Regencyland

 

October! Goodness!

Regencyland

I’m seeing the word appear in more and more places these days. As the inventor of the word, allow me to tell you its history.

I’m a historian and I write historical fiction, primarily romance. I work really hard to make my books as accurate as I can, while delivering a good story. Finding the gaps between the lines, writing the untold stories, things that could have happened. I was mostly inspired by reading old newspapers, journals, and the like. One book was about one of my ancestors, the silversmith Hester Bateman, but because I was writing fiction, I could end her story the way I want it to be.

The originator of the genre, Georgette Heyer, who died in 1972, was the originator of the Regency romance, but she kept her books as accurate as she could, and prided herself on it. So, I confess, when the first inaccurate “historical” appeared, I was a bit fed up. Especially considering how much work I did to get mine right! The new brand of “historicals” were romances (a genre that has always been under attack), and almost all of them were written in a version of the Regency era.

But...

Of course I picked one up. And then another one. Some of them were really good. But they weren’t historical. Writers of historical writers labelled them “wallpaper” and derided them. Sure, the history was terrible, but the characters were often engaging and the books were a good, if light, read. There are some really well written books that were getting overlooked. There has always been a disconnect between historical fiction and historical romance. This new era only emphasised that.

The main problem is that they are labelled “historical.” They just aren’t. Dukes and earls (but mostly dukes) who choose their heirs, books where illegitimate sons inherited peerages, young, wealthy, well-born women sneaking out of the house at midnight, sleeping with whoever they wanted to, and still ending up marrying the duke. I’m not even going to talk about how many dukes, all young, wealthy and handsome, stalk the pages of these books. They were set in London, a little bit of Bath and a lot of Scotland, for the most part.

There’s not much history in these books, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t engaging and well-written.

So there’s the problem. Calling them “historical romance” or “Regency romance” doesn’t describe these books properly. They aren’t historical, and they do not reflect the Regency era. Perhaps better to say that those descriptions don’t describe the new genre that has sprung up.

Calling them “wallpaper,” and other derogatory terms won’t work, and it doesn’t do these books justice. They do have aspects of the Regency era in them, the same way that The Lord of the Rings has medieval and Norse echoes. They do have lively stories, well told. So why not describe them in a way that would attract readers more? Give them their own identity?

I made a list of possibles. Something that wasn’t derogatory, something that would lift the genre into something that described itself and would attract readers. I came up with Regencyland.

Regencyland has dukes by the dozen in every London square, and heroines who are feisty, attractive and take their own path in life. Which, these being romances, end up with the two main characters getting married and living happily ever after. Even though both have had other partners before!

I haven’t even mentioned the B word, but there’s no avoiding it. Bridgerton showed how clever and amusing a Regencyland series could be. It was open about its deviation from events, and the wild imagination of the writers took it further from reality than anyone could have imagined. But it worked. It’s a hugely popular series, and about as true to the historical Regency era as Gray’s Anatomy is to life working in a busy hospital.

I still write historical romance (not Regency, but Georgian) and make them as accurate as I can. But that doesn’t mean that everybody has to. So viva Regencyland!

Which do you prefer? Or you like both?

Love to hear your opinions on this!

What's new in your world?

My news

Well, from a personal point of view, there is none - thank goodness! I'm still here, getting over the heart attack pretty well, and life is turning back to something like normal. The world outside - that's another story, and it's not pretty, but we're not here for that, are we? There are enough people talking about the world without mine added to the cacophony!

I'm still planning and beginning to write the new book. After years of working to deadlines, I want to enjoy the process this time, get to grips with my characters and what they want.

I'm grateful that a few publishers have expressed interest in my latest project, but that's a long way from having the book done.

I did have an idea. It's a biggie, but it's about the historical romance genre, not particularly my work.

Regencyland

The world of historical romance is divided. There are the purists (like me!), someone who likes to read about a fictional character inserted into a real historical space. Time travel, if you will. Where authors go to great pains to try to get the history right. It's my way, but it's not the only way.

The other way is the fantasy Regency, the one dominating the genre at the moment. The Regency era gets the most extreme treatment of this. The two factions, the history lovers and the fantasy lovers are constantly clashing. But there is an answer.

The problem could be solved by creating a new genre - Regencyworld, let's call it (I made that one up, but I like it. Take note, it's mine!). That's what the TV folks have done in effect, with Bridgerton, taking the elements they liked, and ignoring other things about the era. If dancing to Lady Gaga isn't enough of a clue, I'm not sure what is!

And why not? Why shouldn't they? It gives pleasure to a lot of other readers (and viewers).

Think of Game of Thrones and the Lord of the Rings sagas. Hugely successful, based on, but not adhering strictly to, medieval and pre-medieval history. Elements remain, but the details are different.

So why not Regencyworld? Books where every son of a peer has his own title. Where respectable young women become pirates and adventure the world, then marry a duke. Where peers of the realm become spies for the Crown, where poor young seamstresses are married by dukes (always dukes!) and become the cream of society, where bluestocking is a compliment and wallflowers blossom and not only marry their duke, but become feted in their own world.

Then we could have dragons.


Love to hear your opinions on this!

April Showers - and more!

 

Here's Rose!

What's new?

Planning a new book, but taking my time over it.

I've had more texts, and I've been sorted out, if we can call it that. But I'm here, and in a way, I'm back.

I'm grateful that a few publishers have expressed interest in my latest project, but that's a long way from having the book done. But this time, I'm going back to my roots. It's Georgian. My little foray into the Regency was fun, but that's not where my heart lies. Give me the lusty, honest, fun-loving Georgians!

So, here we go again, I suppose. The plot is a bit more entangled, because I want to write a series, and I'm so sorry I'm being a bit obscure about it, but don't know myself yet!

It's exciting, the beginning of a project, with untold possibilities ahead. My plans are more like a guideline, leaving lots to enjoy and discover.

So what makes you feel that way, as an idea slowly rumbles into view and then fills your vision for a while?

Excerpt from Yorkshire

This is going right to the beginning. The story of Richard and Rose, the couple who took my imagination and ran with it. From the first book in the series, Yorkshire.

Rose Golightly is a country girl who thinks her life will continue on its comfortable course, but a series of events changes that for good. On a visit to the ancestral estate of Hareton Abbey, Richard Kerre, Lord Strang, enters her life. A leader of society, a man known for extravagance in dress and life, Richard is her fate. And she is his.

Richard is to marry a rich, frigid woman in a few weeks, and has deliberately closed his heart to love. Then a coach accident throws his wounded body into Rose’s arms.

With one kiss, Richard and Rose discover in each other the passion they thought they’d never find.

But the accident that brought them together was an act of sabotage. Somewhere, in the rotting hulk of a once beautiful stately home, a murderer is hiding.

Richard and Rose set out to solve the mystery, and find the layers of scandal go deeper than simply determining who is guilty. And that doing the right thing could separate them—forever.

Warning: This series is addictive. Passion and murder are a potent mix.

Chapter One

We walked into the Great Hall. Or something that had once been the Great Hall. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness inside. The great space felt gloomy and cold, clammy with disuse. Martha had described Hareton Abbey’s great marble entrance hall to us, but this couldn’t be the same place.

The staircase with its crimson carpet soared in front of us. Myriad life sized marble statues ranged around the upper storey. Dirt obscured the finer features of the marble, and turned the pure white on the gods and goddesses of a different age to a murky grey. Cobwebs stretched from fingertip to hipbone in a weird parody of the fine lace sported by the Southwood party. The once smart black and white tiles, laid in a chequered pattern, were blurred with dirt. Shuddering in revulsion, I took Lizzie’s arm. We held each other tightly and looked around in silence; all affected by the tomb-like silence of the once Great Hall.

Suddenly, shockingly, the stillness shattered. “My God, I wonder which bedroom Sleeping Beauty rests in.” A male voice, quiet, low but penetrating. I knew without looking that it was Lord Strang.

The man who had let us in waited for us by a small door at one side of the hall. He must be a servant, but his role wasn’t easily identifiable either by his appearance or demeanour. He wore no livery nor the quiet, smart clothes of an upper domestic, but a rough country coat, such as a gamekeeper might wear.

Lizzie glanced at me, eyebrows raised in a tacit comment. When I looked at her, I caught Lord Strang’s glance. He smiled. I looked away.

We moved towards the servant, who led the way through the door and along a passage, where we entered another world. The magnificence and filth changed to Puritan cleanliness. No paintings hung on the wall here, no ornaments adorned the well-polished country furniture, just plain, gleaming floors and whitewashed walls. Our feet clattered on the uncarpeted wooden floor.

The manservant led us to a door at the end that opened onto a modest parlour. Here the Earl and Countess of Hareton and the Honourable Edward Golightly waited for us. The men stood while the lady sat in a hard chair before of them. They were all completely rigid. No smiles marred their stern features. They wore perfectly plain garments, the men simulacra of the manservant, the lady in dark blue and white with no lace, only plain linen cuffs to her sleeves and no jewellery.

Nothing approximating comfortable domesticity spoiled the austerity of the little room. No ornaments decorated the old fashioned carved oak mantelpiece, no cushions added comfort to the hard chairs. I found the obsessively spotless parlour as disturbing as the abandoned magnificence we had just left.

Our hosts bowed rigidly, and the lady stood and curtseyed with an awkwardness that indicated she didn’t do it very often The answering bows from the Southwood party were awe inspiring, especially Lord Strang’s, which combined precision and elegance in one graceful gesture. It seemed more elaborate than the bow he had given us in the courtyard, mocking the Haretons with its perfection.

“Welcome,” said Lord Hareton. I felt anything but welcome here. The door opened to admit the manservant returning with a large wooden tray. It held a large teapot and several tea dishes.

There weren’t enough chairs for everyone in this small room, so the ladies sat and the men remained on their feet. Lady Hareton saw to the tea, practically and without comment. The brown teapot, like the one we had in Devonshire for the servants to use, contained a weak infusion, but we found it welcome all the same. The heated cup warmed me in this unfriendly place. Despite the chill outside, the fireplace was cold, the fire unlit.

“I am pleased to see all of you. I thank you for coming.” Lord Hareton’s tones were exaggeratedly formal, perhaps a legacy of his childhood. The formality of the Hareton household had been famous in the last generation; the children forbidden to sit in their father’s presence.

“I am surprised not to see Lord Southwood and his daughter.”

Lord Strang gave him an easy smile. “He sends his apologies. A minor disposition has delayed his arrival with my sister, but he sent me ahead as a token of his good faith.”

Lord Hareton nodded, his mouth a tight line of disapproval. “It is to be hoped that he doesn’t keep us waiting long. I have made arrangements for our family lawyer, Mr. Fogg, to visit us tomorrow. Also, my minister will arrive. I intend to collect him personally in the morning. He uses public transport. He deems private carriages an extravagance, and I tend to agree with him. I do not wish for a long betrothal period, and I would like the contract fulfilled as soon as possible.”

His glance at Lord Strang asked for complaisance, but he didn’t find it.

“Can the lawyer’s visit be deferred?” the younger man asked calmly, but I could hear the passion beneath. Lord Strang was in a temper.

“No, sir, it cannot. There is—”

Lord Strang lifted his chin. “I don’t know if my sister would be content here.”

“Contentment is in God’s hands, not ours.”

Lord Strang ignored the comment and continued to speak. Although his demeanour was rigidly polite, his low tones quivered with the anger beneath. “The betrothal was never a done thing; your father and my grandfather arranged it, but left it to my father and you to fulfil it. I am here as my father’s representative, and if I dislike what I see, I fear I cannot recommend the betrothal to him.”

Hareton smiled. It appeared malicious, but this interpretation surely must be wrong. I preferred the stern look; Lord Hareton had lost most of his teeth, and what remained weren’t in good condition. “Perhaps you need some time to reflect.” He used a soothing tone that made me want to slap him. “I would welcome an opportunity to bring your sister to God’s family. I hope, once you have met Mr. Pritheroe, our minister, you will come to see the error of your ways and join our family.”

Lord Strang stared, his eyes wide in anger and astonishment, momentarily transfixed. Abruptly Lord Hareton turned away and smiled at James. Now our turn arrived.

“I am pleased to welcome you back to my house, Sir James. I’m sorry not to see all of your family, as I requested, but it is not entirely necessary.”

“My younger brother, Ian, had a fall and injured his foot. He sends his apologies.” Lord Hareton nodded in response to James’s explanation. “My younger sister, Ruth, is barely out of the schoolroom and my children are too young to embark on such a long journey.”

Not the whole truth, but it would do. Ian’s injury was far from serious, Ruth was too headstrong and excitable and the thought of those lively children in a coach on a long journey made me shudder. Not to mention the odd rumours we’d heard about the state of the Abbey. We hadn’t imagined matters would be as bad as this, but it had given Martha and James pause.

Lord Hareton continued to speak. “I have asked you here as a witness to the betrothal, and to give you the opportunity to do something for God’s people.” James remained silent. Hareton ignored the rest of us. As women we were probably beneath his notice. I sipped my tea in an effort to appear unconcerned, waiting for the next bombshell. I had no doubt it would come.

“I have asked Mr. Fogg here for another reason. I wish to break the entail.” Seemingly oblivious to the sensation he caused, he continued calmly, “I do not wish to be known as the earl, and I do not wish for the wealth and privilege that go with it. I wish to live as a private citizen. If the entail on the estate is broken, I am free to do that. I cannot prevent or deny the earldom, but I do not have to use it or encourage people to use the title.”

James couldn’t speak. He stared at Lord Hareton rather in the way a rabbit watches a snake, fascinated, waiting for the final, killing stroke.

“Mr. Fogg informs me that in order to break this document, it must be signed by the heir, and the next heir, in line. That is my brother, and you, Sir James.” Our host smiled, as if this explained everything.

“And you want my sister to marry into this?” Mr. Kerre, who had up to now remained silent could no longer keep his indignation to himself. “Not only to live in a mausoleum, but to lose her standing in society, the privileges she has a right to expect?”

“Only by birth,” Lord Hareton responded.

“That is true.” Lord Strang’s quiet, low voice cut through the air, like the voice of reason. “And among those men born to high state, there are a few who deserve it. I don’t want to leave Maria here because it would make her unhappy. She wasn’t born to this. From what I have seen here, I don’t think I can recommend that my father brings her here.”

He paused, glancing around the comfortless room. “I, however, am strangely intrigued by your minister, and I’d like to stay a little longer, if I may.” His brother shot him a sharp glance, but remained silent.

“I am delighted to hear that, sir,” Hareton replied. “Perhaps I can persuade you to change your mind.”

Hareton’s brother, the prospective bridegroom, showed no emotion at all. Intrigued, I wondered what other surprises this strange place held.

Hareton excused himself, saying it was time he went to pray. He looked askance at Steven in his dark clerical garb, but Steven said nothing, avoiding his gaze. I didn’t blame him.

After they left the room, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, and looked around at each other. Lizzie and I exchanged a smile, then a laugh as we felt the oppressive atmosphere slide away. The exotic Kerres seemed normal, next to the extraordinary figures of our cousins.

“When did you last come here, Martha?” I knew, of course, but needed the confirmation. Something to remind me of my normal life, my normal home.

“Ten years ago. The last earl sent for us when we were married. It was different then. Our rooms were magnificent, even though we didn’t have the best ones and a footman stood at every door.”

“A stickler for ceremony by all accounts,” said Lord Strang. “I have to confess there is no indisposition. My father sent us ahead to form an opinion. He has heard some odd rumours about Lord Hareton, and has serious doubts about the match. Society thinks Hareton is a recluse—they don’t know the half of it.”

“Indeed,” agreed Martha. “It’s all very shocking.”

James looked up from silent contemplation. “I don’t know what to do about this entail. If I refuse to sign it, will it still go through? It’s not that I expect to inherit. Indeed, I don’t wish for it, especially now I’ve seen the property, but I don’t think it’s right. I’ve never heard of such a thing before.” I hated to see my beloved brother so worried. I would gladly have consigned the Haretons and the Abbey to perdition, if it would help him.

“I’m sure I’d feel the same.” Mr. Kerre studied James, his finely shaped lips pursed in thought. “In truth, sir, from what I’ve seen, I think the Hareton estate is bankrupt. He may talk of God and his minister all he likes, but I think his father bankrupted the estate with his extravagance.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lord Strang. “Why would they leave all the treasures in the Great Hall to rot if that’s the case? I’m sure they could fetch a good price. What’s the rest of the house like?”

James frowned. “You have a point, but on the way here I studied the land. Some of the fields are uncultivated, the animal population is scarce and what buildings I saw are sadly in need of repair.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Kerre, “I saw that too. I think you’re right, sir. The Hareton estate is bankrupt.”

My brother heaved a sigh. “So you think I should sign the entail away?”

“I would never presume to tell you what to do, sir,” said Strang, “but in your place, I would seriously consider it. The situation intrigues me. I want to see more of it, but be assured, sir, there will be no wedding. Please feel free to shake the dust of Hareton Abbey from your heels as soon as you wish.”

A maid chose that moment to come in and offer to show us to our rooms. It was early, but we accepted. When I passed James, he murmured to me, “Don’t unpack.”

I nodded.

I still love Rose!

You can get yourself a copy of Yorkshire here! https://www.amazon.com/Yorkshire-Richard-Rose-Book-1-ebook/dp/B07B6BSV4F/

February Already?

 

What's new?

I'm still in the throes of post heart attack tests and examinations. More in March, so it's not done yet. But I'm here, and at home.

As for writing - this situation is obviously going to continue for a while, so I'm looking over my backlist. I still have some books to reissue, but they are mostly contemporaries. They'd have to be heavily edited, because technology has come a long way since I wrote them, but I'm thinking about doing it.

However - I've had an idea and it won't let me alone, so maybe the backlist will have to wait for another day.

And I have a paranormal that was one of those books that was so close to selling and actually won me two agents. Do I rewrite it?

I think I just open a new page in my word processor and go for it.


Thanks

And a sincere and grateful thanks to all the good wishes I received. Honestly, it's been overwhelming and your kind thoughts helped me so much I can't tell you. Thank you so much.


Excerpt

Yes, an actual excerpt! This is from a story that was supposed to be in a Dragonblade anthology, but they couldn't fit it in. The story is still contracted to the publisher, so I can't do much with it at the moment, but I can give you an extract. It's about the matriarch of the Burrell family, Marguerite Burrell. I thought it only fair to give her an adventure of her own! The following excerpt is unedited by anyone but me, so the mistakes are my own.

The picture isn't official, it's just a portrait of a woman who reminded me a lot of Marguerite. An older lady, comfortably built, with a strong sense of elegance.


Rescuing The Cub

Marguerite stared out of the carriage window, past the curtain of thick snow to the green hedges beyond. So far they had made good time, and her coachman assured her they would reach the inn well before nightfall. “Nay,” he’d said when she expressed her doubts. “We’ll be snug before dark.”

Her maid snored, head thrown back and blankets slipping off her lap in her corner of the carriage. In the other corner, Selina Fortescue sat staring into space. A pretty girl, dressed in a fashionable redingote in heavenly blue, she did not appear like a waif, but by her report, she was persecuted and oppressed. At least she’d removed her ridiculously huge bonnet and allowed Marguerite to tuck a blanket around her.

In years past Marguerite would have huddled miserably in a stagecoach, amid the noise and stink of people crammed together in misery, longing to reach their destination, or even the next inn when they could get out for a few precious minutes before the coachman yelled for them to get back in and endure the next ten miles.

This was infinitely better. A comfortable, well-appointed travelling carriage, a hot brick at her feet and soft blankets keeping her warm. No money troubles, not any more, not with daughters and a son who married spectacularly well. They loved her, they took care of her almost to the point of stifling her. That was why she kept the modest house in Edinburgh. Her own haven, where she could retire when the world grew too complicated. As it had now.

Complications followed her around, this time mostly because of Lord Haydock and her dealings with him. Forcibly she turned her mind away from that unfortunate encounter. At least she had the means of rescuing the girl from his clutches.

The arrogance of the man!

The girl, not quite out of the schoolroom, was no stranger to Marguerite, but not an intimate, either. She had met her at musicales, and informal entertainments, always well dressed, her pretty manners to the fore. She had climbed into the carriage and fallen asleep directly after she had been made comfortable, so Marguerite had to wait to make her better acquaintance.

At the first stop, she had not woken but now, when they were clear of London and nearing their first night in a comfortable coaching-inn, she was awake and silent.

Marguerite cleared her throat.

Miss Fortescue turned, a bright smile pasted to her face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes. You can tell me what put you into this fix.”

The smile faded. “Did they not tell you? I was afraid.”

“Indeed?”

“That my guardian would marry me. He made advances.”

A knife twisted in Marguerite’s heart. Lord Haydock had not seemed interested in a mere child. His ward, he’d told her, had come from a cousin of his, who had begged him to care for her on his deathbed. She had never been so deceived in her life before.

“What kind of advances?”

Miss Fortescue shuddered and glanced to where the maid sat snoring. “That kind. He came into my bedroom at night, when I was dressing for dinner…” She shuddered again.

How was this possible? Were they talking about the same person? Surely her judgment couldn’t have abandoned her so thoroughly? “What did he do?”

“Told me I must prepare myself for marriage.” She drew herself up and sniffed. “Is that not enough?”

Why would he do that? He already had children. He did not need to marry again, nor was he poor. Something here was not making sense. Haydock had not struck her as the kind of man who would be carried away by passion, enough for him to abandon all propriety and responsibility.

“Did he touch you? Frighten you?”

“He is always frightening me,” she said, but she did not appear afraid. More disgruntled. “And touch me? Yes, he does touch me. All the time. He takes me into dinner, and hands me out of carriages. That is not the problem. He wants me to marry a completely inappropriate person, one I could never have any respect for.” She shrugged. “I believe he owed a debt of honour. I am an heiress, you know.” She smoothed the blanket with a gloved hand. “I was looking forward to my first season. Lord Haydock’s sister was supposed to present me.” She sighed.

Something pricked at Marguerite, and for the first time doubts about the story filled her mind. The widow had a grudge against Haydock. The girl did not understand what Marguerite mean. Well, too late now. She would deliver the girl to her aunt, and leave it at that.

Truth was, with all her ambitions for her children fulfilled, the world seemed a more boring place, and she yearned for adventure. She’d spent most of her adult years in peril of one kind or another, from not being able to pay the rent and fleeing at midnight, to forcing society to look at her daughters, and accept them.

But the adventure, the never knowing what the next day would bring, that she’d enjoyed.

People would kill for a life like the one she had, she reminded herself. But it didn’t make any difference. With a new adventure offered to her, she had jumped at the chance. And to get back at the man who’d offered her something she swore she would never do again.

A flash of red outside the carriage caught her attention. At first she thought it a scrap of fabric, then she sat up straight, heart hammering, and thumped on the roof of the carriage. “Stop, stop!”

Needham jolted awake. She screamed, that little scream of a scandalised lady’s maid. “Madam!”

Marguerite took no notice, but held on to the strap as Mount pulled the horses to a stop. It took some time. As soon as the carriage had juddered to a halt, she had the door open, and with only a brief glance to ensure she was not leaping into a snowdrift or a ditch, she jumped down and raced back to the red cloak that lay on the ground.

Not just a cloak. It was the leg under it that had caught her attention. A young, slender leg, clad in a boot that seemed totally unsuited to the weather.

“Madam!” The footman had reached her. Burnham had come into her service the year before. Generally of a practical turn of mind, he’d refused to get into the carriage when the snow started, instead, sitting on his little perch at the back of the vehicle swaddled in all the blankets and hot bricks she could obtain for him. “B’ain’t right,” he’d said, and wouldn’t budge. Now he was agitated, his broad face wreathed with concern. “Come away, madam! It could be a trick!”

She turned to face him, arms akimbo. “Who would be so desperate to risk their life waiting for prey in this weather? Put that thing away!” She gestured at the pistol her footman held. Waving a hand in dismissal, she spun around and went to the red cloak and pulled it back.

A girl lay there, young and fresh, and evidently in distress. She cried out, shielding her face with one arm. “They robbed me!” she cried. “Left me here!”

“Who did?” Marguerite demanded, then waved the qustion away. “No matter. Let’s get you in the warm.”

The girl was shivering convulsively. Marguerite gestured at the footman. “Take her to the coach. We can’t leave her here.” She turned to the girl as Burnham lifted her up. “What’s your name?”

“D-Daisy,” the girl said.

Marguerite swallowed away the memories that pierced her mind. Daisy was a fond version of Marguerite, but only one person had ever called her that. Nobody else would. Her late husband had shot through her life like a flaming arrow, and she’d loved every minute of the time they’d had together. All too short.

As she trudged her way back to the carriage, Miss Fortescue’s scandalised protests reached her ears. “Who’s this?” she demanded. “We can’t pick up every waif and stray!”

Burnham had tucked the girl—Daisy—into the corner of the carriage not occupied by Needham or Miss Fortescue. True, the snug interior of the travelling-chaise became even more snug, but Marguerite had known a lot worse. The carriage had cooled considerably, since she’d left the door open when she leaped down on to the cold, wet snow. Her boots were soaked, and so was the hem of her carriage gown, but what of that?

“Ma’am, you cannot sit in those boots,” Needham said, dropping to her knees in front of Marguerite. “Let me help you.”

“See to the girl,” Marguerite told her. “I am quite capable of removing my own boots.” She removed her gloves by the simple expedient of tugging them off with her teeth. When Needham opened her mouth to protest, Marguerite gave her a glare that silenced her. She attended to the girl.

Although Needham might irritate at times, she was an excellent lady’s maid. Even in the small space afforded her, she stripped the girl’s sopping wet gloves, boots and stockings off her, and eased her out of the red cloak, dropping it to the floor in a sloppy slap of heavy fabric. Beneath it, Daisy wore a respectable, even fashionable, muslin gown, no protection at all against the weather.

All the clothes Marguerite’s had brought with her were in the trunk. The majority had gone ahead, but she had enough with her to manage until they reached Edinburgh. But nothing in the carriage. Daisy would have to endure the blankets and a now lukewarm brick, which Needham muttered was better than nothing as she put it to Daisy’s feet. The quality of the clothes did something to mollify her, as it was obvious the girl was no waif and stray, but a lady, or close to one.

Miss Fortescue had an equal deficit. She had only brought one small trunk, which lay next to Marguerite’s in the trunk.

“How far to the next stop?” Miss Fortescue asked.

“I planned to spend the night at Stevenage,” Marguerite answered.

“There was a sign for a place called Radley Green,” Miss Fortescue said. “Just before we stopped for…her.”

“Daisy,” Marguerite said. There was no excuse for bad manners.

The coach jolted into motion, and Needham gave one of her annoying little screams again. Less a scream, more a squeak this time. Daisy’s face was barely visible under the blankets, but it least it had some colour. Miss Fortescue and Marguerite now had one blanket each. Needham had none. But if they kept the windows tightly closed, it was warm enough.

“Radley Green.” Marguerite reached for the map book in the door pocket. She opened the volume and found the page. “Hmm. Not far, then.” She glanced out of the window. “But it is getting dark now.”

At this time of year darkness fell alarmingly quickly. Once they reached a village, the house lights would help them. And the warmth of Stevenage was not far away. Marguerite longed for the warm, soft bed and hot food that awaited them there.

A shout from the driver’s seat alerted them to another problem. Once again, the coachman pulled up the horses, but this time Marguerite saw no reason to alight. Risking lowering the temperature in their space back to freezing, she lowered the window. “What’s wrong?”

The coachman slapped his hands together. He was shrouded in a thick greatcoat with numerous capes, and he’d pulled his beaver hat low down on his forehead. He lowered his muffler to speak to her. “Hazard up ahead, Mrs. Burrell. There’s a river, a brook really, but the bridge has given way.”

“On the Great North Road?” she exclaimed. “How can that be?”

A slight movement indicated her coachman had shrugged. “Dunno, missus. Old packhorse bridge, been there a dunnamany years. Well it’s not there now. Only just saw it in time, or we’d be in the river by now.”

“Is there another way around?”

“Another road yonder,” he said. “Not that wide, but we can do it if we’re careful.” He waved.

Through the snowflakes she dimly discerned a cluster of lights and a track in the snow. “Where does it lead?”

“A village,” he said. “Great Radley. We can’t cross until they’ve mended the bridge.”

“What about other travellers?”

“Aye, ma’am, that’s the thing. If we take that road, we’ll be the first since the snow started. Where there’s a village, there’s an inn.”

She saw his point. Her dreams of a comfortable room and good, hot food faded. They’d be lucky to find a single bedroom.

“There’s a big house near,” he said, helpfully. “We can’t reach it tonight, it must be a good ten miles away, but we could find shelter there tomorrow.”

Yes, she vaguely recalled the house. She had never visited, but she’d seen signs for it. She gave in. “very well. Let’s find the village first. Perhaps we can find where the poor girl in the road belongs.”


*

Everyone except Daisy got out of the coach to allow the driver to manoevre it in its new direction, no mean feat in this weather. But his iron wrists did the job and while Marguerite stood at the side of the road with her maid, her footmen and a snivelling Miss Fortescue, she watched him turn the vehicle and pull up again. They clambered abroad. Marguerite would not admit her weariness, but the other ladies drooped as they climbed aboard. They could not hold their heads up.

Even a single room would be better than this.

Great Radley turned out to be a small village strung out along a single road, which offered one inn, at the far edge of the road. A sign swung above them, whipped by the surging wind as they arrived. Night was falling fast now.

Marguerite got down, and strode inside to meet the landlord. Half a dozen male faces turned to stare, and one came closer, wiping his hands on his apron. Marguerite braced herself.

By dint of offering twice the price, she obtained two rooms, and a meal. She was in no mood to argue. Besides, with the bridge down, more prospective guests might arrive. She wanted to secure what was available before that happened.

“I found a girl in the road, about five miles away,” she told him. “Half frozen. Do you know if anyone is missing?”

The landlord shook his head. “It’s been right quiet today,” he said. “Not many people on the road, like.”

“Like what?” Miss Fortescue demanded.

Marguerite rolled her eyes, and the landlord grinned at her. She could do without tactless girls. He could well choose to rent his rooms elsewhere, then where would they be? Until that bridge was mended they were going nowhere. “You’ll be hungry then?” he said.

“Yes, please.”

He did not ask their names, and she did not offer them, but swept up the narrow wooden staircase with the two girls behind her. A footman carried Daisy and deposited her on the only bed. The ceiling was low and the floorboards creaked, but a fire crackled in the hearth and there were curtains over the windows to keep the draughts out. Marguerite had known worse. Much worse.

“Needham, pray attend to the young lady,” she said. She took the maid aside. “If you can get a last name, or any hint as to what she was doing there, lying in the snow, so much the better.”

Needham nodded. “Ma’am. But won’t you want me to attend to you?”

“I spent many years attending to myself, and to my daughters. I will manage well enough.” But she smiled, touched by her maid’s concern for her. Probably engendered by the excellent salary she received, but still, Marguerite appreciated the concern.

She moved away, intending to go to the bed, but a bellowed, “Ho there!” from below stopped her in her tracks.

A male voice, commanding attention, expecting it. Another guest had arrived. She glanced at the footman, standing by the door. “Go into the other room. Claim it. We have paid for it, and we will keep it.”

With a grin, Burnham turned to obey her. “Aye, ma’am. From the sound of it, yon gentleman won’t come to harm from a night in the tap room.”

Marguerite heard the door to the other room close, and a scrape as Burnham secured it, probably with a chair under the latch. That would be how she would do it.

“Ho, I say!”

A muttered order followed, and the sound of heavy feet running up the stairs.

Miss Fortescue uttered a piercing scream and ran to the door, fumbling with the latch. “Oh please! Do not let him in, do not let him know we are here!”

The first Marguerite saw of the intruder was a heavy, polished boot thrust into the space, preventing Miss Fortescue from slamming the door. A large hand followed, clasping the wood and pushing it open.

There he stood, the man who had haunted her dreams, and latterly her nightmares. She stood completely still.

Lord Haydock’s attention fixed on his ward. “What on earth are you about, girl? What insane start has entered your head now?”

Only then did he look around, taking in the other occupants of the room, the bed with the maid bent over it, and then her. His dark eyes glinted, though that must have been a reflection from the fire.

Their gazes met, clashed and hardened. “You!” both said at the same time.


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