Catching Up with Reflections Bloggers

Inspirational Regencies Represent!

The Romance Writers of America had their annual awards ceremony this past weekend. Inspirational Regencies were well-represented when our very own Kristi Ann Hunter won the Golden Heart award for unpublished Inspirational manuscripts. You can check out the other winners, including the Rita for best published Inspirational romance at the RWA website.

Here a Book, There a Book, Everywhere a new Book!

In addition to her anticipated Regency (coming out in August!), Camy Tang just released a contemporary romantic suspense in an anthology titled Sealed With a KissShe’s also busy working on two series for next year: a romantic suspense and a regency set.

Speaking of August releases, keep an eye out for Vanessa Riley’s new Regency tale: Swept Away.

Ruth Axtell has stepped a few years past our beloved Regency to delve into the equally stunning Victorian world. Her novelette, Victorian Spring, is available now and the start to a fabulous new series.

Friend of the blog, Kristy Cambron released the first book in her WWII series. The second one comes out in April.

And a Crazy, Wonderful Life It Is

In addition to sending books out through her agent the hopefully-soon-to-be-published Susan Karsten is super busy. A son getting married, two girls headed off to college, and a 25th anniversary to celebrate make for a full and wonderful life!

Laurie Alice Eakes recently returned from the RWA conference.

 

What about you? We’d love to know what’s going on in your life!

Why is Everyone Standing in the Hall? A post on Regency terminology

As an American, reading books set in England – particularly historical England – could sometimes be confusing. Once I started researching the time period, I realized that certain words had different meanings “across the pond”. So for everyone like me, I’ve put together a list of a few things that used to confuse me. Hope they help!

Hall

Hall is one of those words that seems simple, but has vastly different meanings on each side of the Atlantic. I always wondered why people spent so much time standing around in the hall. Wasn’t it cramped?

Because in America a “hall” is a passageway – usually on the narrow side – that rooms open off of. In Regency England the hall was the area the front door opened into. Similar to an American foyer or vestibule. In large English homes, the hall is a room in an of itself, often a fairly large one since visitors were sometimes required to wait there a while before being admitted further into the house.

Living “in” the street

In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Jane Bennet mentions that her aunt and uncle live in Grace Church Street. In American English, that implies Grace Church Street is neighborhood or even an apartment building or some other such collection of living spaces.

What is actually means is that her aunt and uncle have a house with a Grace Church Street address. In America we would say they live on Grace Church Street. It’s a distinction that some modern day Regency authors use and others don’t, but now you won’t be confused if you ever come across it.

Townhome

It’s just that: your home in town. When Americans normally think of as being townhomes are actually called terrace houses in England. These are houses that share a wall with another house on one or both sides. Many homes in Mayfair are terrace houses, but not all. So when the heroine heads to her townhome for the season, she’d probably sharing a wall with her neighbor, but not necessarily so.

First Floor

Have you ever seen characters going up to the first floor? Or looking down from a first floor window? For an American that can be quite confusing – to the point that I try to avoid saying which floor they’re on at all.

The “first floor” in America is actually the “ground floor” in England. So people had to actually go up stairs to reach the first floor.

 

What other terms do you find yourself stumbling over? Any other words you’ve found have a double meaning?

What are your favorite Regency romance plots?

Hi guys, Camy here! I was talking with a friend of mine who also loves Regency romances and we were discussing our favorite Regency plot types.

PreludeForALord lowresI am embarrassingly fond of “secret baby” plot lines as well as “marriage of convenience” (which I just this moment remembered is in Prelude for a Lord—I am nothing if not predictable). My friend loves “friends discover they love each other” plot lines, and she also favors strong female lead characters.

So it got me wondering, what do other Regency lovers prefer?

So please weigh in! I am super curious to know what types of story lines you prefer in your Regency romances. I’m including a list I got off the internet to jog your memory, and I have to admit some of these gave me a chuckle while others made me nostalgic for some of my favorite Regency books.

1. Secret Baby
2. Cinderella (rags to riches)
3. Opposites Attract
4. Bodyguard
5. Second chance/First love rekindled
6. Reunion
7. Stranded
8. Love Triangle
9. Marriage of Convenience (mail-order bride)
10. Beauty and the Beast
11. Sleeping Beauty/Ugly duckling
12. Amnesia
13. Fish out of water
14. Blackmail/Revenge
15. Forbidden love
16. Mentor/protégé (boss/employee) (Maids, housekeepers, governesses)
17. Princess/Pauper; King/Beggar maid (impoverished ladies/lords)
18. Bad boy/good girl; Bad girl/good boy (Rakes/virgins and scandalous women/respectable lords)
19. Best Friends
20. The Road to Adventure

If you think of any other types of romance plots that aren’t listed here, please do mention it in the comments!

London Lights, by Susan Karsten

How do you picture your Regency characters flitting about London by night? Until 1807, London went about by the feeble flicker of oil lamps.


Special interest groups fought against gaslight, fearing the loss of the whale-oil trade. The inflammatory Bill of 1816 (supportive of gas lighting) would also ruin the navy, the ropemakers, sailmakers, etc. etc. according to its opponents.

Yet gaslight did more for prevention of crime “than the days of Alfred the Great”. Lighting at night brought safety, but also enhanced the reputation of London as the City of Sin. “London Lights” was a slang term referring to the regency age’s gilded immorality.
Nightlife entertainments in London were hideously vulgar, and respectable citizens did not take their families out after dark to public venues. My source says the “flaring gaslight” was appropriate to the rough and tumble array of available diversions.

Information is from: Life in Regency England, by R. J. White, publ. 1963

What do you picture for lighting when you are reading or writing regency fiction? Please leave a comment.

Friendship and Folly – A Review

I discovered the most delightful regency romance the other day on Amazon. Friendship and Folly by Meredith Allady, Book 1 of the Merriweather Chronicles.

Something that intrigued me from the first was the introduction, where the author explains how she found this manuscript in an old trunk of her grandmother’s, a trunk filled with old journals and manuscripts. She edited the most complete manuscript and has published it as “Friendship and Folly by Meredith Allady.” Whether Meredith Allady is her real name, her grandmother’s, or a pseudonym–or pun (Meredith, A Lady?) matters not. Friendship and Folly

What I discovered when I began reading it is a wonderful story told in what I found is an extremely authentic Regency-style, which I why I think it truly is a discovery from someone’s old trunk and not a well-researched historical. There are allusions to historical events and things only someone who lived in the era (and those of us who have done a lot of regency-era research ourselves) are privy to.

The Christian-spiritual thread through the novel is also in keeping with someone writing from that era, very much like Jane Austen. People pray and quote Scripture in a very natural way. It shows how Bible-illiterate our generation has become. The most moving scene happens during the crisis/climax and is very much a Christian lesson.

The story also has the wit of Jane Austen.

If you go on Amazon, though, the author warns those who don’t enjoy Jane Austen or an old-fashioned writing style to please stay away. On Goodreads.com, she tells readers: “For all those readers who loathe the ‘epistolary’ style of narrative, Meredith tenders her heartfelt apologies; but there it is.”

I for one was caught up from page one of this regency story and am glad to see that there is a Book 2 in the Merriweather Chronicles.

Love Everlasting, Part 2 ~ A Regency Short Story by Laurie Alice Eakes

Read Part 1 of Love Everlasting here. 

Watching pain, bitterness, and despair wash across Arabella’s beautiful face, Gareth thought the musket ball that had plowed into his left leg at Salamanca was no more than the prick of a pin in comparison with the blow of her words. Her father had gone to Newgate Prison. Gareth hadn’t known that until he returned from Spain. Lord Barr had been transported to New South Wales, a felon never to return to England, stripped of his title, for all practical purposes, stripped of his lands to pay back the Crown, and not one person had come to his innocent daughter’s aid, especially not the man who should have been there to pick up the pieces of her life and fit them together.

“Arabella.” His throat felt raw. He swallowed and took a deep breath before plunging on. “I can tell you what happened.”

“There are no excuses good enough to explain away your behavior.” She clutched the back of a chair, and for a moment, Gareth thought she might throw it at him. Instead, she swayed, her face whitening.

He rounded the table and caught hold of her shoulders. “You’re faint. You need to sit.”

“Perhaps she should lie down in the other room,” Mrs. Polglaze spoke from the corner.

“I’m all right.” Arabella’s voice, so strong in condemning him a moment earlier, had grown wispy. “I smelled bacon is all. And pastry. . . She bowed her head and a flush rose in her cheeks.

The fineness of the bones beneath his hands struck understanding into Gareth’s head. Delicate, bird-like bones with no flesh upon them. She was too thin. She was faint because she was hungry. She was hungry because she didn’t have employment and now her purse had been taken with likely the last of her worldly wealth.

“I’m a slow-top.” He released Arabella and strode to the door.

He couldn’t expect her to listen to him on an empty stomach. Jesus had fed the multitudes before he preached to them. Gareth should have taken that as a model of behavior and offered Arabella food first. He should have taken the Lord as his model for all behavior a long time ago and spared Arabella and himself a great deal of pain and suffering.

Along the gallery outside the private rooms he had taken for the day, he found a maid and gave her orders. Then he returned to the private parlor. “Viands will arrive as soon as possible.”

Arabella had seated herself at the table. She didn’t so much as glance at him. Curls loosened from her chignon spilled around her face, masking her expression. Only the whiteness of her knuckles on fingers gripping the edge of the table betrayed her emotion—betrayed her humiliation, if he knew his Arabella.

Not his Arabella. He had lost her years ago because of his own stupidity and pride. All he wanted now was for her to let him help her.

No, that wasn’t all he wanted; it was all he hoped to receive to ease his guilt. More no man could expect with the past that lay between them.

Arabella said nothing. Mrs. Polglaze took knitting out of an embroidered bag and began to click away at a stocking. Arabella’s hands slipped from the table edge to her lap, one coming up every few moments to brush curls from her cheeks only to have them tumble back again.

Gareth paced between window overlooking the stable yard below, to the door. Outside both, noise rose and fell like waves upon the rocky shores of Cornwall—waves during a storm. Men shouted. Doors banged. Carriage wheels rumbled over cobblestones. And, at last, the knock sounded on the parlor’s portal, soon followed by the arrival of two inn servants carrying trays of coffee, cream, and sugar, a pitcher of lemonade, and platters of bread, meats, cheeses, and apples. In her corner, Mrs. Polglaze shot to her feet and bustled forward to serve the meal. She, too, must have noticed Arabella’s hungry look, for the kindly housekeeper piled Arabella’s plate high and ladled a quantity of thick soup into a bowl.

“Eat slowly,” Mrs. Polglaze cautioned.

“Yes, ma’am.” Arabella began with the white soup, sipping from her spoon with her eyes closed, as though she analyzed the contents of the food. “Beef for the broth, not veal, as it should be. Cheese-paring ways.” She spoke in a murmur, addressing no one in particular.

Still, Gareth seized the opportunity to begin a conversation. He drew out the chair across from her and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You were looking for work as a cook?”

“I was too young for anyone to hire me as a housekeeper and not respectable enough to be a companion or governess.” The tip of her tongue darted out to taste another spoonful of soup. “But I learned to cook from Father’s chef on all those days I was alone in the house save for the servants.”

She once confided in him that her father left her with servants while he took long journeys—out of the country—smuggling trips they all discovered too late to avert disaster.

She said no more as she finished half the soup, then pushed the bowl aside, poured herself coffee, and fixed Gareth with her big, dark eyes. “So tell me why you just ruined my chances of gaining employment today.”

The chill of her voice belied the warmth of the late spring day, sending a shiver up his spine and freezing his tongue. His carefully planned speech fled from his head, and all he could think to say was, I never ceased loving you. But he couldn’t say that. She wouldn’t believe that when he told her of the past three years. She certainly wouldn’t believe it now.

“I want to offer you a home.” The end of his prepared speech came out first.

The words were the wrong ones. For a moment, as she stilled in the act of raising her cup to her lips, Gareth feared she would toss the contents across the table and into his face such an expression of outrage twisted her features.

He flung up his hands to stop her. “Wait, wait. Hear me out before you fly into the boughs.”

“I am waiting.” Her voice was low, rasping.

“Thank you.” Gareth took a deep breath. “When I returned from Spain, I heard what had happened to you—or rather that you had vanished—and I went looking for you. I hired a Bow Street Runner to hunt for you. But you seem to have changed your name and. . .vanished and I didn’t even gain a clue until a party at the Featherstone’s last month.”

“How magnanimous of you.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone. “Why were you looking for me? To pledge your everlasting love?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“Not unless you left for Spain with your regiment by force instead of attending your own wedding.”

Gareth dropped his gaze to the scarred surface of the table. “I left with my regiment quite voluntarily.”

“I thought as much.” Her voice sounded scratchy, as though she had been talking for hours. She blinked several times in rapid succession, took a long breath, then rose and pushed in her chair.

Gareth shot to his feet, knocking his chair over. “You can’t leave.”

“Can I not?” She glided to the door. Despite her shabby gown and cloak, her stride held both vigor and grace.

Gareth reached the door ahead of her and rested one hand on the latch. “You haven’t eaten enough. Mrs. Polglaze, do pack up the rest of this in-in”—He darted his glance around the room. “Something.”

“Of course, Sir.” She proceeded to empty the contents of her knitting bag and began to wrap the meats and cheese in serviettes.

Arabella waved her hand. “I can’t take that with me. It will spoil before I can eat a tenth of it.”

“Then what will you do? Where will you go?” Gareth’s hand shook on the handle.

Arabella shrugged. “Someone will hire me.”

“I will.” Gareth knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care. “I inherited my uncle’s estate and am in a position to hire staff. A secretary. A steward.”

“Anything but housekeeper?” She shot Mrs. Polglaze a smile.

“Or cook,” that venerable lady affirmed. “We have a fine and loyal cook.”

Arabella turned back to Gareth, the moment of lightness shoved behind a mask of contempt. “Do not think you may assuage your conscience by offering me work. Now, please step aside so I may leave.”

Gareth opened the door and stepped aside. Once she passed through the opening, he closed it behind them both and fell into step beside her. “Will you please hear me out?”

“And have people think you have hired me for something disrespectable?”

“No one will if we leave the fair.”

“And then how do I get employment?”

“The less you argue with me and give me a quarter hour of your time, the sooner you can get back to your—“ Gareth paused at the top of the steps and looked down at her. “How will you get employment without references or the tools of your trade?”

She looked away from him, her posture stiff. “Scullions need no references.”

He gazed at her small but long-fingered hands in gloves so darned they barely showed the original fabric. The idea of her working with soda and lye soap all day appalled him. “You would be a scullion before you accepted my assistance?”

“A scullion still has pride.” She gripped the banister and charged down the steps and out the door of the inn.

He had always loved her fierce pride, her determination to get her own way. But a lady of good birth, wealth, and fine looks could afford her pride. All Arabella still possessed was her fine looks and a desire to keep her dignity and her pride in tact. Even eating a bowl of soup he provided had humiliated her. Under her current circumstances, her pride was likely to kill her.

“Arabella,” he called over the heads of the throng between him and his former fianceée, “pride lost me the only lady I ever loved.”

She flinched, but kept walking.

To words of encouragement and wishes for good fortune on his endeavor, Gareth wound his way around those blocking his way until he reached the inn yard, where Arabella was about to step into the area set aside for those seeking work. When she turned, she caught sight of him and swerved to duck behind the stables. Gareth caught up with her on a lane leading to the harbor, where white-capped swells told of a storm out to sea despite the clarity of the sky over the land.

They had always enjoyed walking together, strolling along the ramparts at Lyme Regis, along the Stene in Brighton, daringly along the dark walks of Vauxhall Gardens in London. For a few minutes, this walk felt like those other times—calm, contented, companionable. Then she stopped as though she had run into a wall and demanded, “All right. Give me your excuses for your terrible behavior and then let me go.”

Gareth blew out a sigh of relief. “Agreed.” He offered her his arm out of habit, and she took it, perhaps out of habit. “As soon as I heard your father had been taken up for treason, I went to talk with my commanding officer. He was agreeable about my marriage and not returning to the continent with my regiment for a few months, but once the scandal broke, I new he deserved to know of the fate of the future father-in-law of one of his officers.”

Her fingers flexed on his arm. “And your career would have been ruined.”

“It would have been.” He sighed. “It nearly was. The colonel didn’t want me associating with a lady part of such a scandal, even if it wasn’t of her—your—making. But I thought I could persuade you to come with me until the scandal died down.” He stared at the rough cobbles beneath his feet so he didn’t accidentally look at her and meet her eyes with all his shame. “And when the colonel said I must choose between you and keeping my commission. . .”

“You chose your commission.” The words spilled from her lips like the cry of a wounded gull, like a sword through his heart.

He had to clear his throat twice before he managed to affirm, “I did.” He inhaled the sharp tang of sea air and added, “I can make the excuse that I had no other way to support a wife. My father would have pulled my allowance and my colonel intended to find a way to cashier me rather than have one of his officers married to the daughter of-of—“

“A felon, a common criminal. I suppose I can’t blame him.” Suddenly she stopped and used his arm to spin him to face her, where she jabbed his chest with a forefinger. “You could have sent me a message. Instead, you just ran away.”

“I did write to you.” He captured the poking finger in his fist. “I wrote you before I left the country.”

“I never received it.”

“I know. I waited to long to send you word of my whereabouts.”

“You mean to tell me you chose your career over me?”

“I—yes. I convinced myself you would be all right. When my colonel saw that you had nothing to do with your father’s activities, he would come around and you could join me. . .”

“You were wrong. No one wanted me near them.” Her eyes grew luminous with tears.

He brushed a stray drop off her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I was wrong. But I found out too late to change my own actions. By the time I wrote you, you had already fled London without giving anyone your direction.”

“I had no direction. I had no home. You abandoning me like that robbed me of the last of my friends in town.”

“Oh, Bella.” He closed his eyes. They felt wet. “I was such a coward. Nothing I faced in battle frightened me so much as when I received my letters to you back.”

“You received them back?” She sounded surprised.

“That first message, all my letters to you, ended up at my father’s house in Sussex. He forwarded them to me in Spain.”

“I dared not leave any forwarding address with the Crown taking everything we owned. I thought they might commandeer the few things that were mine by my mother’s will and leave me with even less until I found work.” She removed her hand from his arm, tucked her hands inside the folds of her cloak, and recommenced walking toward the sea, her head bowed.

Gareth strode beside her, one hand tucked beneath her elbow. “I was wounded at Salamanca. Little more than a flesh wound, but it laid me up for a while. Then the war was truly turning in our favor and by the time I returned to England, all trace of you seemed to have vanished. I resigned my commission and began to hunt for you.”

Her face averted from his, she asked, “Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. I was young and prideful and ambitious.’”

“You put your regiment before me.”

“Guilty. I can spend the rest of my life making that up to you.” He tightened his hold to guide her over broken pavement. “And I doubt it’s enough without the grace of God to help you forgive me. In the meantime, let me offer you work. Respectable work. If it wouldn’t ruin your reputation, I would simply set you up with an independence so you can take your place in society again.”

“I have no place in society. I will always be Jerald Barr’s daughter, forever tainted.”

“Unless you wed.”

She snorted. “As though anyone would ever wed me.”

They had reached the top of a flight of boat steps and stopped with the green harbor water sloshing just below their feet. Gareth rested his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I promised you love everlasting, and I broke that promise. I put you second when you needed me first. You have no reason to believe that I love you, but I do. I’ve spent months seeking you out to tell you this, to ask you to forgive me, to let us begin a future. . . Now I’ve said my piece. The rest is up to you. If you simply need work, come find me in the inn. Or return to the fair and keep your pride in tact, and I will never come near you again.” He kissed her brow, then walked away from her.

Feeling as though an anchor chain were trying to drag him back to her with every step, he didn’t look back. He had to let her go with a choice this time. If she vanished from his life again, he would move on, run is estate and leave it to his older brother’s younger son so he wouldn’t have to choose between his military career and his heart.

Every step of the way, he ached to hear the sound of running feet behind him, the sound of her calling his name. But nothing happened. The crowds thickened. The hiring fair and inn hove into view. Like an old man with rheumatism, he climbed the steps to his private rooms, nodded to Mrs. Polglaze knitting in the corner, then stood at the window to watch. After a quarter hour, he saw her climbing from the harbor and entering the fair. An hour after that, she left with a woman in housekeeper black and a gaggle of other young women. Someone had hired her. She would have shelter and food at the least.

With a burdened heart, he turned from the window “We can leave now. I’ve done all I can.”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Polglaze packed up her knitting in the bag from which she had removed the food no one wanted.

A word to an inn servant had his gig brought around to the front, and they headed back to the small but prosperous estate his uncle had left to him. The sun hadn’t yet set as they pulled into the stable yard at Polhenny. Sunlight turned the ornamental lake to molten bronze, and a peacock added it’s color to the shore and green lawn. Arabella would love this land, the beauty, the peace, the house large enough for a family, but not big enough to be ostentatious. She would have scandalized the servants by demanding she cook meals from time to time, but won them over with her appreciation of their skills. . .

An ache in his heart he had bourne for three years and doubted he would ever be rid of, Gareth headed for the house.

At first, he thought he imagined the woman perched on the top step of the portico. Then she rose so she stood eye to eye with him from her elevated position.

He halted and stared at her. “I thought you took a position.”

“I did. A decent one as a kitchen maid.” She worried the edge of her cloak. “But I forgot to ask you a question.”

“So you gave up your position to come ask it?”

She looked him in the eye. “It’s an important question.”

He waited, heart pounding so loudly he wasn’t certain he would hear it when she asked.

She drew in a deep breath. “When did you resign your commission? Before or after you inherited this estate?”

He arched his brows. “Before.”

“Before or after Napoleon escaped from Elba?”

“After.”

“Why aren’t you with your regiment in Belgium right now?”

He smiled. “That’s three questions.”

She scowled.

He grinned more broadly. “Because I hadn’t found you yet.”

“Oh, Gareth.” Her lower lip quivered.

He took a step toward her. “I put my career before you in the past and hurt you badly. How could I convince you I love you if I were still in the cavalry and could place that before you again?”

“But you didn’t know you’d find me.”

“You are worth the risk I took. It was the least I could do—ooph.”

She launched herself off the step and into his arms. With her hands clasped behind his neck, she buried her face in his shoulder. “I never stopped loving you either. And I forgive you because I must.” She tilted her head back. “But if you ever leave me again, I will—“

He kissed her before she formed a threat, for she had no need to worry he would ever let her go.

Love Everlasting, Part 1 ~ A Regency Short Story by Laurie Alice Eakes

Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.
Ephesians 4:31–32, kjv

The last place Arabella Barr expected to encounter Major Gareth Reynard was at a Falmouth hiring fair. Three years ago, she would have rejoiced to see his tall, lithe figure striding toward her through a throng, but not there. Not while carrying the tools of her trade along with dozens of other hopeful men and women in need of work, parading past what were mostly the butlers and housekeepers of ladies and gentlemen in need of servants. Yet there she stood, a wooden spoon and a copper pot gleaming in her hand, a mere shade or two brighter than her own ruddy locks. And there he strolled, a glass of lemonade in his hand, and a stout, middle-aged woman in black gown and frilled white cap at his side.

Arabella saw him too late to escape, even if eluding his notice were an option. She could not get hired if she ducked behind the copper pan, or the woman beside her, who was twice her width and half a head taller. And she needed someone to hire her. She had spent nearly every farthing she possessed to remove herself to this remote corner of England in an effort to avoid persons who once called her friend or, at the least, social equal. No employment by the end of the fair meant no roof over her head that night and precious little to eat. So why, oh, why, was he in Cornwall instead of with his regiment in Belgium with half the ton? Why oh why had she not fled somewhere like the Hebrides to find work away from the peers who now shunned her as though she would contaminate them with a mere glimpse of her?

The answer to her decision was simple—a Scots household that could afford a cook would not hire an English one. The reason for Major Reynard’s presence at the Falmouth hiring fair baffled Arabella into immobility of body and thought, as he drew close enough to speak to her.

“Arabella—Miss Barr.” He was not inflicted with immobility. His blue eyes sparkled as though sunshine blessed the warm summer day. His lips, the lower one enticing with its cleft in the middle, curved into a smile. “Here you are at last.”

Apparently paralyzed from the ability to emit speech, Arabella’s mouth remained closed. Not a word formed in her head to move to her tongue, even if those words could force their way past her lips.

“I never thought I’d find you.” Major Reynard was speaking again, though her ears seemed to have lost their ability to understand English, for his syllables made not sense to her. “But now that I have—“

“Sir,” The housekeeper-looking woman beside him interrupted, “begging your pardon, and I don’t recommend you hire this one. She’s too young and too pretty.”

“I’m not interested in hiring her.” Major Reynard reached a hand toward Arabella. “Please, my dear—“

Like a shock from one of those electrifying machines, the words “my dear” shot through Arabella and spurred her into action. She flung up her pot like a shield and fixed him with a glare. “If you have no intention of hiring me, then step aside so someone else can.”

“Arabella, my dear—“

“I am not your dear, or have you forgotten that you jilted me three years ago?” She spun on her broken-down heel and stalked through the crowd to another corner of the grounds.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him bend his head toward the housekeeper as though speaking earnestly, confidentially. Arabella could only guess at the words, as she could see neither Major Reynard’s nor the housekeeper’s faces, nor hear their voices above the tumult of cries of, “Will you pay for this,” from maids wielding dust mops,  and “Hot pies. Get your hot pies here,” from piemen carrying their trays above their heads.

“She nearly ruined my career three years ago, Mrs. Housekeeper.” The major would be saying. Or if he was in a humor to be kind, “Or rather, her father did. I’ve been looking for her to—“

Why he had found her “at last” Arabella couldn’t imagine. He had left the country with his regiment the first week the banns for their nuptials had been called instead of staying in England for the wedding. And Arabella had fled London with little more than the clothes on her back and ring—

A-ha! The ring. He wanted the ring back. No doubt he had found another heiress to bestow the betrothal band upon and couldn’t afford to buy another such bauble on a major’s pay.

Arabella raised her left hand to examine the bare finger. She had sold the ring to hold body and soul together until she convinced someone to hire a cook barely into her twenties.

She lowered her hand to see another housekeeper was bearing down upon her like a hawk on a mouse. “References?” The word was a fox’s yip.

“Yes, ma’am.” Tucking the pot and spoon under one arm, Arabella drew two folded papers from her reticule. “I’ve been creating pastries since I was ten years of age and advanced to sauces and roasting meats when I was fifteen.”

Because she begged the cook in her father’s house to teach her on lonely days when she couldn’t spend her lonely hours riding..

“As you see—“

“Why did you leave your previous employer?” the housekeeper interrupted her.

“Their London chef decided he wanted a spell in their country house.”

And she had seen Major Reynard’s name on the guest list for an upcoming houseparty. The Featherstones had been kind to her. She didn’t wish to embarrass them with her true identity emerging while guests from the haut-ton filled their house.

“As you see from my references, my work was more than satisfactory. I, um—“ She forgot what she intended to say, for she spied the major striding toward her through the crowd without his housekeeper this time. I’m good.” She finished with a lameness that would convince no one to hire her.

But the housekeeper was reading her references with care.

“She might have written those herself.” Major Reynard’s rich timbre rolled over her ears like a drayman’s wagon now, though once upon a time, it had sent shivers of delight racing through her. “She has a fine hand.”

“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. That is to say. . .” Arabella’s voice trailed off as the potential employer thrust the letters back.

“You look too young.” She trundled off to  a stout woman with a dented tin pot.

“How could you?” Tears stung Arabella’s eyes. She blinked them back and thrust the handle of her wooden spoon into Major Reynard’s neatly tied cravat. “She was giving me serious consideration and now-now you’ve ruined it. But what should I expect from you other than to to ruin my life?”

“You don’t need to be working like a common servant now that I have finally located you.” He reached for her arm.

She jerked away. “You are giving all the potential employers a wrong impression of me.”

“Miss Barr, I am trying to talk to you.”

“And what you are doing is creating a scene.”

A circle of silent onlookers surrounded them.

“We can’t talk here, Ara—Miss Barr.” The major took her elbow. “I have a private parlor in the inn and my housekeeper will chaperone.”

She tucked pot, spoon, and the bag with her measly belongings behind her back. “The time for talking to me was three years ago. But, you couldn’t flee fast enough from so much as a fare-the-well.” Tears stung her eyes, clogged her throat, and she stepped backward before he noticed.

And stepped on someone’s foot.

“Yow, ye broke me toe.” The cry sounded more like the yowl of a cat defending its territory than a young woman.

The blow she dealt Arabella on the side of her head with the handle of a broom felt more like a truncheon. She gasped and staggered. Her pot flew in one direction, her spoon in another. The pot knocked the brushes from the hand of a chimney sweep, and a stray dog snatched up the spoon and darted through the crowd as though he had captured a meaty bone.

Major Reynard captured Arabella by her arms. “Are you all right? Shall I catch that woman and lay an information against her for assaulting her?”

“My spoon. My pot.” Arabella shrieked her dismay. “I need them. I—“ She yanked free and darted after the sweep with her pot. She couldn’t afford a new one. She wouldn’t have that one if she hadn’t slipped it out of the house ahead of the bailiffs come to collect all the Barrs’ worldly possessions.

But the sweep was small as his kind was wont to be, and the fair crowded. He vanished from her sight before she ran a dozen yards.

And she had just lost her reticule. One cord of her bag still dangled over her sleeve from where a cutpurse had taken advantage of the chaos and run off with the last of her worldly wealth—two shillings and a happens.

She stared at the frayed string and wished the maid had wielded the broom a little harder. If she had been knocked unconscious, she could wake up to discover this was all a nightmare. But she was already awake and this was not a nightmare. Stark reality told her she was now bereft of the tools of her trade, her references, and a paltry sum of money, but enough for a pie.

How she would adore a pie. Though the crust would likely be tough and greasy, not her own flaky pastry light enough to blow away with a puff of air, sustenance of any kind would help ease the gnawing emptiness inside her, an emptiness caused by a lack of nourishment for the past two days, and a hollow place in her chest once filled by her love for a dashing cavalry officer.

That cavalry officer reached her side and simply held out his elbow for her to take as though they promenaded through a garden party at a country house and not through a malodorous throng. He wore the buckskin breeches and top boots of the country gentleman rather than his uniform, and yet he was no less dashing. Chiseled features, broad shoulders, and narrow hips did that for a man when he was also confident to the point of arrogance, expecting all to move from his path and do his bidding despite his position of the third son of a modestly prosperous baronet.

Resigned to the notion that she should at least get a meal from his wish to speak to her, Arabella was no different than those around him. She took his elbow and allowed him to lead her through a throng that parted like a joint beneath a cleaver

Half way across the green, he stopped and held out his hand. “I will carry your bag.”

She gave it to him. That was easier than arguing. He took it with the tensed muscles of someone who expected a heavy burden. At the lightness of the bag, little more than a drawstring sack like an over-sized reticule, he took half a minute to gaze down at her, his dark blue eyes registering an expression she chose to believe was pity.

“I expected more,” he said.

“What more could I have after three years on the run?”

“But why—“ He shook his head and resumed walking, his stride long, his footfalls striking the ground hard enough for her to feel them through his arm.

“That damage your conscience?” she taunted. “If you have one.”

“Arabella, please don’t.” He didn’t say what he didn’t want from her—as if he hadn’t said that loudly and clearly three years earlier—for the reached the inn.

The tap and coffeerooms bulged with sweating, shouting humanity on either side of the entryway. The Major shouldered his way through the swarm and up a flight of steps to a room at the top of the steps. He knocked and the housekeeper opened the portal to show a plainly furnished room with a table and chairs, a sideboard and desk, an oasis in the desert.

“Mrs. Polglaze,” Reynard said, “did you order some dinner?”

“I did, sir, and there’s warm water in the next room if Miss Barr wishes to freshen herself up a mite.” She bestowed a kindly look upon Arabella. “Shall I show you the way?”

She showed Arabella to an adjoining room. Warm water and soap, though harsh, restored some of her dignity. A comb for her tumbled hair helped even more. The smell of meat pies and other savory dishes brought into the parlor by an inn servant nearly restored her to a shred of the confidence that had gotten her out of London and into a paying position before she starved to death.

Then she strolled into the parlor and faced Major Gareth Reynard in enough quiet and privacy for them to speak for the first time since he slipped out of her life. The fragrance of the meal gagged her. Her knees grew so weak she clutched the back of a chair to stop herself from dropping to her knees on the floorboards. Only her pride gave her the strength to look the major in the eyes.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Your forgiveness.” He gripped the back of his own chair. He had removed his gloves prior to eating, and his knuckles shone as white as hers. “And to tell you why I did what I did. To explain. . . Explain. . .”

Arabella made herself laugh. “You think you can explain away leaving me at the altar or as near as it doesn’t matter?”

“Not explain away, but—“

“Thank you, sirrah, and your actions gave me all the explanation I have needed for the past three years and continue to need. You promised me everlasting love, but vanished into the arms of the war the day after the constable hauled my father off to Newgate Prison.”

Part 2 of Love Everlasting can be read here

So what do you think? Is any excuse good enough to explain the major jilting his fiancee practically at the altar? Regardless, how can Arabella forgive him? Could you forgive a man who left you at the altar in an hour of desperate need or any other time?

 

A Jane Austen Barbeque

Vanessa here,

Vegans, Vegetarians, and PETA look away from this post.

As we get ready to celebrate the 4th of July, our nation’s Independence Day, we should take the time to thank a service man or veteran for their duty, for choosing to protect America so we might enjoy freedom and wonderfully barbequed hamburgers and hot dogs.

Source: Wiki Commons

Source: Wiki Commons

The English during our period of the Regency were not particularly joyous of America’s Independence. They still brooded over their loss in our Revolutionary War and impressed our men into service to fight their other wars, but I digress.

Yet, we can still trace our love of fire roasted meats to them.

Fire roasting was (and is) common around the world and a forerunner to our barbecue cooking method. From cooking meat in a hot pit in the ground to using wooden frames to hold the meat, people of all cultures and all nations figured out fire-cooked meat was yummy. The English were quite serious  and well regarded for their meat cooking.

Pehr Kalm, a traveler to England on his way to America (1748) noted:
“Roast meat, Stek, is the Englishman’s delice and principal dish. It is not however always roasted, Stekt, to the same hardness as with us in Sweden. The English roasts, stekarne, are particularly remarkable for two things.

  1. All English meat, whether it is of Ox, Calf, Sheep, or Swine, has a fatness and a delicious taste,either because of the excellent pasture, betet, which consist of such nourishing and sweet-scented kinds of hay as there are in this country, where the cultivation of meadows has been brought to such high perfection, or some way of fattening the cattle known to the butchers alone, or, for some other reason.
  2. The Englishmen understand almost better than any other people the art of properly roasting a joint, konsten, at val steka en stek, which also is not to be wondered at ; because the art of cooking as practised by most Englishmen does not extend much beyond roast beef and plum pudding, stek.”

We can thank John Walker, an English chemist who in 1826 invented the friction match. He took a stick of wood and dipped it in a paste formed from potassium chlorate and sulfur to make a match that lit when struck on an abrasive surface. As you light up the coals tomorrow, think John Walker, unless you own one of those fancy auto-lighting-gas grills or a lighter.

Source: Wiki Commons

Source: Wiki Commons

One thing I am glad did not become the norm is the Turnspit Dog. Look at the picture below and see the dog on the circular track pinned to the wall. No, your eyes are working properly. The doggie is hung up like kitchen pots or a ladle, just another kitchen utensil aiding the cooking of foods in an English kitchen.

Source: Wiki Commons

Source: Wiki Commons

 

Can you imagine? “Cook, is the meat done?”

“No milord, Lassie has another mile to go.”

Turnspit dogs were short animals trained to run on a treadmill like cage so that spit meat cooked evenly. These kitchen helpers were small, low-bodied creatures with short front legs. They often had grey and white fur or reddish brown.

Source: Wiki Commons

Source: Wiki Commons

The dogs, commonly called Kitchen dogs, Turnspit dogs or Vernepator Cur were very sturdy and capable of turning the spit wheel for hours. Now that is some serious cooking if you have to train pets to help. Lucky for us and the greater good, this practice died off by the late 1850′s.

So light up those grills tomorrow, be thankful of our independence, and give a special patty to your pet pouch. Happy Fourth of July.

Source: Kalm’s Account of His Visit to England, 1758 http://www.archive.org/stream/cu31924028059693/cu31924028059693_djvu.txt

 

Lighting Up the Night By Regina Scott

reginascott11-07smallSo glad to be back at Regency Reflections. Is that the bang of fireworks I hear in celebration? Sometimes it seems as if our neighborhood has returned to the Revolutionary War right before the Fourth of July there are so many sizzles, pops, and whistles!

Regency lords and ladies were no strangers to fireworks. The fire masters (the equivalent of today’s pyrotechnical engineers) performed their duties for public events like coronations and military victories as well as private events like balls and routs.

Plersch_Night_illumination_of_KaniówA fire-master was originally a commissioned officer in the artillery who ordered the instructions and directions for making fireworks, whether for military purposes such as rockets or for celebration. Each firework consisted of one or more tubes of paper of various diameters filled with different types of flammable powder and connected to a quick match or a slower burning fuse. Rockets might have a stick at the end to help steady the flight. How hot the fire burned, the direction in which it burned, and the diameter of the opening through which it shot all affected the size, shape, duration, and color of the firework.

vauxhall fireworksPeople didn’t seem to tire of fireworks, no matter how many times they saw the bright lights. Talented fire masters were in great demand. Of course, the displays had their down sides as well. In large crowds, there was the apparent danger of pieces of the rockets in particular falling back to the ground and striking people on the head or shoulder. Sparks could also burn as they fell. Perhaps to help prevent such calamities, some events were held near a body of water like a river or ornamental pond. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens had some amazing displays along the Thames.

White_bright_fireworks-freeEmboldened by their acclaim, however, the fire masters became more and more creative over the years. Until the middle of the nineteenth century, most of the fireworks were orange or white. In the 1830s, fire masters discovered that burning metallic salts with potassium chlorate would give them many more colors to play with. Fireworks were affixed to wooden frames to spell out words or illuminate scenes. Others burst in the sky like stars, hissed and wove about like serpents in the air, or showered sparks down on amazed onlookers like hot rain. Musicians composed odes that could accompany the displays. Architects and engineers built revolving machines that could light up or shoot out fireworks at various angles. Even one of the Prince Regent’s favorite architects, John Nash, built a machine to house such displays.

Today, fireworks light up the night sky at sporting events, fairs and concerts, and civic events. But we owe much of our delight to the creativity and ingenuity those early fire masters.

Regina

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Though she hasn’t found a way to make her hero a fire master yet, Regina Scott has penned 27 stories set in Regency England. Her most recent novel, The Husband Campaign, was released in April 2014 from Love Inspired Historical. You can learn more about her at her website at www.reginascott.com or catch up with her online at www.facebook.com/authorreginascott.

Camy here: Thanks so much, Regina, for our guest post today!

Review of The Babe and the Baron by Carola Dunn, Traditional Regency

Laurie Alice here,

Since I discovered traditional Regencies, I have counted Carola Dunn as one of my favorite authors in this genre. So imagine my thrill when I ended up on a Regency fan list with Ms. Dunn.Babe&Baron When I decided to review another traditional Regency as a Throw-back Thursday post, I contacted Ms. Dunn and asked her which one of her wonderful books she would like me to review. She suggested The Babe and The Baron which, to my delight, had slipped below my radar.

I say to my delight because finding a Carola Dunn book I hadn’t read is like finding a forgotten box of chocolates in the cupboard. In addition, she told me an amusing story about this book.

Soon after she began to write it, her publisher, Walker Publishing, canceled their traditional Regency line. Two years passed before this book finally saw the light of day under the Kensington Zebra imprint. Poor Laura remained pregnant for two years. “She did not,” MS. Dunn assured me, “give birth to an elephant.”babe pb

Laura’s scapegrace husband dies while celebrating the fact that she is expecting their first child, leaving her penniless. Gareth, Lord Wyckham, a distant cousin of Laura’s husband, learns that she is now penniless and offers her a home along with a host of other relatives living under his roof. Gareth is a wonderful hero—kind, responsible, enjoying a bit of fun, so not stodgy. He is also a wee bit overprotective of Laura and her condition.

Laura, however, has been used to being independent since her scandalous marriage to her late spouse, and chafes at the hovering, all the while she is falling in love with her relative by marriage. With tact and dignity, she slips into the household routine, taking children and elderly relations in hand and wanting to discover why Gareth is so overly protective of her, a near stranger.

As typical of one of Ms. Dunn’s books, this traditional Regency is written with detail to character and interplay with the hero and heroine, as well as the cast of others important in their lives. Each individual has a unique role to play in the development of the characters, the romance, and the story itself.

If you haven’t read this delightful tale yet, it is available in electronic formats, along with other Regency romances by Carola Dunn. She now writes wonderful mysteries also worth reading.