between the two of us we can overpower her scruples.”

Lord Chard noticed the servant approaching, but placed no importance on it until he heard him mutter “Blackstone.”

The man bowed and stepped back from Miles in subservience.

“I am sorry, Chard, but the landlord informed my servant that the lady is gone.”

*Section 4 was written by Mary Moore, www.marymooreauthor.com *

Did you find the hidden item? Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

Where do you think Cressida has gone? Read the next installment!

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-13 10:00:00.

27
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 3 and a Chance to Win

categories: A Suitable Match, Contests

Missed an earlier section? Read it here: 1 2

The George and Pelican Inn, somewhere between Somerset and London
April 1818

Pretending to be groggy, Cressida let her eyes fall closed. ‘My dear’ indeed. She’d take him to task later for disobeying her wishes when she didn’t feel as though her head was full of cotton. Allowing him to assist her down from the carriage, she gave her clothes a few half-hearted swipes, and when she woke a bit more, she raised a gloved hand to her nose and mouth. The inn yard reeked above the scent of her spilled perfume.

Twiford held his arm out toward her, and she leaned on it a bit heavier than she’d been willing to in the aftermath of the upset on the road. No need to reveal her hand. He’d find out soon enough her antipathy toward him would not be discarded with ease. He’d conducted himself today in a manner that she couldn’t find fault with, but she’d not forgotten the way he’d tried to befoul her engagement. The whispers, the disapproval, the outright snubs, and insults.

The door opened as they approached and the small group of travelers moved into a narrow hall. Twiford rapped out a series of instructions and the servants flew into action. Wraps were taken, bandboxes were swept up the stairs.

“I’d like my maid to share my room. Her health has been delicate, and I’d not have her in some drafty attic room.” Cressida lifted her chin, half fearing this request would be ignored as well.

“I’ll make sure the innkeeper has a truckle bed moved into your room. It will only be a short wait. Meanwhile, I’ve ordered a private dining room. Will you join me?” The brow above one blue, sparkling eye lifted in inquiry.

“I must rid myself of travel dirt, my maid is ill, and the hour is late. I must forego that pleasure for another day.” The day pigs fly, she thought to herself. If only she’d been less groggy, she’d have swept up the stairs and avoided this convenient invitation. How she longed to reach Great-Aunt Ainsworth’s townhouse. Her own house for now, and longer if she managed to wed in the three months remaining before the will would be null and void.

She turned toward the stairs and without warning, the shock of the carriage accident swept down on her. A sob escaped her throat. Tremors shot through her chest and tears slipped down her cheeks. How could God allow this to happen? Her mind protested against the reality that brought her to this place in the company of a sworn enemy. And Ross. She must ascertain his condition.

Turning back toward Twiford, she made inquiry, “What arrangements have been made for the injured driver of my coach?” She hated the way she sounded. Like a whimpering schoolgirl. But it couldn’t be helped. The combination of exhaustion and shock had taken a toll on her composure.

“He’s been lodged in the stable living quarters. He’s in good hands.” Twiford moved over to Cressida’s side and put a tentative arm around her shoulders, and began to guide her toward the stairs. Knighting shambled along behind, clutching two disheveled bags.

Now that his arm was hovering around her shoulders, she was taken aback by the feeling of protection that washed over her. This enemy, this man who’d done everything he could to discourage Chard’s ardor, now gave her the soothing sense of being shepherded up the stairs. At the door to her room, down a dim hall, he bowed to her.

“Good night, sweet lady.” He turned away and strode down the hall.

The shock of being bereft of the unwanted anchor he’d been shot through her and she sagged against the door frame.

“Miss Blackstone, let’s go in now.” Knighting’s maternal instincts were well-known to her and she complied, not wanting to cause hurt feelings in the faithful retainer. After all, in her orphaned state, Knighting was her closest companion. Cressida roused herself to enter the low-ceilinged room, and the maid closed the door after them.

The maid, though suffering a cold, offered her mistress needed comfort. Knighting helped Cressida out of her cloak and took her hand, guiding her to the pitcher and bowl on a side table. “There you are, miss. That’s right. Warm water does do wonders. Ooh, that bed looks like heaven to me, and here they already brought up a steaming pot of tea.”

As she poured the tea, Cressida told her maid, “Open the bags, let’s get our nightgowns on and go to sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough to deal with tomorrow’s problems.” It didn’t seem fair. Departing the cottage this morning, all had seemed so clear. They’d get to London, she’d secure a husband, she’d come into her inheritance. But then Ross had arrived, forcing her to accept his escort. Next, the accident, and being in essence made off with by Miles, Lord Twiford, her nemesis from the days of her engagement to Chard.

She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching her bowed head. Lord, please guide me. I need Your fatherly hand. In Jesus… Her prayer was cut off by a sharp series of taps on the door.

*Section 3 was written by Susan Karsten, graciouswoman.wordpress.com *

Did you find the hidden item? Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

Who do you think is outside the door? Read the next installment!

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-11 10:00:00.

27
May
2024

A Suitable Match, Serial Story Section 1 and a Chance to Win

categories: A Suitable Match, Contests

Somerset, England
April, 1818

With his black hair drawn back in an old-fashioned queue and a scar running from his ear to his chin, as though someone had tried to slit his throat and missed, all her prodigal cousin needed was a cutlass swinging from his belt to complete the impression that Ross Ainsworth was really a pirate. Then again, Miss Cressida Blackstone decided, with his eyes as black as obsidian and possessing a gaze as penetrating as tempered steel, he didn’t need a cutlass to skewer his prey.

A shiver racing up her spine and out to her fingertips despite the mild April morning, Cressida narrowed her eyes at her childhood nemesis and swallowed so her voice would not croak with the dryness of her throat. “What are you doing here? I was told your grandmother’s coachman would arrive to drive me to London.”

“He cannot drive with a broken wrist. But since I enjoy driving and am headed to London, I assured him I would do the honors.” The smooth, aristocratic drawl issuing from a man with Ainsworth’s piratical visage never failed to startle Cressida.

Since he arrived in Bath for the reading of his grandmother’s will three months ago, a great deal about Ainsworth surprised her—surprised her and raised her suspicion hackles. They had been best friends as children. Then, when she grew old enough to let her hems down and put her hair up, he grew formal and distant with her and departed for foreign parts soon afterward.

He had returned to England in time for the reading of his grandmother’s will–the will that left him with nothing and Cressida, her great-niece everything. The only stipulation was that Cressida must marry within six months. And now Ross Ainsworth was anything but formal and distant with her. No doubt he was attracted to the money, like all the gentlemen who had courted her upon her come-out at eighteen, wanting to wed her for her father’s fortune regardless of the fact that fortune came from trade.

Money made up for a number of flaws in one’s birth if an old family needed an infusion of wealth.

Target for fortune hunters or not, Cressida needed to find a husband. With wealth at her fingertips, she was not about to live her life in the poverty in which her father’s error had left her. In a way, she, too, was marrying for money. Marrying for love was a childhood dream left behind with a broken betrothal, a damaged reputation, and no childhood friend to tease her out of her doldrums.

That childhood friend, Ross, now looked about him as if puzzled. “But I expected you to have a chaperone.”

Cressida flicked a glance at her middle-aged maid standing purse-lipped beside her on the steps of the cottage they had called home for three years. “Knighting is quite enough of a chaperone until we reach London.”

“Not when you are traveling with your cousin distant enough to make me eligible,” He purred, his dark eyes raking over her.

Cressida refused to be intimidated.“Why, Ross, I never knew you were such a high stickler.” She clutched her bulging reticule in one hand and her great-aunt’s jewel case in the other, and headed for the carriage. “Enough of this. We must be on our way.”

Ainsworth threw up an arm to bar her way. “My dear cousin, I would not wish to place you beyond the pale of respectability before you reach town.” He smiled. “Further beyond the pale than you already placed yourself, that is.”

“You.” Cressida ground her teeth. “You are scarcely one to be bringing up the past, Ross Ainsworth.”

Which wasn’t fair to him. He said he had repented of his behavior in Paris after Napoleon’s defeat. His grandmother must not have forgiven him for embarrassing her, though. But if he had truly set aside his scandalous behavior, she should be a lot kinder to him.

She held out her hand to him. “I am sorry. I should not have–”

Muttering something that sounded like, “You may walk to London for all I care,” he spun on his booted heel and stalked to the front of the carriage.

Her apology rejected, Cressida waited until he had climbed onto the box before she called out, “Cousin, you cannot take the coach and team without my permission. They belong to me now.”

He looked at her, and lightning flashed through his dark eyes. “Very well then. Get in. “You win. . .this time.”

Another one of those odd shivers raced along Cressida’s limbs, and she stood rooted to the flagstones with the scent of apple blossoms too strong in her nostrils and her mouth tasting of a copper penny. An invisible hand seemed to pluck at her, trying to draw her back to the haven of the cottage.

“I’ll get the steps down for you, Miss Blackstone.” Knighting’s quiet voice, roughened from a bad cold, snapped Cressida out of her momentary stupor.

“Let me help with the bandboxes since my cousin has not the courtesy to do so.” She set her jewel case inside the coach, then returned to the steps to retrieve one of the small cases that made up her luggage.

She must buy new clothes in London. She must purchase a number of things in London—like a husband if she wanted to keep her inheritance.

A face flashed through her mind, as she tossed boxes into the boot, the visage of the man her deceased father had thought his trade-earned wealth could buy. It would have been a suitable match all around, if Papa had not lost most of his money. Tristram, Lord Chard, needed her money at the time, and Cressida. . . Her heart had needed him.

She shook off the memory and settled herself in the carriage, preparing for a long, tedious journey with her quiet maid and her embroidery. She half expected Ainsworth to refuse to drive the vehicle, but once Knighting closed the door, the carriage lurched forward, then pulled out of the lane and onto the Bath to London road.

It was the best maintained road in England, thanks to the tolls. Ainsworth, however, drove so swiftly the coach swayed and bounced too much for Cressida to ply her needle without pricking her fingers. Nor could she read. Knighting engaged in a brief dialogue about how many gowns Cressida must order for her husband-hunting expedition, then fell asleep deeply enough for her snores to fill the coach. At their infrequent stops to change horses or collect some refreshment, Ainsworth did not speak to her at all.

As twilight drew near, Cressida tried to rest after weeks of sleeplessness. Each time she drifted toward sleep, Knighting’s snorting exhalations startled her awake. When she reclosed her eyes, Chard’s face swooped before her eyes, with its hurt accusation solidifying into anger when she broke their betrothal three years ago.

Then another face joined his, the cold contempt of his friend Miles, Lord Twiford. He had always been against her marriage to Chard, thinking the daughter of a cit was not good enough for a viscount.

A crack like a snapped tree branch resounded through the carriage. The vehicle pitched to one side, sending Cressida slamming to her knees. Pain shot up her thighs, through her body, and into her skull. She gasped and grappled for a handhold. Her fingers scored silky velvet, and she fell against the wall of the carriage. Knighting sprawled across her calves, pinning her in place.

That stupid knock-in-the-cradle of a cousin had landed them in a ditch. And her precious vial of violet scent had broken, soaking through her reticule and clouding the carriage with a choking haze of perfume.

“I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You.” Cressida gasped out each word. “If. I. Ever. Get. Out.”

And, of course, if Ainsworth had not fallen from the box and injured himself beyond repair.

Outside, the horses whinnied, and a number of male voices shouted. Inside, Knighting groaned.

“Are you all right?” Cressida asked her maid in a more temperate tone.

“Yes, ma’am, but I seem to be stuck.”

Not as stuck as Cressida. Her legs were going numb. Her left arm was already numb. And the carriage rocked and tilted further, threatening to turn turtle at any moment. Or worse, it could keep rolling and land them in the River Kennet.

Cressida could not swim. She doubted Knighting could swim. She doubted they could get out of the carriage before they drowned even if swimming were an option.

“Knighting, I apologize if I hurt you, but I must get us out of here.”

Since the men outside seemed more interested in shouting than being useful, Cressida rallied her strength and grasped one of the hand straps dangling from the canted roof above her. With supreme effort, she hauled one leg from under her maid. The leg felt like a wooden peg for all the sensation she experienced. She stomped her foot to bring back some life to the limb, and her heel smashed through the window.

The shouting outside ceased. The carriage door yanked open hard enough to send it crashing against the side and the vehicle tilting another five degrees down the embankment.

“No one told us there were passengers inside.”

The voice sent Cressida’s heart dropping through her stomach and onto an icy bath in the river. Head reeling, she brushed amber curls out of her eyes and stared into the countenance she had feared never to see again, and hoped she would encounter so she could prove him wrong about her.

* Section 1 written by Laurie Alice Eakes, www.LaurieAliceEakes.com *

Did you find the hidden item? Note it in the comments below for a chance to win.

Who do you think Cressida sees outside the carriage? Read the next installment now.

THE CONTEST AND POLL ARE NOW CLOSED. Feel free to continue to enjoy and share the story.

Originally posted 2013-02-06 10:00:00.

22
May
2024

Interesting Apparel? How the Women of the Regency Rose Above it All

categories: Fashion, History, Seasons

For the most part, Great Britain is a soggy place. Surrounded by water, rain is almost a way of life there. But what about snow; now that is an entirely different matter! Snow is much more unlikely even though many of my favorite Regencies are set in a country house at Christmas smothered in snow, giving the hero and heroine plenty of time to flirt, argue, ignore and fall in love with each other.

I am hoping that one of my next stories might be a Christmas Regency, so I decided to research winter apparel. I specifically remember that in these lovely stories, when they ventured out in the snow to get the Yule log, invariably we are told that the ladies rushed to get their pattens. I never really thought much about pattens, assuming it was a sort of a rubber overshoe that would fit over a sturdy walking boot to protect it from ruination, much like our mothers used to wear. Wow, was I wrong!

Picture #1

These my friends are pattens; and they weren’t for snow at all!

This pair is made of flat metal rings which made contact with the ground and the ring was attached to a metal plate nailed into the wooden sole. Can you imagine trying to keep your balance while wearing such things?

And when worn on stone floors they made such loud clatter that churches made ladies remove them when they entered. Many churches banned them altogether!

Jane Austen herself wrote of the “ceaseless clink of pattens” when referring to life in Bath; as we know being a perpetually rainy and damp part of England.

Picture #2 They were clumsy platforms that raised the shoe a few inches from the ground to protect the hem of a gown and they were used by men as well as women, in the country on muddy, rutted lanes and in London when walking on horse infested pavement.

Picture #3 Pattens date back to the 14^th century. Only the rich would have been able to afford these porcelain china pattens worn to protect their long and ornate robes.

Picture #4 These are huge pattens worn by Turkish women in 1738.

Picture #5

In the 17^th century when ladies shoes were commonly made with an upper of figured silk or brocade that almost any venture out necessitated the use of this patten to protect the shoe as well as the hem of the gown. This is how the shoes fit into them and the metal ring would have been attached to the wooden platform under the shoe.

Picture #6 By the 18^th and 19^th centuries, men’s shoes had thicker soles, hemlines rose, and as roadways and transportation improved pattens were abandoned by the ladies as well and were worn only by the working class men and women as they went about their duties.

In “A Memoir of Jane Austen,” James Edward Austen Leigh wrote about his aunts Cassandra and Jane:

The other peculiarity was that when the roads were dirty the sisters took long walks in pattens. This defense against wet and dirt is now seldom seen. The few that remain are banished from good society and employed only in menial work…

So, the next time you read about the ladies donning their pattens to venture out of doors, I dare you not to smile as you picture it!

The Woodlanders

Arrived at the entrance to a long flat lane, which had taken the spirit out of many a pedestrian in times when, with the majority, to travel meant to walk, he saw before him the trim figure of a young woman in pattens, journeying with that steadfast concentration which means purpose and not pleasure. He was soon near enough to see that she was Marty South. Click, click, click went the pattens; and she did not turn her head.

She had, however, become aware before this that the driver of the approaching gig was Giles. She had shrunk from being overtaken by him thus; but as it was inevitable, she had braced herself up for his inspection by closing her lips so as to make her mouth quite unemotional, and by throwing an additional firmness into her tread.

“Why do you wear pattens, Marty? The turnpike is clean enough, although the lanes are muddy.”

“They save my boots.”

“But twelve miles in pattens–’twill twist your feet off. Come, get up and ride with me.”

She hesitated, removed her pattens, knocked the gravel out of them against the wheel, and mounted in front of the nodding specimen apple-tree….

Thomas Hardy

She lost her pattens in the muck
& Roger in his mind
Considered her misfortune luck
To show her he was kind
He over hitops fetched it out
& cleaned it for her foot…

From the Middle Period Poems of John Clare (1820s)

Originally posted 2013-01-14 10:00:00.

21
May
2024

The Mysterious Ms. Darcy

categories: Education, Female authors Regency period, History, Regency Romance, Uncategorized

My first Regency was Charity Girl by Georgette Heyer and got me interested in the Regency time period. The book that really hooked me on the Regency romance, however, was Georgina by Clare Darcy.

Georgina has all the wonderful elements of a romance that absolutely delight me—delight me to the point that I think I have followed a little in her footsteps in my own romances—books that is, not life—a heroine being courted by just the right sort of gentleman when her heart demands she go after the exactly wrong gentleman. Ah, be still my beating heart for Shannon, a disreputable landowner with mystery and rumors swirling around him. Though I knew I would regret doing so in the morning, I stayed up late to finish this story and was delighted and saddened at the end—delighted with the outcome and saddened that the book was over.

Over the next several years, I read every Clare Darcy book I could find. These were what we now call traditional Regencies. Traditional Regencies are those in the true spirit of Georgette Heyer—comedies of manners with no sensuality other than a few subtle comments and maybe a kiss or two, no foul language, and generally appropriate for young women all the way up to old ladies.

All of Ms. Darcy’s books were named for the heroine, except for one named for two females, one I just learned of today, as I did some research on this post. They ranged from countryside frolics, to country house romps, to balls and adventures. The heroines usually had minds of their own without being anachronistic or too much alike, as far as I remember, and the heroes varied in temperament and social position, though all were at least gentry class.

When I started looking at writing Regencies myself, I asked a few people about Ms. Darcy. Who, exactly, was she and why didn’t she gain more acclaim in the genre? I discovered that Ms. Darcy was highly respected amongst true Regency devotees, but her person was pretty much unknown. Some even hinted she might be a he.

According to Wikipedia now, ten years later, Ms. Darcy was an author from Ohio named Mary Deasy (1914-1978). Her papers are in the Boston University research library. This is the most information I’ve been able to find out about this author who, like Ms. Heyer, died before ever I read one of her books. Also like Ms. Heyer, Ms. Darcy was a powerful influence on me becoming a Regency writer.

If you haven’t yet picked up Georgina, Eugenia, Lydia, Cressida, Lady Pamela, or any of the other delightful books by Ms. Darcy, you are in for a treat when you do.

Originally posted 2013-01-11 05:00:00.

19
May
2024

A Look Ahead to 2013

categories: Announcements, New Year's

Kristi here, with an exciting look at the coming year.

As the weather blows cold and snow dumps over a lot of the United States, things are heating up at Regency Reflections. If you’re just now stumbling across our little corner of cyberspace, take a moment and bookmark us or subscribe via email because there are some amazing things planned for 2013.

Fireworks over the bridge — New Years in Australia, via WikiCommons

In February we’ll be celebrating our first birthday and we have some serious fun in the works. As a blog for readers of inspirational Regencies, we wanted to give you something to, well, read. We’re also putting together a unique and eclectic give-a-way that you won’t want to miss.

Stack of books More than half of our authors have book releases this year as well as many of our Regency writing friends of the blog. This year is going to provide a plethora of choices for the inspirational Regency reader. We’re especially excited for the debut releases of Vanessa and Sarah!

Other things to look forward to this year are a series of guest bloggers ready to share their experiences and knowledge, fun give-a-ways, and increased opportunities to interact with some of your favorite authors and other readers.

What are you looking forward to this year? What would you like to see more of on Regency Reflections?

Originally posted 2013-01-02 10:00:00.

18
May
2024

Christmas Day According to Washington Irving

categories: Christmas, History, Holiday

This excerpt is from Washington Irving, The Sketch Book, published in 1819. Washington Irving is famous for his tale “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” featuring Rip Van Winkle, and he spent some time in England beginning in 1815. You can see his musings on Christmas Eve in Friday’s Post.

When I awoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had been a dream . While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol .

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber door; but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph of their escape.

The window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against a clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would have given almost the appearance of summer; but the morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine and piping a few notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace walk below.

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses.

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The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old church-melody by Master Simon.

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I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every Sunday and saints’ day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry in England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neglect.

…

Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of the old English heartiness; and though he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon. We were escorted by a number of . . . dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stage-hound,–the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind; they were all obedient to a dog whistle, which hung to Master Simon’s buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon s small switch he carried in his hand.

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight, and I could not but feel the force of the Squire’s idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting I must say a muster of peacocks. “In the same way,” added he, “we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks.” He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird, “both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was.”

I found that the peacocks were birds of some consequence at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the breed; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of olden time, and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion.

. . . .

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the village bell, and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in having his household at Church on Christmas morning, considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing.

“If you are disposed to go to church,” said Frank Bracebridge, “I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon’s musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for their improvement; he has also sorted a choir.”

English Country Church in the snow — via Wikimedia Commons

As the morning, though frosty was remarkably fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray-stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against the walls, thorough the dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed this nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us.

The parson was a little meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer-book: and his small legs seemed still smaller from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles.

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had been a chum of his father’s at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the latter had come into his estate.

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On reaching the church-porch, we found the parson rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the [mistletoe] before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the day.

The interior of the church was venerable but simple; on the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which law the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a Crusader.

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The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one upon the other, among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, . . . who played the clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another . . . man stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head . . .There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers,. . . but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen more for tone than looks; . . . .

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental. . . .

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing. . . .

[O]n leaving the church the congregation seemed one and all possessed of the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands; and the children ran about crying Yule! Yule! And repeating some uncouth rhymes, which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out of the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity.

. . . .

The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and amusements which were once prevalent in this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown open at daylight;; when the tables were covered with brawn, and feed, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when the rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* [*Note: An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i.e., on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the blackjacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg and good Christmas cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden (i.e., the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness.” quoted from Round about our Sea-Coal Fire.

. . . .

We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirtsleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox’s skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations.

The Squire . . . gave me the full account of [this dances’} origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. “It is now,. . . nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening.”

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. . . .

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above them. . . . When the Squire had retired, the merriment increased and there was much joking and laughter. . . .

The whole house seemed abandoned to merriment: as I passed my room to dress for dinner I heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and a tambourine, a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the servants were looking on.

Originally posted 2012-12-24 10:00:00.