tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43689268615881020742024-03-12T21:52:24.308-07:00Dear Reader...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-71941457572423861072023-09-25T15:14:00.003-07:002023-09-25T15:16:35.717-07:00Portuguese Translation!<p> Hi folks! The Portuguese translation of "The Trouble with His Lordship's Trousers" (Book One of The Ladies Most Unlikely series) is now available for pre-order from Editoria Bookmarks, under the title "As Peculiaridades da srta Georgiana (Miss Georgiana's Peculiarities!). <a href="https://www.editorabookmarks.com.br/todos-os-livros/as-peculiaridades-da-srta-georgiana">PRE-ORDER HERE!</a></p><p>I love the cover!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvTSO7qM3qvM799wrxmgEYLE_2ftfdzqu_9gPUWf_Je52RaAXYOyEeYAT_Ywplu0_9B2hWSF-d2-Xx5M5IhAaQK1YCSuLoXN6TB82XPKeElqqjWo3j0pYSle3Wc2HekoBtp1YzIMQrSqA-RpU4Y64hFC6c5fcxYhwAq2Or4J-MemYJrWrMLz1F3_0hxGK/s2480/As%20peculiaridades%20da%20srta%20georgina%20-%20ebook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2480" data-original-width="1654" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvTSO7qM3qvM799wrxmgEYLE_2ftfdzqu_9gPUWf_Je52RaAXYOyEeYAT_Ywplu0_9B2hWSF-d2-Xx5M5IhAaQK1YCSuLoXN6TB82XPKeElqqjWo3j0pYSle3Wc2HekoBtp1YzIMQrSqA-RpU4Y64hFC6c5fcxYhwAq2Or4J-MemYJrWrMLz1F3_0hxGK/s320/As%20peculiaridades%20da%20srta%20georgina%20-%20ebook.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-9920793767605021572022-11-25T09:20:00.000-08:002022-11-25T09:20:07.357-08:00Holiday Specials!<p> Hi Everybody!</p><p>It's been a while, but I'm back! To celebrate the Holiday Season this year, my "Snow" trilogy will be available as e-books from Amazon at a special low price, so this is your chance to grab a copy.</p><p>Meanwhile, The Tempests of Little Doings is still on its way and will be available soon from all the usual online stores. Thank you for reading!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVakmgBU1rwpg8f4bQzR77yXEOqKNAaUEF5E_reWaP-p6ugd6jcj6p3J7eEV_7ItCaFxhMG-toLDk9i6_Zz40m80FFc9tSOv4I_CMedJXVw2l0PigGTj4vZXtQXZzVD02VFBzqPg4hdt_ULfgo-78GqltrVtx3IRcKZspLGu5tGfIThiopzsNTmubAw/s1200/the%20snow%20angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVakmgBU1rwpg8f4bQzR77yXEOqKNAaUEF5E_reWaP-p6ugd6jcj6p3J7eEV_7ItCaFxhMG-toLDk9i6_Zz40m80FFc9tSOv4I_CMedJXVw2l0PigGTj4vZXtQXZzVD02VFBzqPg4hdt_ULfgo-78GqltrVtx3IRcKZspLGu5tGfIThiopzsNTmubAw/s320/the%20snow%20angel.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaVy25bytBJ-1x5P-Aajsgs9Z9HnZHFrMDI1oqYi-6cRmjU1APJ-Uoc54VFaQE_kKQSpDpPCe2HRHLGHdRDYVx5Zvfd_JF7qQt5f6lQvvTJmsIBMnz9TVOZmTkUFlDRouURL5aHs8ieQgOYTxrUFcsFAj93Ullp4WUkgX0FM_M8OKpuNmNj1e3cLFSg/s640/the%20snowdrop.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaVy25bytBJ-1x5P-Aajsgs9Z9HnZHFrMDI1oqYi-6cRmjU1APJ-Uoc54VFaQE_kKQSpDpPCe2HRHLGHdRDYVx5Zvfd_JF7qQt5f6lQvvTJmsIBMnz9TVOZmTkUFlDRouURL5aHs8ieQgOYTxrUFcsFAj93Ullp4WUkgX0FM_M8OKpuNmNj1e3cLFSg/s320/the%20snowdrop.jpeg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhff3zH7tU2kKly84k7zvOPC7gmQaKcg3BWm2Op66wyxJWc-sJTcub6NXIkViOR-GSvZkdjUu2eeL-tIN7tz4WvTxjy2OBcGnFuYX2IIZCRhJNSGoNkTGDHs78tkfHSTK7sTlDljp9NaIWu7COkv8Bn0btfiPv3uyg6YpLZiLD22PJpWlhS-U0YotJZ7Q/s640/the%20snow%20birds2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhff3zH7tU2kKly84k7zvOPC7gmQaKcg3BWm2Op66wyxJWc-sJTcub6NXIkViOR-GSvZkdjUu2eeL-tIN7tz4WvTxjy2OBcGnFuYX2IIZCRhJNSGoNkTGDHs78tkfHSTK7sTlDljp9NaIWu7COkv8Bn0btfiPv3uyg6YpLZiLD22PJpWlhS-U0YotJZ7Q/s320/the%20snow%20birds2.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-33863254955841968452022-01-27T08:46:00.002-08:002022-01-27T08:50:32.586-08:00Exclusive Excerpt from DANCE WITH A DEVERELL<p><u>Coming tomorrow</u> - a new Victorian novella featuring another branch of the Deverell tree.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>* DANCE WITH A DEVERELL*</b></p><p><i>Do you dare?</i></p><p>The following is an exclusive excerpt to whet your appetite. Enjoy and have a great weekend!</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQk5w2WDe4r93KpWMbgwm9RWXHZ98UWeCiAoJWmH6lChP2NSiNAuAzvDCrLtefXtw4f0B8BGIPTdhdLRvM9Mpi5bHwEVMnzbkPIH8NMLk9HE6Y5ozmvNvow2FHafsJLvQ4B6tMmATOUBFkS_FMEuN3vJ-p6KXCQHWhS0M78TtNFiJgEPnGzyfUqPlA5Q=s540" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="540" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQk5w2WDe4r93KpWMbgwm9RWXHZ98UWeCiAoJWmH6lChP2NSiNAuAzvDCrLtefXtw4f0B8BGIPTdhdLRvM9Mpi5bHwEVMnzbkPIH8NMLk9HE6Y5ozmvNvow2FHafsJLvQ4B6tMmATOUBFkS_FMEuN3vJ-p6KXCQHWhS0M78TtNFiJgEPnGzyfUqPlA5Q=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />He must have broken
in via the servants’ entrance; then likewise gained forceful and illicit access
to the butler’s pantry, where he now rummaged about, in his shirt sleeves and
via the light of one candle, sorting through wine bottles, as if he owned the
place.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Launching herself
forward, she thrust the poker at his back, between his audacious shoulder
blades. “Stop where you are, fiend! How dare you trespass on the Earl of
Beaufort’s property? I have a gun, and I shall not hesitate to use it, so don’t
move. Put up your hands!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The man’s
shoulders flexed and then he went still. “Which is it, ma’am?” he growled. “I
don’t move or I put up my hands? Can’t do both.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">With her free hand
she fumbled in the moonlight for a knife. “Hands up, of course, where I can see
them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">When he slowly
followed her orders, setting the candle down on a shelf and raising both arms
high over his head, she saw that his right hand was covered in blood, which
dripped down the sleeve of his shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Who are you and
what are you doing here?” she demanded, breathless.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Friend of the
family. I was invited.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Well, she knew
that was a lie. Of course, he could have no idea that she was a member of that
family to whom he claimed an acquaintance, and he was the sort of person she
would remember, even from behind, she thought glumly. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Lest you think her
merely appreciative of wide shoulders and a firm, well-shaped buttock, this
stranger in her butler’s pantry also possessed a very strong and unusual aura. Since
she was a child, Ainslie had suffered a peculiar sensitivity to the life force around
other people; the vigor of their spirit and the wisdom of their soul. Or sometimes
it was the power and light of those angels protecting them that caught her
attention. Whatever it was, this sensation caused her to be shy of crowded
places. Anxious never to incur the earl’s wrath, or to be seen as mentally
unstable by Society, she did her best to ignore these distractions of
otherworldly phenomena. She always tried to follow the rules as they were set
down for her; to never venture outside the limits of what was proper; to be
seen as “normal”. But certain unusual impressions could not be ignored, and his
was one that would have felt its way to her in any company.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> No, she had never met him before, or she would
know it at once. “How did you get in?” she managed tightly. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After a short
pause, he drawled in a wry tone, “Through the door. I assumed that was its
function.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Who let you in?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I let myself in.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“You mean to say
you broke </span>into<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> this house.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Didn’t want to
wake anybody by ringing the bell, did I? You should thank me for taking the
trouble and being considerate.” Oh, yes, there was a decidedly cheeky edge to the
scoundrel’s manner. As if he was accustomed to getting away with bad behavior,
but would not particularly care if he was caught. He held his hands up, as
she’d commanded, but there was no trepidation in his voice or comportment. He
sounded more amused than anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Where does that
blood come from? What have you done?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It was an
accident.” He hiccupped. “Fell into some glass. Out there.” When he moved his
head in a nod toward the door, candlelight touched his profile, painting the
edge of an aquiline nose and high cheekbones, upon which his black lashes were
long enough to cast a shadow. The side of his mouth quirked as he swallowed
another hiccup and swayed slightly. “Don’t fret, ma’am. I didn’t cut the
night-watchman’s throat. The injury is all to myself.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A consequence of
traveling about in the dark, young man! Why are you here in the middle of the
night?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Brandon invited
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Brandon</i>?
Do you refer to Lord Brandon Beaufort?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s the
fellow.” He turned fully around then, not waiting for her permission. “He’s a—”
A look of surprise passed over his tanned face, immediately followed by a
frown. “Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">His impertinence
left her devoid of words and breath for a moment. Still brandishing the poker in
one hand, and a carving knife in the other, she finally exclaimed, “Even if
that is true, I very much doubt Lord Brandon invited you at midnight, and
without warning anybody to expect you. Explain yourself to me, sir, before I
call out the dogs and let you confess your deviant motives instead to the
Justice of the Peace!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He put his head on
one side and his gaze took her in slowly, thoroughly, inch by inch. “No need to
get your petticoats all twisted up. I suppose you might say that Brandon didn’t<i>
actually</i> invite me. Not in so many words. But he owes me five guineas and
I’ve let the debt stand long enough. I need that money now. So he <i>should </i>be
expecting me. Not my fault if he isn’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">His voice had a
certain melodious quality— deep, smooth and unhurried. It brought to mind a cup
of hot chocolate with something stronger secretly stirred into it, to be
enjoyed on a snowy evening beside the fire. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ainslie belatedly
remembered that she wore only her nightgown with a day wrapper thrown hastily
over it. But her hands were full and the best she could do was shrink back a
step, retreating from that silver patch of moonlight and dressing herself in
shadow. “If you had business with Lord Brandon Beaufort, you should have waited
until a respectable hour and called at the front entrance. Like any proper and
decorous visitor.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I would have.”
When he smiled in a drowsy, drunken way, it softened his face. He moved
forward, apparently not put off by her weapons. “But I stepped on some glass
and fell into a pit. Cut my damn hand climbing out again, as you see.” <i>Hiccup</i>.
“I came in here to find some brandy or whiskey.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Drink? If you ask
me, you’ve imbibed enough of that already, young man.” Since the iron poker
seemed not to have the required effect, she set it down on the kitchen table and
used that free hand to clasp the sides of her wrapper together. But she
retained the knife.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s not for
drinking. It’s for my hand,” he explained. “To seal against infection.” His
eyes turned sad, eyelids drooping. “It hurts, ma’am.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">He looked like a
boy then, as his eyes pleaded for her sympathy. Impudent villain! An associate
of Brandon’s? Yes, he could be, she supposed, for he was younger than she had
thought originally when she first saw the back of him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But… wait a
minute…what had he just said?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>My pineapples</i>!”
she cried. “You smashed the glass in my pineapple pit?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He shrugged. “If
that’s what you call that big bastard hole with a glass lid out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You ass! My
precious tropical plants should be cosseted and cherished!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He pouted and
lifted his wounded hand again. “What about me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You? What about
my pineapples in the cold night air?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s July.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And England. Not
the Bermudas!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Damn silly place
to dig a hole.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’ll dig a hole
wherever I like.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You might have
put a fence round it then.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t expect
people to be stumbling about in the dark out there, uninvited.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I only came to
see Brandon, as I said.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And as <i>I </i>said,
you should have waited until daylight. Who goes visiting in the dark of night?”
<i>Only a scoundrel up to no good</i>, she thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I need my five
guineas, don’t I?” he hissed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It couldn’t
wait?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, it can’t.
It’s <i>my</i> money and I want it. I earn my living, unlike your precious Lord
Brandon Beaufort.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Don’t you take
that tone with me, young man. Who do you think you are?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The name’s Ramses
Deverell,” he replied, jaw jutting out, feet apart and hands on hips. “Who the bloody
hell are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">As if he had any
right to ask, when </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">he</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"> was the intruder and apparently there for money. She
had absolutely no obligation to tell him anything. In fact, she should have
shrieked at the top of her lungs to summon help by now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“My name is Ainslie,”
she heard herself saying.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Ainslie?</i>”
he tested the name on his tongue. Through narrowed eyes, he studied her again.
“You’re not the kitchen maid, are you? And you’re not the cook either. Or the
gardener.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“How do you know?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh. I can tell.” A
decidedly wicked smirk curled across his lips and, even when it was gone from
there, it lingered in his eyes, like smoke from a recently extinguished flame. One
snuffed by a gasp of breath. She almost heard a wanton sigh, floating through
the air. “Your skin is too fine and clean. Soft too, no doubt, and sweetly
tasting.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“How dare you!?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Is it a crime to
compliment a woman?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Why did she not tell
him who she was and that she was the lady of the house? Perhaps, if he knew she
was the Countess of Beaufort, he might carry her off over his shoulder and hold
her for ransom. He was, after all, an irreverent Deverell— and just like all
the others, he had turned up where he should not be. He had barged in, defying
locks, gates and barriers. Who knew what he might do next?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You <i>are</i>
beautiful,” he said. “Was I supposed not to notice? I’m a man with two eyes and
all other parts complete. Even if I am slightly soused.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Only slightly?”
she muttered, bemused.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Falling into your
trap has sobered me up considerably.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s a pineapple
pit, not a trap.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well…” He grinned
again, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. “It caught me for you, didn’t
it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">She wouldn’t want
Brandon to be in trouble with his father and the earl would most certainly not
approve of a Deverell acquaintance, nor would he condone his sons gambling, or
being in debt. Better, therefore, if she dealt with the matter herself and kept
this strange event from becoming known to her husband. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">She understood
now, of course, why she was the only soul disturbed by the trespasser, for that
pineapple pit was just below her bedchamber’s open window. It was not, after
all, a supernatural force that woke her from a deep sleep and drew her
downstairs, even if she had, at first sight of him, been tempted to think so.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ainslie squared
her shoulders. “How do I know you speak the truth about your purpose here, Mr.
Deverell?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look in my coat
pocket.” He jerked his head to where the muddied garment was slung over a
Windsor chair beside the table. “Inside pocket.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNfS-YthRVSJObqYbq7G-K4GzL0wO0Uhix2ji5bCl8EJtfzQuZdjoppvevFoCIJ9Sjgy-JLt-4utKh5QlVxyuq-JdoEh7S-O4MC4DOkExLEeOujkkPQdJcX5XxCeiuhGJIWOSh6q5Cikxlt9LDy9Ud5bGGcqwJ5Zw037wP2Nc5RzmibxCdnNNc5O08Ng=s596" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="445" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNfS-YthRVSJObqYbq7G-K4GzL0wO0Uhix2ji5bCl8EJtfzQuZdjoppvevFoCIJ9Sjgy-JLt-4utKh5QlVxyuq-JdoEh7S-O4MC4DOkExLEeOujkkPQdJcX5XxCeiuhGJIWOSh6q5Cikxlt9LDy9Ud5bGGcqwJ5Zw037wP2Nc5RzmibxCdnNNc5O08Ng=s320" width="239" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />Still holding the
knife in one hand and keeping her eyes upon the intruder, she did as he
instructed, feeling her way cautiously into the folds of his dark blue frock
coat. A note, retrieved from the pocket, revealed a signed IOU from her
step-son to “<i>Ram. D</i>.” It was definitely Brandon’s handwriting.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“So you see,
whatever else I am, I’m not a liar. In </span>fact,<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I’m honest to a fault, so I’ve been
told.” He yawned and scratched his head with his bloodied hand, thereby making
more mess. “You may now apologize to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I <i>beg</i> your
pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“For doubting my
motives, holding me at knife point, and threatening to set the dogs on me, when
all I wanted was my five guineas. An amount I am owed and entirely justified in
collecting. But you suspected me of villainy at first sight, just because I do
not look the same as all Lord Brandon’s other friends. I am not like all the
other nobs, toffs and son-ofs, so you leapt to conclusions. Consequently, I
declare myself offended.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I leapt to—<i>you’re
offended? </i>You<i> </i>broke into this property in the dead of night, young
man. You’re very lucky I didn’t seize a hunting rifle and shoot first before
asking questions.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He lowered his
arms and gave an amiable shrug. “Fair enough. We’ll call it even then.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">She stared at him,
trying to catch her breath. “You are in possession of considerable gall, Master
Deverell.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“So I’ve been
told. With my wits and your beauty we’d make quite a formidable pair.” He grinned.
“You ought to run away with me. Tell you what—” He rubbed his chin with the
uninjured hand. “I’ll forfeit those five guineas his lordship owes me and take
you instead to clear his debt. I reckon I could carry you over my shoulder easy
enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I should like to
see you try.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Is that a
challenge?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> ***</o:p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright Jayne Fresina 2022.</span></p><p>DANCE WITH A DEVERELL is available now for <a href="http://mybook.to/Fresina_DWAD">pre-order</a> and you can read it tomorrow, January 28th. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Images: Candlelight Study by Ozias Leduc 1893, and The Glory of Womanhood by Thomas Benjamin Kennington 1856-1916)</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-29421991969439375132022-01-26T06:24:00.000-08:002022-01-26T06:24:15.515-08:00Character Showcase: Ramses Deverell<p> He is<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> the eldest son of Commodore Justify
Deverell and Anshula “Sunny”. As a young boy he joined the navy, following in
his father’s footsteps and eager to make something of his life. He is ambitious
and driven, but when home on leave, he always finds time for play. And he takes
his role as the eldest child very seriously. While his father is away at sea,
Ram sees it as his duty to take care of the family and make sure that his mother
has everything she needs.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhy70fOMAlHtpf7gyfDHfzCqajiYBWwhNX2VM46POklPek-wND8Ssh70TqgFnQJojYzSb4Ww_6ypkHGXcsNTt3OU4py9_exzrK3cbCZi0yGf9Tvcj-NPuMYyQYX9gIyH7ucw1W0uw4Sc9TaAGFoy7y5wP0Uh4AiDx3FrLoFWrm8QszGG6d6PTLzAV7q7w=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhy70fOMAlHtpf7gyfDHfzCqajiYBWwhNX2VM46POklPek-wND8Ssh70TqgFnQJojYzSb4Ww_6ypkHGXcsNTt3OU4py9_exzrK3cbCZi0yGf9Tvcj-NPuMYyQYX9gIyH7ucw1W0uw4Sc9TaAGFoy7y5wP0Uh4AiDx3FrLoFWrm8QszGG6d6PTLzAV7q7w=s320" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One day, he decides that Sunny is looking tired. What
she requires— he determines— is a new frock. Something fashionable, pretty, and
a little frivolous. Something she would not spend money on for herself. So, he
sets about arranging it for her. Firstly, he must collect a debt of five
guineas, owed to him by his friend, Lord Brandon Beaufort. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Thus, he finds himself on the Beaufort country estate
one night, rather worse for wear after a few ales at the local hostelry. And
while trampling around in the dark, he manages to fall through the glass of a
pineapple pit belonging to the countess.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is a moment that will not only change his world forever,
but hers too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the beginning of their story, he is seventeen— a
young man with strong views and a rebel’s heart. He knows what he wants out of
life, and he means to get it. He is bold, brazen and fearless.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But by the end of their story, he is thirty— an
ill-tempered, scarred fellow, soured by the misfortunes of fate, made bitter by
disappointment and tragedy. He has closed himself off from society and the
pleasures he once enjoyed. Where once he thought he had his world by the
unmentionables, he now feels as if it’s the other way about. The world has
turned on him. He focuses all his attention on work, which now provides his
only satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhduz7LzDBZB8weM_BSmaPJ-b2llVFuLbmqIvcTe2FA1zkJpa0q0T7PDA3G5__Kuwfs036HbJffMLrYXfO7lX7Tv8StTvxG3lY5vlvIijRrFgGz8gTRJBs3la3YafVpgbDMyJ5P41BTxKhle2sHr5n0Qqfi3h61Tp43RPXM9nm4zypjq4skxizSzq4P1A=s960" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="610" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhduz7LzDBZB8weM_BSmaPJ-b2llVFuLbmqIvcTe2FA1zkJpa0q0T7PDA3G5__Kuwfs036HbJffMLrYXfO7lX7Tv8StTvxG3lY5vlvIijRrFgGz8gTRJBs3la3YafVpgbDMyJ5P41BTxKhle2sHr5n0Qqfi3h61Tp43RPXM9nm4zypjq4skxizSzq4P1A=s320" width="203" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When he has time on leave, he simply wants to be left
alone and so he hides away, where folk cannot stare at his scars and point. The last thing he needs is to escort his little sister to a ball, but
his mother claims to be ill and enlists his help to take her place. Furthermore,
she has sent his best friend, Brandon, to make sure Ram doesn’t let them down.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Between them, they will push, prod and poke him into a
bath and then a clean suit of clothes. He can make all the beastly grunts he
feels necessary, but they will lure him out of his dark cave tonight. One way or
another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Because maybe the woman he once lost will be there too
tonight. She’s a part of his story that is left undone, and despite his
fiercest efforts, he’s never been able to forget her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe— just maybe— it isn’t yet the end of their
story, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">**<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Find out what happens this Friday, the 28<sup>th</sup>
of January, and pre-order your copy <a href="http://mybook.to/Fresina_DWAD">here.</a><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-8349554787319467442022-01-25T07:05:00.001-08:002022-01-25T07:05:21.846-08:00Character Showcase: Ainslie, Dowager Countess of Beaufort<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggQ3ttOVfGISLsY-YdU9L9eUb2JnGrb-3VbBhw8vWJO30JmaAPXUgCzgC_M_9GWr51nhCSDB-UuGyZUJiDd4uJJXYmUgb3B3tHLlKuBnHczsL8-jSqFE4aOoxO-ThL-HNgtyhNoyBD6qiF9kwCWdZx5TovNxqKmFOnzjRzS_p1FdrCqMqj_vLxYBRaVw=s255" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="255" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggQ3ttOVfGISLsY-YdU9L9eUb2JnGrb-3VbBhw8vWJO30JmaAPXUgCzgC_M_9GWr51nhCSDB-UuGyZUJiDd4uJJXYmUgb3B3tHLlKuBnHczsL8-jSqFE4aOoxO-ThL-HNgtyhNoyBD6qiF9kwCWdZx5TovNxqKmFOnzjRzS_p1FdrCqMqj_vLxYBRaVw" width="255" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She was born,
Ainslie Ingram, only child of Lochlan “Lockie” Ingram, Baron of Obergowrie. Raised
in a rural environment by her eccentric father and with no mother or governess
to guide her, she led an innocent, but solitary life until, at the age of eighteen
she endured an arranged marriage to the Earl of Beaufort.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">He was a widower,
many years her senior, who already had two sons by his first marriage— the
eldest of whom is only two years younger than Ainslie. The earl was a strict,
cruel man, who believed that his wife was just another of his possessions— part
of his estate. And he decided that she had much to learn. She was young and
unsophisticated, having never been out in society and living all her life in
the country with her inattentive father. But for the Earl of Beaufort this was
useful— or so he thought in the beginning— since she was an empty vessel to be
filled with his ideas and opinions; to be molded into the sort of wife she
should be; the sort of wife he expected. When she dared object or question, his
young wife received a stern correction, dealt by the sting of his cane. Just
like his sons, or any servant who met with his displeasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So when
the earl dies, Ainslie’s first emotion is relief. By then she has a daughter of
her own, and she intends to raise this girl with all the love, guidance and
kindness that she herself never knew. Ainslie also makes it her mission to help
her stepsons find their own happiness in life too, and to improve, as much as
possible, the lives of those who live and work on the Beaufort estate. As a
widow she has a fresh start. For the first time in her life, she is not under
the thumb of any man—be it a father, or a husband. And she’s very much enjoying
her autonomy. She’s learning to live; learning about her true self. She’s even
begun to read, in secret, about something they call “Rights for Women.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The only
problem is, a certain Ramses Deverell— seven years her junior and far too wild for his own good— has
taken it into his head to pursue Ainslie. She’s not sure why, or what he hopes
to achieve by trying to get under her skin. Or her petticoats. She’s heard about
the wagers he and his friends make in regard to seductions, so perhaps she’s
just another bet. Whatever he’s up to, it must be mischief and nothing but
trouble for her. He’s already trampled her pineapples. What next?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Ainslie wants to lead a respectable life without the slightest rumor to
endanger her daughter’s future. She’s always done what she’s told is the right
thing. She knows what her place is in the world and what is expected of her.
Ainslie’s revolution will not happen overnight. Besides, it’s her daughter’s
turn now and <i>her</i> place is in the background.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Apparently,
that wicked, scandalous Deverell is slightly insane. Or, perhaps, he simply
doesn’t care about rumor and gossip. He has always shown a complete disregard
for the rules and a hearty irreverence for the class system. He’s a rebel and
incredibly arrogant. It’s easy for him, of course. He’s never been put in a
cage. He's always done— and had— whatever he wants.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, he’s amusing, playful, handsome and clever, but
he’s too young for her, too reckless and too tempting. And even worse than all
that, he’s a Deverell. Need anything more be said?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They should never have met; it would be better for
both of them, if they never meet again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ainslie has never been in love before. Would she know
it, if she felt it? And by the time she does— by the time she’s ready for her
own revolution— will it all be too late?</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Find out on January 28th. Order your copy of DANCE WITH A DEVERELL <a href="http://mybook.to/Fresina_DWAD">here</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: Portrait of a woman by Sir Frances Dicksee 1887)</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-68804471539225514302022-01-24T05:58:00.003-08:002022-01-24T06:00:19.061-08:00Character Showcase: Lord Brandon Beaufort<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">He’s the younger son of the Earl of Beaufort and
therefore “the spare”. As a boy, he was destined for the church. That was his
stern father’s plan, which nobody dared question. But Brandon has other dreams, and when he befriends Ramses Deverell he learns how to use his own voice and is
encouraged to stand up for what he wants. Through Deverell's support, he finds the necessary courage
and confidence in himself to become an artist.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Their friendship is forged at boarding school, when the
boys are eleven. Ramses is not much of a scholar, so Brandon attempts to help
him learn. But after only a year, Ramses decides to save his family the cost of
that education and follows his own father’s footsteps into the Royal Navy. The
two boys might have gone their separate ways then, but instead they stay in
contact and whenever Ramses is in England on leave, he meets up with Brandon.
After nineteen years, their bond is as strong as ever, and each time they are in
company together, it’s as if they’ve never been apart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They know everything about each other— even
the things they think they’ve kept secret from the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Many people warned him never to trust a Deverell, but Brandon
knows how lucky he is to count Ram as his oldest, most loyal friend. There is
nobody else in his life so outspoken, fearless and driven; nobody else who
could have opened his eyes to another world and new possibilities. Oh, Ram can
be trouble at times, certainly— and likes to raise eyebrows. But Brandon knows
how to handle the fellow’s moods and eccentricities, and he would stand up for
Ram, no matter what, just as his friend has always done for him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIYGUBA8aBaNouuN6X-BTCfFdaV7pEFelZztlC6tOSHkis2YRNACVyKjbSExh9bl4ZifISwfqJq4jZS4V4svIRJiBvsAtcepnxwRoCAk0nWCtNfVt3uIyal_KYZ2QYoBV5JIibg6MDiNiEFlkA3oxaGaWQRVGTe9kNaFcGAM4GV-h2N0ysX0AALoVQKQ=s944" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIYGUBA8aBaNouuN6X-BTCfFdaV7pEFelZztlC6tOSHkis2YRNACVyKjbSExh9bl4ZifISwfqJq4jZS4V4svIRJiBvsAtcepnxwRoCAk0nWCtNfVt3uIyal_KYZ2QYoBV5JIibg6MDiNiEFlkA3oxaGaWQRVGTe9kNaFcGAM4GV-h2N0ysX0AALoVQKQ=s320" width="254" /></a></div><br />Brandon Beaufort doesn’t let anything ruffle his feathers.
He was once a nervous, lonely, quiet boy, very much in his elder brother’s
shadow and tormented by a cold-hearted, callous father. But he has grown up
into a man who is finally happy in his own skin. He is calm in any storm, and a gentleman
in any crisis. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Even so, don’t be fooled by that angelic face and his kindly, generous nature,
because when pushed he can be just as mulish and tough-skinned as his notorious
comrade. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Especially when he’s needed to pull his friend back
from the darkest abyss. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Do-gooder,”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">
Ram calls him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But like any knight in shining armor, Lord Brandon
Beaufort believes in fighting for love. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And since his best friend once helped him find the way
to happiness, he plans to repay the favour.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Meet Lord Brandon Beaufort in </span><a href="http://mybook.to/Fresina_DWAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">DANCE WITH A DEVERELL</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Happy Reading!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: Portrait of a Young Gentleman by George Dawe, 1819)</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-9309484108606275432022-01-22T05:02:00.005-08:002022-01-23T14:35:28.627-08:00Character Showcase: Lady Emilia Beaufort and Little Hat<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In DANCE WITH A DEVERELL, the hero’s little sister,
Hatshepsut, is about to attend her first proper ball. She’s eighteen and has
just completed her schooling at a modern, progressive ladies’ seminary, where
she met Lady Emilia Beaufort, who has this to say about her:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“She’s the
cleverest girl I ever knew. She speaks several languages, can identify all the
parts of the human body and knows fifteen different ways to incapacitate a man.
I suppose you’ll turn your nose up at her now though, just because she’s a
Deverell and her father bought her mother at a bride sale for six pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But I’m not going
to stop being her friend just because of that name. She can’t help the family
she’s born into, can she? Some of the other girls put their noses in the air
and look down on Hattie. She says that Deverells don’t care what people say
about them, although, I think sometimes it does make her sad and she tries not
to show it. I shared my marshmallows with her and she showed me how to knee an
offensive gentleman in the groin. That’s how we became friends.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">All her brothers call her “Little Hat”, which she now
finds exceedingly annoying. At her age she thinks they ought to drop the “little”,
but as her protective, eldest brother says, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hatshepsut, even when you are
fifty, you will still by my little sister.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Well, he might think her still too young and
silly to know anything, but tonight Hattie has a surprise in store for her
brother. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMLVjCTJ1QHoTrK2c5bn1bvji5Ke4MNNyFn98F6u-qVFhbMzpwrUSffHDz1fU-CZ3S9O-xrW3VtzyN7NicnojCQha1_fgFzfr9wnSHANHAFh4tkdxm1laEMQ2BF6GikL9whnImlqbIRZlBHGhntNE7-zVcV_7jT53Iwzs9tIQQCoxaMZ8FnFkDfar_Sg=s774" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="774" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhMLVjCTJ1QHoTrK2c5bn1bvji5Ke4MNNyFn98F6u-qVFhbMzpwrUSffHDz1fU-CZ3S9O-xrW3VtzyN7NicnojCQha1_fgFzfr9wnSHANHAFh4tkdxm1laEMQ2BF6GikL9whnImlqbIRZlBHGhntNE7-zVcV_7jT53Iwzs9tIQQCoxaMZ8FnFkDfar_Sg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>*<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Hatshepsut is the only daughter of Commodore Justify Deverell
and his wife Anshula (“Sunny”). With four older brothers, she’s grown up having
to shout to be heard and fight to be noticed, but her large, loud family is one
full of love— even if it’s often shown in peculiar ways. She has been raised in
an unconventional home, where she is encouraged to speak her mind; to be
confident and fearless. She might lack a little feminine grace and polish, but
she doesn’t particularly care about the rules that society tries to impose upon
her in any case. She’s a woman with her own ideas and plans, and a few stuffy
old men are not about to stand in her way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Lady Emilia Beaufort’s upbringing has been very
different to that of “Little Hat”. Her father, the Earl of Beaufort, was already
an old man when she was born. He was very strict, cold and often cruel: a man who believed there was no place for laughter or warm emotion in a “decent house and family”. He
preferred his children to fear, rather than love him, and he believed in
corporal punishment for anybody who dared question or displease him in any way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fortunately for
Emilia, her father died when she was only six. Since then she has been raised,
sheltered and cosseted by her devoted mother. She’s grown into a good-natured, but rather naïve
girl. With only two, much older half-brothers, she has never had a real
friend of her own age, so her bond with Hatshepsut has opened her mind and her
life to new experiences. She is not yet as bold as her friend, but she’s
learning how to be brave. She’s also learning how to shock her mother, who has
no idea of the surprise Lady Emilia and Little Hat have in store for her tonight!</span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">**** Find out what these two young ladies are up to in <b>DANCE WITH A DEVERELL.</b> Coming January 28, 2022! A<b>VAILABLE NOW FOR PRE-ORDER**** <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09R15LFP8/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1IVB8DVRKAIEV&keywords=Dance+with+a+Deverell&qid=1642977040&s=digital-text&sprefix=dance+with+a+deverell%2Cdigital-text%2C70&sr=1-1">CLICK HERE FOR AMAZON</a></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">(Image: Chatterboxes, by Thomas Benjamin Kennington, c. 1912)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-76700617044127802552022-01-19T07:12:00.004-08:002022-01-20T06:18:54.858-08:00DANCE WITH A DEVERELL<p> Coming on January 28th, 2022, for your entertainment - a new Deverell novella...</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>"DANCE WITH A DEVERELL"</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>***</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>He knew, the first time he saw her, that she was the
only woman in the world for him.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>She knew, the first time they met, that he was the
last thing she needed in her life. </b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>***</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Even before she hears his name— before he’s even
turned around to look at her— Lady Beaufort knows this young man is trouble. On
a quest to collect a debt of five guineas, he has trampled her precious
pineapple plant and broken into her house in the dead of night. Who knows what
he might do next, given half a chance?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Like most of his notorious family, Ramses Deverell is
not a man to let locks, walls or society’s rules get in his way. He doesn’t
care about the class divide either and believes that money, opportunity and
respect should be earned. He knows what he wants; he’s determined to get it.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And when he meets Ainslie Beaufort, he’s still young
enough to think he can change the world for both of them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">But while he sees no boundaries and sets no limits for
himself, Ainslie has been raised in a life full of constraints. From her tightened
corset laces to her censored conversation; from her concealed opinions to her
confined emotions, she’s well-trained in what is expected of her. She knows her
place in the world, and she knows the penalty for straying from it. Above all,
she does what she must to protect her daughter, for her proudest achievement is
motherhood, and what she doesn’t need is this wildly charming, infamously incorrigible
male, endangering her reputation. As well as her pineapples.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, he’s amusing, playful, handsome and clever, but
he’s too young for her, too reckless and too tempting. And even worse than all
that, he’s a Deverell. Need anything more be said?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">No, she will never kiss him, whatever premonition he
claims to feel in his bones. Nor will she ever dance with him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">They should never have met; it would be better for
both of them, if they never meet again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">For her daughter’s respectability, this lady will
sacrifice her own desires.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But to dance with the woman he loves, this Deverell
will walk through fire. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioWoOEe93VYuc6flm69GvFD5hS6Jq1DSeWMJ0ogGa1Cu5Lh9DrivAof1EZF0TtCnU95b6cRVgp2kNjxuMyhSpgts54ZOtoLRTzgjLvvphVmSMtTuEOBuKN9ENdTJBG1FLcQEh-9sXB9Lp_K4kM0gCiHmEIeEDLwT2TdAaqQIqG0Hv8uSmDBHQ5pq3pkQ=s1800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioWoOEe93VYuc6flm69GvFD5hS6Jq1DSeWMJ0ogGa1Cu5Lh9DrivAof1EZF0TtCnU95b6cRVgp2kNjxuMyhSpgts54ZOtoLRTzgjLvvphVmSMtTuEOBuKN9ENdTJBG1FLcQEh-9sXB9Lp_K4kM0gCiHmEIeEDLwT2TdAaqQIqG0Hv8uSmDBHQ5pq3pkQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Check back here for release date news and teasers!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks for reading.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Jayne</span></p><b><i></i></b><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-86462822684793128762021-12-15T07:23:00.000-08:002021-12-15T07:23:02.386-08:00Exclusive Excerpt from The Snow Birds<p> Today I'm sharing with you a small excerpt from my new Christmas novella, The Snow Birds. Enjoy!</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Twelve Days Before Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Damnable…<i>arse</i>!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She had seen that man before and, yes, of course she
knew who he was. But it startled her to see him through the window of the
antique shop; his rugged, wonky-nosed, distinctive profile coming into view as
she frantically rubbed a clear patch with her gloved hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her heart was beating very fast. She thought it meant
to fly up through her throat and out of her mouth, following the unladylike
curse that had previously shot out of her and briefly misted the window in
front of her face.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hazard Deverell was stealing <i>her</i> snow birds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhogK1_Gq6kyK1DDhwRphm60FxD6yMaLI6FayZ7et0uXavkAYKO3PdPp5O9dVbfldyU0-6fYQ59uZJpTkAqGXu1LpbSL-27pYW8xdbeyzbWZHxNNdG4vnyf6OJvr4JM2tOW8fiMLmA_VVnzzr5iGLbQcUf4wjttQQxTPKYo9OpqLxrZ9aTSoWgzo9oSKg=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhogK1_Gq6kyK1DDhwRphm60FxD6yMaLI6FayZ7et0uXavkAYKO3PdPp5O9dVbfldyU0-6fYQ59uZJpTkAqGXu1LpbSL-27pYW8xdbeyzbWZHxNNdG4vnyf6OJvr4JM2tOW8fiMLmA_VVnzzr5iGLbQcUf4wjttQQxTPKYo9OpqLxrZ9aTSoWgzo9oSKg=s320" width="214" /></a></div><br />Well, they were not officially hers. Not anymore. But
she had been saving her coins for a great many months in anticipation of
retrieving the item. Every Tuesday she walked by this shop window and looked in
to be certain that her mother’s charming jewelry box with the chirping,
mechanical snow birds was still there, and on this morning, when she saw the
empty spot in the window, she panicked. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thus came the “Damnable…<i>arse</i>!” repeated several
times in quick succession, exhaled with such fury that it had completely fogged
over the window pane. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, belatedly realizing that she had spoken out loud
and in public, she held that breath and stared, in mute fury, through the freshly
wiped glass, while the shopkeeper wrapped <i>her</i> snow birds in brown paper
and string.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When Hazard came out of the shop with his parcel he
almost stumbled over the small, drab woman standing there with tears in her
eyes and a vexed line across her brow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pardon me, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her, remembering
his manners. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She looked as if she might scream and that holding it
in was taking several years off her life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When she stepped to the side, he did the same, and
then they both repeated the motion, as if attached to each other by invisible
thread that jerked them back and forth like puppets in a macabre dance. They
couldn’t get out of each other’s way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Are you quite well, ma’am?” He squinted down at that maudlin
face. “Do you require assistance?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Excuse <i>me</i>!” she exclaimed, trying again to escape,
while he blocked the path with his instinctive boxer’s stance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wait a minute, ma’am. I know you, don’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Most certainly not,” she snapped, as if he suggested
something improper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And then it burst out of him on a startled breath. “The
disappointed gravestone angel!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She opened her mouth, but closed it again immediately
and made an odd, muffled sound. Her damp, flint-colored eyes sparked with a
quick flame of anger, before she cast her gaze hastily upon the ground, bit her
lip, spun around, and walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; tab-stops: 93.0pt; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Peculiar creature.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It had taken a moment to recognize the woman, because
he only ever saw her in the churchyard at Hunsford Green, and from a distance.
Today, almost falling over her outside <i>Crayle’s Antiques and Collectibles</i>
in Woodheath, she was out of her usual place. The unexpected proximity was a
jolt to his nerves, like waking to find a statue standing beside his bed,
staring down at him with stony eyes, after somebody had carried it indoors overnight
as a prank.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He watched her hurrying away from him along the icy
pavement. She looked back over her shoulder, just once, and then quickened her
pace again until she was almost running, but not quite. Well, he mused, she
definitely had feet that knew how to move of their own accord, so she was not
made of marble or granite, as he had once imagined. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But the anger on her face today, outside the antiques
shop, suggested a deeply personal animosity to which he took considerable
exception. It was one thing to be a private, reserved sort of woman, reluctant
to acknowledge a stranger in the graveyard, but it was quite another to be
rude, churlish and hate a person to whom one had not even been introduced.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hazard decided
he was distinctly put out and could not rest until he had made her smile. Once
and for all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">So, even though his head told him he had other things
to do and that he was simply making trouble for himself, his feet followed her
onto the omnibus, intent on finding out exactly what he had done to make her
despise him with such wordless intensity. To make her explain herself and why
she was trying to haunt his every thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She certainly looked as if she had something to get
off her chest, and he knew how women held grudges. In a way, he might even be
doing her a favor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.3in;"> </span></div><p></p><div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Brimming with stifled, angry thoughts and surging
waves of grief, Tuppence Sparrow was unaware of that shadow trailing after her feet
like a stray pup following a butcher’s cart. It was not until she arrived home,
took off her coat and hat, washed her hands, put on her apron, and walked out
into her father’s shop to find Hazard Deverell standing there that she realized
she’d been followed all the way from Woodheath high street back to her home in Hunsford
Green.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">His presence seemed to fill the shop, squeezing out
all the other customers, who became nothing but melted blobs of butter in her
sight. He stared at her, looking curiously smug. As if he thought he had her
cornered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He must believe he’s a real person, she mused. Poor,
stupid thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Look at him, standing there, all proud of himself and
arrogant! And with that parcel tucked under his arm. Her mother’s lovely snow
birds, stolen away by a man who could not possibly appreciate their beauty, or
the many memories they held for her within the musical notes of their merry
chirping dance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her eyes watered again as she bit the inside of her
cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She set her face with as much nonchalance as she could
muster and quickly got on with the business of serving customers in her
father’s confectionary shop. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“About time too,” her step-mother grumbled. “Where
have you been all afternoon? How long does it take to leave a bunch of heather
on a grave?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The woman had no idea that she had gone into Woodheath
on the omnibus that day, of course. “Where’s father?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Upstairs having a kip. Had one of his turns again.
And there you were, off gallivanting. Some daughter you are. I hope you’re
proud of yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ll take over now, Maud, if you need a rest. Go and
make a cup of tea for yourself and father. I’ll manage here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her step-mother did not need to be urged twice. She
abandoned a customer in the midst of serving and marched off through the
curtain. “Tea! As If I have time to sit about with my feet up sipping tea.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuppence worried about her father and his “turns”. He
was understandably tired. For many years he had kept the business going with
the help— which varied in usefulness— of all his daughters, but none of the
other girls took much pleasure in serving customers, or in making fudge and
toffee. Their father’s remarriage was the final straw. One by one they left to
start new lives and families. Only the middle daughter, Tuppence, stayed behind,
not having enough gumption to take flight from the Sparrow’s nest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Since her father had begun to retreat more and more
from the shop and took to slyly escaping, as much as he could, to The Cock and
Bull Inn on the corner, his remaining daughter had taken over much of the work
herself, rising early and staying up late to keep the shelves and jars well
stocked. She was also very much the creative force, coming up with many new
flavors and shapes of confectionary to tempt customers in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You’re my right-hand girl, Tuppence,” her father had
said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">To which her step-mother huffed, “’Tis just as well
she does something to earn her keep around here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Both her presence and her occasional absence were
equally resented by Maud. Indeed, Tuppence couldn’t seem to get her presence
quite right. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now creatures that must have escaped from her
imaginary other lives were stepping out into this one. It could only spell
trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Or, in this case, Hazard. In every possible way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The first time she saw him, he was standing at a
grave, just a few rows away from her mother’s. Immediately she thought that he
possessed a dented sort of handsomeness, one of which he was probably all too
well aware. He moved with a commanding confidence, as if he never had a doubt
or a regret. He was a giant of a man who seized life with both hands, never
feared anything, never really felt thwarted or left wanting for anything,
because he had it all without trying. All that she had decided about him within
the first five minutes, sketching for him a history and a present that seemed
to suit his looks. As for his future, that she did not dare imagine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She did not believe in the idea of a destiny. In
Tuppence’s opinion— which was never sought— a person was born
and then they died. Whatever happened in between was entirely reliant on
accidental circumstances and their own stupidity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Which probably explained why she had never ventured
more than a few miles from her home and satisfied any other urges from the
safety of her imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once the man had left the churchyard, she wandered
over to read the inscription on the grave at which he had stood for so long.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lily Rose Deverell<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Beloved Wife and Mother<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Forever now an Angel<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">1857-1882<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And then she not only had a name for him, but all her
ideas about the man were confirmed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lily Rose Parker had once been a star of the music
hall; a celebrated beauty, famous for flying across the stage while she sang,
apparently wearing angel’s wings and very little else. Tuppence and her sisters
had read about her in the newspaper, although they never went to the theatre to
see such an exhibition for themselves. Then, one day, the actress married Hazard
Deverell. That was in the newspaper too and increased Lily Rose’s notoriety,
for his name was just as infamous as her scantily clad performances. The woman
must have courted trouble deliberately, Tuppence thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Isn’t he that prizefighter?” one of her sisters had
exclaimed as they all leaned over the newspaper. “Our Tuppence used to cut his
picture out of magazines.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“She always had the strangest fascination for the
lives of people she would never meet,” her other sister chimed in, teasing. “Especially
if they were very wicked.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hazard Deverell had been in the newspaper for various
exploits, including a naked swim in the Serpentine after a disastrously unlucky
hand of poker; beating a man almost senseless for insulting his grandmother,
and showing his buttocks to the Countess of Beddingham, after she called him an
“uncouth American upstart”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuppence had collected all the clippings about him,
not really having a reason why, but simply wanting to have some part of all
that excitement, which she would surely never know in real life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">So all these years later, Tuppence had no intention of
telling her sisters that she had seen the man in person, there in Hunsford
Green, in the very same graveyard where their mother was buried. They would
laugh and shake their heads. Or else they would be concerned for her state of
mind, which was worse.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">They would know it had to be all in her head, as,
indeed, she did too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">But when he appeared in the churchyard, his hair was
lengthier and had more of a curl to it than she had previously imagined in her
daydreams, and his skin was darker than she would have expected, hinting at
something exotic in his blood. Not quite a </span>gentleman but<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> dressed as one.
Underneath the fine, gold embroidered waistcoat and silk ascot, there was an
extraordinary male animal, escaped from a circus or the zoological gardens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He always placed a bunch of expensive hothouse flowers
on his wife’s grave and threw away the dead, dried sprigs. All Tuppence had for
her mother was some heather, which she grew in a pot on her windowsill, the
contents of her purse not running to the cost of florist-bought blooms.
Especially while she was saving her pennies to buy back her mother’s snow bird jewelry
box and all those memories it contained for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She had noticed that, in addition to the flowers, he
always put seed down for the birds too. Perhaps that is what first prompted her
curiosity and made her watch, very cautiously, from the corner of her eye. From
all that she had read, he wasn’t the sort of man to bother about little birds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The second time she saw Hazard Deverell standing by
his wife’s headstone, he had tipped his hat and wished her a good day. Tuppence
looked over her shoulder, assuming there was somebody else at whom he spoke.
But there was only her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i>Good day</i>,” he repeated cheerily.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Why on earth would he want to speak to <i>her</i>?
Perhaps he mistook her for somebody else. It was most improper for a strange
man to address a lady he didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Clearly, he had not heard from her step-mother that
she was a great lump of a girl who stole fudge when nobody was watching. He did
not know that she lived in imaginary worlds just to keep herself from
committing violent, desperate acts, as befitted plain spinsters of a certain
age, temperament and situation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He must not know that she was practically engaged to
Horace Pinchbeck and not a hussy who spoke to utter strangers in graveyards.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was a man who, according to stories she’d read, had
once entered a party with three women on his arms. And left it with an
additional two. A man at whom a scandalous <i>fille de joie</i> had thrown her stockings,
so that he was obliged to complete a boxing match with the silk-trimmed articles
draped over his head. He won, incidentally, which suggested he was accustomed
to the inconvenience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She would not encourage him in whatever mischief he
sought to embroil her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tuppence Sparrow had problems enough already, without
adding Hazard Deverell to them. But he, it seemed, was determined.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: .3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">****</span></p></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Read on in <b><i>The Snow Birds</i></b>, available now as an ebook from all the best online stores and in print from Amazon in your country.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaPbJplwGxAOpiHN7atL_3APQeUuEguumicmdD6wb53lwSczarRy-C989HNOl3Ke5F1O-Zo-2M2RMWeBdyHyT0KsZQAU1UOTItO7eyiUPj_W-2vAiaf-YbfljM0TviGEtRamlRDGNZN0DT6mpnRaitrI4R2gx7vcEc5GAzEvVDYCrAjEwy6Cu0noDSaw=s792" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="492" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaPbJplwGxAOpiHN7atL_3APQeUuEguumicmdD6wb53lwSczarRy-C989HNOl3Ke5F1O-Zo-2M2RMWeBdyHyT0KsZQAU1UOTItO7eyiUPj_W-2vAiaf-YbfljM0TviGEtRamlRDGNZN0DT6mpnRaitrI4R2gx7vcEc5GAzEvVDYCrAjEwy6Cu0noDSaw=s320" width="199" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-66181432568963663472021-12-14T12:15:00.003-08:002021-12-14T15:52:33.366-08:00Character Showcase - Hazard "Haze" Deverell<p class="MsoNormal">He’s a man with a colourful past and some painful regrets.
According to the newspapers and scandal sheets, he’s done it all and then some:
badly-behaved women; drink; brawls, and lost wagers. Not to mention a few
midnight swims in the Serpentine, and in the nude. But, as he would be the first
to say, you should never believe everything you read about him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Besides, he’s ready to break free from his regular comedy of
errors and start a fresh slate. It’s time for Hazard Deverell
to grow up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And it all began to change for him, about six months ago, when
he spied a strange face in a graveyard -- a woman who refuses to smile at him.
When catching his eye is the aim of almost every other woman he ever meets, this
one seems determined to avoid his notice. She certainly never encourages it. But
something about her expression has awoken a long-dormant memory. He can’t think
why, but he won’t rest until she’s forgiven him for whatever he’s done to her.
Whoever she is.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The son of Rush Deverell, and a grandson of the notorious
True Deverell, Hazard has grown up a nomad and adventurer, never quite fitting
in wherever he goes, but beating his own path through life. Born in America, he
lost his mother when he was only a few days old, and his father brought him to
live in England when he was seven. Instantly his accent and manners set him
apart from other boys his age and made him a target for the school bullies. Haze
learned to fight back with his fists, and he’s been fighting ever since.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of all his family, Haze is closest to his grandmother, Lady
Charlotte Rothsey, a scandalous divorcee. Like him, she’s something of a social
outcast, considered by the rest of the family to be a hopeless case. But, in each
other, these two difficult people have found a connection and a cause that is
not, in fact, lost. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Haze visits his grandmother every day and brings treats
for her insatiable sweet tooth. In return, she gives him her advice on “gentlemanly”
behavior and manners. She wants him to find his place in life and a good wife – somebody she
can approve of this time, unlike the first. Lady Charlotte is planning to go
off on a grand adventure before Christmas (a season she has never enjoyed) and before
she leaves, it’s important that her favourite grandson finds somebody to take
her place in his life. Somebody to love him properly. Somebody for whom he will finally settle down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He’s spent thirty-two years living up to his names. Both the
“Hazard’ and the “Deverell”. Now, he is a champion pugilist and owner of a
gymnasium for young boys from all walks of life. He is also a widower and parent
to a ten-year-old girl, Clementina, who is almost a stranger to him these days.
But his past decision to put her daily care into the hands of two maiden aunts
from his wife’s family is one of the mistakes he now has plans to amend. It’s
the first order of business in his scheme for improvement.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To win back his daughter’s affections he might have to tempt
her with those delicious white fondant snow birds he found in a curious little
confectionery shop. And while he pleases his daughter and his grandmother with
these sweet treats, Haze soon finds himself equally tempted by the unsmiling
angel who makes them.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdB_umSTrYQmVitO3BbEiJFx9xLLKXSL5JGpm2weU5YoAtQHFxhjBeXwKglP3sXRDKeEg-xSuyV5D-RHuPE-N6m32T0nwdJx0B4slfr0XYhbo7PHhyU15mXjq6d8EcGfQd5s8vy0bqykVBWYfd-NL77cVSCWVnrqYc1HV5WgiRlOx8tH5_HF4kEvyPbA=s728" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="728" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdB_umSTrYQmVitO3BbEiJFx9xLLKXSL5JGpm2weU5YoAtQHFxhjBeXwKglP3sXRDKeEg-xSuyV5D-RHuPE-N6m32T0nwdJx0B4slfr0XYhbo7PHhyU15mXjq6d8EcGfQd5s8vy0bqykVBWYfd-NL77cVSCWVnrqYc1HV5WgiRlOx8tH5_HF4kEvyPbA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p>Find out what happens when Hazard Deverell meets Tuppence
Sparrow in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09NJXJG7K/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=The%20Snow%20Birds%20by%20Jayne%20Fresina&qid=1639349387&s=digital-text&sr=1-1&fbclid=IwAR13RSOPhL1Himr8jVgn5BFcYRf1U5ui-kDqY1xVJ-_BufRa0boi7RWL_N8">The Snow Birds</a> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-78127127658145344592021-12-13T08:23:00.005-08:002021-12-13T08:27:01.030-08:00Character Showcase: Tuppence Sparrow<p class="MsoNormal">Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AfyTbwBCKyM/YbdzRftVkmI/AAAAAAAAC2s/08DnIED-E34f9AflPglxwfTVyyPZgB-lACNcBGAsYHQ/s1903/furry%2Bice4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1903" data-original-width="1427" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AfyTbwBCKyM/YbdzRftVkmI/AAAAAAAAC2s/08DnIED-E34f9AflPglxwfTVyyPZgB-lACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/furry%2Bice4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />In my seasonal offering this year, the heroine, Tuppence
Sparrow, works in the family confectionery shop. Started by her grandfather
many years before, and situated in the quiet, out-of-the-way village of
Hunsford Green, “Sparrow’s Confectionery” is something of a local institution,
but new customers are rare. It’s 1892 and since the advance of the railway in
England, many coaching inns — and towns that grew up around them—are much less
busy, and that goes for The Cock and Bull in Hunsford Green, which was once a
bustling gateway for travelers up and down the north road from London. As a
consequence, strangers are much less frequently seen about the village than
they once were and business is slow.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this Christmas, Tuppence Sparrow, is inspired to make a
new product for their shelves – white fondant snow birds, each filled with a
surprise center. Her step-mother thinks the idea will never take off, but her
father is willing to experiment and give her creation a chance to take flight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Neither of them know where she came by her inspiration, but
Tuppence has a wild imagination and as long as she saves it for the shelves and
jars of their shop, all is well. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s only when her imagination spreads its wings</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9q_pyj5sv4/Ybdxz2xKNMI/AAAAAAAAC2k/2WMaMXwotoYa5_bXr57YVZQ_AbypMHlsQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Charles%2BSpencelayh%2B-%2BAlways%2BBusy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1129" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z9q_pyj5sv4/Ybdxz2xKNMI/AAAAAAAAC2k/2WMaMXwotoYa5_bXr57YVZQ_AbypMHlsQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/Charles%2BSpencelayh%2B-%2BAlways%2BBusy.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /> further
afield and her creations begin to take a more solid form that the trouble
really starts.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What, or who, is Tuppence Sparrow’s real snow bird with the
surprise soft center? And is her new creation really Everything Nice, or is it
secretly Everything Naughty?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tuppence is the middle child of the family and the last to
take flight from the nest. With her elder and younger sisters both married and
moved three miles away, she is now her father’s “right-hand man” in the shop
and behind the scenes. Her step-mother wants her gone too and is taking steps
to have her removed as soon as possible. But Tuppence worries about her father
and she is determined to keep “Sparrow’s Confectionery” as it has always been,
despite her step-mother’s aspirations to change, expand and “improve” the
premises.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tuppence likes things to stay as they are. She is fearful of
the world outside the shop and is only brave in her mind, where she imagines
herself living far more exciting and daring lives. In reality, she prefers the
safe and the familiar – never speaks up or complains. But her imagination is
where she goes to get away from her loneliness and her sorrows. And where she
wreaks revenge on her enemies.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One day a strange man walks through the door of the shop and
he bears a shocking resemblance to somebody she keeps tucked away in a biscuit
tin. She can’t understand how he got out; which of her many lives he belongs in
— or why he’s so intent on making her smile.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s thirteen days to Christmas and Tuppence Sparrow is too
old to believe in Father Christmas. For her, the season lost its magic long
since. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p>But this year she is about to rediscover the enchantment of
Christmas, for she will come face to face with romance and with destiny— both of
which she has given up believing in too. </p><p>Get your copy of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09NJXJG7K/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=The%20Snow%20Birds%20by%20Jayne%20Fresina&qid=1639349387&s=digital-text&sr=1-1&fbclid=IwAR2-PiBPMD5aXYDPoOtKorCyvv9OvXtb3sm66y_CTtZVivcH1C7D-lo8y18">The Snow Birds</a> now.</p><p><br /></p><p>Image: Photo my own and 'Always Busy' by Charles Spencelayh (c. 1901)</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-64860959907559493732021-12-08T07:11:00.002-08:002021-12-12T14:53:53.284-08:00The Snow Birds<p> Coming to you this Christmas -- THE SNOW BIRDS.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nCQZXRVHE6c/YbDLB_Aaq-I/AAAAAAAAC2E/EearmYqs-BIa7Jw9qAJORFMZTjE-31quQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/the%2Bsnow%2Bbirds.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nCQZXRVHE6c/YbDLB_Aaq-I/AAAAAAAAC2E/EearmYqs-BIa7Jw9qAJORFMZTjE-31quQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/the%2Bsnow%2Bbirds.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It is Christmas 1892,
and the toffee hammer of sweet destiny is about to fall upon the most unlikely
hero and heroine who ever graced a love story.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Tuppence Sparrow works
in her father’s confectionery shop, where everything has stayed much the same
for half a century; where creaky floors and tilting shelves are all part of its
whimsical charm. Like the shop, Miss Sparrow has some wonky traits, but she holds
her tongue, minds her own business, seldom smiles, and certainly never
encourages the attentions of scandalous men. At least, not in this lifetime.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">But to help her
days go by, Tuppence imagines herself into other lives, and into a world where
she is bold, brave and reckless. A world far from the sleepy village of
Hunsford Green, and a universe away from the very proper man she is one day
expected to marry.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Trouble is, she can
no longer be sure which of her nine lives is the real one, and if she doesn’t
stop day-dreaming she just might lose them all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">*</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Unlike
Miss Sparrow, the man with whom she is about to collide, has lived only one
life, and he’s flown through it by the seat of his breeches. When he’s wearing
any.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;">The
scandal papers are full of his exploits: from a naked swim in the Serpentine
after a lost wager, to airing his buttocks before an outraged countess, who called
him an “uncouth American upstart”. He is a man at whom a notorious <i>fille de
joie</i> once threw her stockings, forcing him to win a boxing match with the
dainty, silk-trimmed articles still draped over his head. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Calamity and chaos
have stalked our dubious hero for thirty-two years, although, as he would be
the first to admit, his antics have often “seemed like a good idea at the
time.” Now he’s trying very hard to fix his wrongs; to set himself upright at
last and settle down. Unfortunately, well-behaved females rarely interest Hazard
Deverell, and as much as he believes in fate, his own has not been very kind to
him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">But a strange encounter
has unleashed his sweet tooth and convinced him that a woman with the face of
a disappointed gravestone angel will be his saving grace.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">If only he can persuade
her likewise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">It’s thirteen days
to Christmas. Unlucky for some, but he prefers odd numbers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">And peculiar
women.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b9h83Earjxk/YbDKHh_A6BI/AAAAAAAAC18/yTqYPRrldxwSnoJKygbvbIEaI4YYfBp7gCNcBGAsYHQ/s550/bouguereau.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b9h83Earjxk/YbDKHh_A6BI/AAAAAAAAC18/yTqYPRrldxwSnoJKygbvbIEaI4YYfBp7gCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/bouguereau.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>AVAILABLE NOW FROM <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09NJXJG7K/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=The+Snow+Birds+by+Jayne+Fresina&qid=1639349387&s=digital-text&sr=1-1">AMAZON</a>!</p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-73860362649399763742021-11-22T14:21:00.001-08:002021-11-22T14:21:10.854-08:00COMING SOON FOR CHRISTMAS!<p> A Victorian novella to get you in the mood for sugar plums and fondant kisses! Keep an eye out for some teasers and release date news.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8JEjwvtMruY/YZwXrKrwVRI/AAAAAAAAC1s/OHj0ryLBx7MdFQfXU0I7r-wFXSyvWui_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/the%2Bsnow%2Bbirds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8JEjwvtMruY/YZwXrKrwVRI/AAAAAAAAC1s/OHj0ryLBx7MdFQfXU0I7r-wFXSyvWui_ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/the%2Bsnow%2Bbirds.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-23497097952820005422021-05-07T05:33:00.002-07:002021-05-07T05:41:58.955-07:00A Father's Legacy<p> When our father died in May of 2016 he was 89. He left behind a family that loved him and would miss him greatly, every day. But he also left us with his memories, typed up in a computer file so that we couldn't forget them. Reading his words, even now, five years later, we can still hear his voice telling those stories; we can still see his smile and his eyes crinkling up with laughter. He left us, and future generations of our family, with a wonderful gift. I'm sure he had no idea how much it would be cherished. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDNmdEbQVJc/YJUrqadFMgI/AAAAAAAACyQ/eS3llTlgXLcpIGiku262uoZxsVjq2Oa5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s720/dad%2Bon%2Bbike.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="720" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mDNmdEbQVJc/YJUrqadFMgI/AAAAAAAACyQ/eS3llTlgXLcpIGiku262uoZxsVjq2Oa5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dad%2Bon%2Bbike.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Last year, at the peak of lockdown, my sisters and I decided that we'd try to do something for him in return. We collaborated long-distance on a book, using his words and some of our own.<p></p><p>It is not a thick, heavy important book of the sort that might catch Oprah's eye. We don't have a large marketing budget to help promote it and we rely on word of mouth. But we never expected to have a best seller on our hands, in any case. We simply wanted to get his story out there for other folk to read and enjoy. We wanted to share a little bit of the lovely man, who we were lucky enough to know as our father, with the rest of the world. Hopefully, we thought, there will be some people who might find encouragement from our dad's story. I know that we found the process of writing and producing the book extremely uplifting, especially during what was otherwise a difficult year for everybody. It brought us, in many ways, even closer to dad. At times, it felt as if he was right there with us, putting the story together and offering advice. I hope he's pleased and proud of the finished product.</p><p>We'll never stop missing him, but we've managed to keep a part of our dad very much alive with us, not just in the many photos and home movies he collected over his 89 years, but in his story. In "Everything He Never Said" our father's voice lives on and is still making people laugh, which he would have enjoyed very much in his own mischievous way. </p><p>Of course, his story is not all laughter. Nobody's story is all light and sunshine. Our father had more than his share of struggles along the way, but he managed to keep going and overcome all the obstacles to build a good life for his daughters. He never looked for anybody's pity and if he had sad days when we were growing up, he never showed it. I'm sure that writing it all down at last was cathartic for him too.</p><p>Our father was a quiet man who didn't like to make a fuss. He had strong opinions, but wasn't likely to talk about them very often. So what would he have thought of being put out there on the internet? I worried, at first, that he might not approve. But now I think he would be amused and fascinated by the technology behind it all. He enjoyed learning about new things and was never afraid to try anything. When we were schoolchildren he loved hearing about our lessons and, since his own formal education had been limited, he often shared in the discoveries we made along the way. </p><p>"Fancy that!" I can hear him saying with a chuckle. </p><p>So while he might never have done this for himself, I believe he would be quietly proud and surprised that we did it for him, and pleased that we managed to get the project completed together.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IkearatXoag/YJUr5GZ20LI/AAAAAAAACyU/FtUrdirp594vDG9wzDIavOPwK4UuQQDywCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Janette%2Band%2BLynne%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IkearatXoag/YJUr5GZ20LI/AAAAAAAACyU/FtUrdirp594vDG9wzDIavOPwK4UuQQDywCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Janette%2Band%2BLynne%2Bwith%2BDad.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>In fact, I think that our dad would have become an author himself, if he'd had more time. When he first learned how to use a computer, he began writing some fiction and enjoyed it tremendously. He never tried to get anything published, but his head was full of stories and characters -- much like my own. And he believed in going as far as we might go; of getting as much out of life as we could. He didn't have much time for people who sat on their behinds, felt sorry for themselves and got nothing done. He liked to keep busy and moving forward. He loved gory computer games and was thrilled by the development of remote controlled TV when we were kids! If you've read the book, you can imagine the tricks he played on us with that.</p><p>So I'm glad that we helped him move on with the times again and finally become a published author. We have set him off on a new adventure across the world. He might not be on the other end of a phone line anymore, but his love is still with us. It will live on with us -- with his grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews --all via the magic of the internet.</p><p>Yes, he would be amazed and, I think, shyly chuffed.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzrQyCV3qWA/YJUsE55Fl_I/AAAAAAAACyc/XY3s0JJfKEoFEF_kAiNEu2znDCtxLOa1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s337/me%2Band%2Bdad1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="285" data-original-width="337" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzrQyCV3qWA/YJUsE55Fl_I/AAAAAAAACyc/XY3s0JJfKEoFEF_kAiNEu2znDCtxLOa1gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/me%2Band%2Bdad1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I keep an old black and white photo of dad with his brother in a frame on my living room wall. While we were working on the book, I found a beautifully patterned brown moth one morning, perched on the frame, sleeping with its wings spread out to show off and feel the sunlight. I like to think it was dad giving his blessing and saying "Get on with it, gell! I'm here!"<p></p><p>Thank you, Dad, not just for "Everything He Never Said", but also for everything you ever did. For everything you gave us.</p><p>xxx</p><p>(<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08HR4VW5Z/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i34">EVERYTHING HE NEVER SAID</a> (e-book version) is now available at a special price from Amazon in your country! It is also available as paperback at the original pricing.)</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SUOXgmKPJUc/YJUrXw9bEiI/AAAAAAAACyI/fSFyuE6HCbosCuQh0yEzrIIxp9z55ucmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Fresina_Lynton_EverythingHeNeverSaid.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SUOXgmKPJUc/YJUrXw9bEiI/AAAAAAAACyI/fSFyuE6HCbosCuQh0yEzrIIxp9z55ucmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fresina_Lynton_EverythingHeNeverSaid.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-54305145810047631752021-03-14T08:50:00.007-07:002021-03-14T08:50:48.386-07:00Another exclusive excerpt!<p> Good Morning! As we spring ahead an hour and creep closer to warm weather and sunshine at last, I thought I'd share with you another excerpt from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT</a>. Enjoy!</p><p style="text-align: center;">*</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Viennese Fingers
and a Fit of the Female Hysterics.</span></i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">“My
good man, there has been a murder. At least one. A great deception has taken
place and evil is afoot. Someone is coming to harm. Perhaps we are already too
late. Oh, and my name is Euphemia, Lady Carew. I am not sure of the order in
which you need to know it all, so I throw it all aloft and see what lands
first.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
commanded the young constable’s attention further, by reaching over his desk
and slamming shut the book he’d been reading. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Alas,
I fear that all will smash upon the floor since your hands appear too slow and
slight to catch any of it.” She looked the skinny chap up and down, feeling
more than mildly disappointed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sadly,
young men these days were not what they used to be. No wonder she’d run out of
lovers and lost the will to find a new one.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Ali312A4kM/YE4vXwZ1lkI/AAAAAAAACw0/OntVkFG1vow0UjAQnt1_e0HlcDf8grkOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s936/james%2Bsant%2Bportrait%2Bof%2Ba%2Blady%2Bin%2Ba%2Bfeathered%2Bhat%2B1860.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="840" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Ali312A4kM/YE4vXwZ1lkI/AAAAAAAACw0/OntVkFG1vow0UjAQnt1_e0HlcDf8grkOgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/james%2Bsant%2Bportrait%2Bof%2Ba%2Blady%2Bin%2Ba%2Bfeathered%2Bhat%2B1860.jpg" /></a></div><br />He
had jumped a little when she shut his book. Now he drew back and stared at her
for a moment, as if she was some sort of exotic, poisonous spider that had got
loose from an exhibition. Although it was still daylight out, the police
station was poorly serviced by inadequate and grimy windows, so the gas bracket
above his head was already lit, lending a somewhat flat, yellowy, waxy and
surreal aura to his appearance.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now,
who is in charge of this dismal place?” She briskly rapped her gloved knuckles
on the desk to rouse him further from this stupor. “I insist you take me to
them at once.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“In
charge?” He finally stirred himself and swallowed. “That would be Detective
Inspector Deverell, ma’am. But he be out at present. Went to Harrogate.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why
on earth would he want to go all that way when he is needed here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
don’t know, ma’am. He keeps his business to himself. Could be that he went to
drink the spa waters. They do say as ‘tis right beneficial to the health.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why?
What’s amiss with him?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Errr
hmmm.” The fellow’s brow wrinkled. “Not sure I know where to start with that
one,” he mumbled.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Has he not enough villains to keep him busy
in York?” she exclaimed. “Are we to be overrun by robbers and rogues with
nobody here to manage the business, but you? I hope your detective does not
return to find corpses strewn about the streets and every bank vault emptied, while
you sit here with your tea and biscuits!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
can take a report for thee, ma’am.” His fingers crept across the desk for a
small leather-bound notebook. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“This
is all most inconvenient, but I suppose I have no choice,” she murmured to
herself. “The underling will have to—” Suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing,
she searched desperately for a handkerchief and, in so doing, dropped the
contents of her reticule onto the police station floor. Her empty gin flask
spun away across the stone, and she watched it go, the hollow clanging echo
transformed into the sound of Old Pip’s shovel, striking against something
buried in the earth. She looked down at her fallen possessions. The ground, for
a moment, had gone soft beneath her feet— she could feel her heels sinking in
and an apple rolled by her foot. But now the floor was stone again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">With
another cough stifled, she managed to wheeze, “After all this time, I hardly
know where to begin my story. How much of it is true; how much of it is in my
mind.” She paused. “I’ve never told any of it before to somebody who understands
fluent English, you see. I didn’t want to be dragged back into the lunatic
asylum. I fled England in the first place to escape <i>that</i> fate.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
young man behind the desk had opened his notebook and readied his pen, but now
he put them aside, sidled out from behind the desk and stooped to retrieve her
fallen articles, one by one, from the floor. When she would not take them from
his hands, being too overcome with her thoughts, he set them on the desk,
lining them up with care. He glanced at her between each rescue, with a very
slight frown of admonishment, as if she was a child who had thrown her toys
across the nursery floor and he was the long-suffering, underpaid nanny.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
gazed at the sad parade of her most-treasured possessions: a pearl-handled comb
missing some teeth, a black velvet choker with a silver heart and a broken
clasp, and a palm-sized mirror— all that were once her mother’s. There was also
a small vial of French perfume; face powder; honey lip balm; matches; a length
of frayed ribbon with roses printed upon it; Welford mint pastilles; her cigarette
case, and the silver gin flask. Like the contents of a magpie’s nest. No
handkerchief. What the devil had she done with her handkerchief? It was trimmed
with good lace too and embroidered with silk initials.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
constable now tried to ease the empty reticule from her hands, but she
resisted, turning it inside out in search of her missing item.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGzRsTeppac/YE4wlDc3KzI/AAAAAAAACw8/1PI5omao_gQrb99lD-Dr4sqBp9UCDSaoACLcBGAsYHQ/s1500/tea%2Bleaves%2Bby%2Bwilliam%2Bpaxton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1194" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGzRsTeppac/YE4wlDc3KzI/AAAAAAAACw8/1PI5omao_gQrb99lD-Dr4sqBp9UCDSaoACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/tea%2Bleaves%2Bby%2Bwilliam%2Bpaxton.jpg" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Damn
and blast,” she muttered. “I gave it to Anxious Fanny, didn’t I?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
don’t know, ma’am. Did thee? Mayhap thee ought to sit down? Shall I fetch a
chair?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
hardly listened. “I know that something is not right, you see, young man. It is
the <i>something</i> that eludes me.” She batted his fingers away. “Something I
saw today, after the funeral. Or was it something I <i>didn’t</i> see?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“After
the funeral, ma’am?” He moved back around his desk now, still eyeing the row of
shiny trinkets and then her garments, with suspicion. Rich green velvet, trimmed
with gold braid and frog clasps, with an underlayer of rhubarb silk ruffles,
was, of course, most definitely not mourning attire. And then there was her
extravagantly feathered hat, with not a black veil in sight.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
funeral of Alma Clemmons,” she explained, thinking he ought to know that name.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
his expression showed no sign of recognition. “That’s the murder victim, is
it?” He began to write in his book, frowning earnestly. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Alma? A victim? I could cheerfully have done
it myself, if that was the case.” She gave a lusty laugh. “I am, after all, a
thoroughly bad lot, so they say.” Suddenly dizzy, she clutched the desk. Oh,
she wished her flask wasn’t empty. She shook it to be sure. “Alma? No. She
succumbed after a long illness. <i>Finally succumbed</i>. Yes, that’s what they
called it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
constable paused his pen above the inkpot. “But you said there’s been a murder,
ma’am.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
pressed fingers to her brow, where crow’s wings drummed against her skull. “The
victim for whom I speak has no voice of her own. Her jaw was severed by the
blow of an axe. She needs to be found. I saw her in my dream.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“A
dream, ma’am?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
swayed, feeling sick. She hadn’t eaten today. Not a bite, but for a mint
pastille. Her feet were so light she didn’t see how they could stay down on the
floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
think you ought to sit down, ma’am.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
I think you ought to be quiet,” she snapped, “and let me get my thoughts in
order.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Slowly
she returned the items to her reticule, considering each one for a moment as
she held it in her palm. How strange it was, she thought, that these were the
few pieces she carried with her and felt so lost without— the necessities of
her life. A lot could be told about a person from what they carried— how much
and how little they kept near. What remained in them, with them and on them.
Like wrinkles, freckles. And scars.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
lived there long away and far ago, you see.” She shook her flask again, just to
be sure, and hiccupped. “I never really left the place. Or a small part of me
is still there. In the cupboard.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“In
the cupboard?” The young man frowned and scratched his brow. “What cupboard is
that then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s
where the body is. It opened the cupboard and saw me, and I saw it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Another
fellow now joined the younger man at the front desk and, with a copious amount
of chest thrusting, introduced himself as Sergeant Moffat. “What seems to be
the matter, ma’am?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
lady doesn’t know, sir,” the constable muttered. He shot a quick glance at her
empty flask— the last piece of life to be stuffed back in her reticule— and
then he said, in a softer tone, “Mayhap, thee be under the weather, ma’am.
Ought to come back later. When thee be feeling better like.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
drew herself up taller and swallowed another hiccup. “I do not care for your
tone, young man. Nor do I appreciate the insinuation.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
had an auntie fond of the gin. After she’d had a good belly-full, she always
accused folk of wanting her dead and buried. Threw a punch once at my uncle
over the Christmas goose.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
am not inebriated. How dare you suggest—?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
smell the gin, ma’am,” he whispered, “despite the mint.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sergeant
Moffat exhaled a weary huff. “Shouldn’t waste police time, ma’am. Now, off thee
goes and I daresay tomorrow all this’ll be forgot.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
he tried to grasp her elbow, she pulled away, hot with fury. “Listen to me,
imbeciles! You fail to understand. There has been a murder. I saw it happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Did
you indeed? And what is your name, madam?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
sighed. “As I told you, my name is Lady Carew.” She jabbed her finger toward the
constable’s little book. “Write that down. Carew.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
sergeant was squinting at her, his moustache twitching and nostrils flaring. “And
where did this supposed murder take place?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
house they called Furthermore on Whitherward Fell.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
rolled his eyes and huffed. Under his breath he grumbled, “Not another one.”
Then he raised his voice to her as if she might be hard of hearing. “Alright,
dearie. Off you go then.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
do you not require details?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ever
since that story were in the newspaper, diggin’ up that old murder, we’ve had all
the local lunatics and drunkards in, tellin’ us they know who did it. Their
Uncle Bob’s chimney sweep’s cousin, or their sister’s dog. Or even that <i>they</i>
did it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I am <i>not </i>a lunatic!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
two men behind the desk exchanged looks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Alma
and my husband thought I was, but I am not,” she continued, trying to explain.
“After the divorce from Sir Edgerton Carew, I fled these shores and put it all behind
me, for I was warned that if I made trouble, steps would be taken to put me
away forever and I had spent long enough locked away in a cupboard.” Effie
waved her arms, like a bird desperate to take flight. “So off I went to the
heat and the sunlight and the forgetting.” Then she clasped both hands to her
bosom. “But coming back here today, for Alma’s funeral, I realized that I have
been gutless, weak and selfish. Now it is time.” She thumped her fist on the
desk, swept up in a passion. “Time to settle all scores. Whatever is done to me
as a result.” Taking a step back, she straightened her hat and her shoulders.
“So there. Now ask of me what you will. I suppose I must be questioned. This
once I shall forgive the impertinence.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
were both staring with their mouths open, until Sergeant Moffat recovered
enough to ask. “Alma? Who’s Alma?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
younger man whispered, “The lady what’s dead, sir.” He looked down at his
notebook. “Alma Lemons.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i>Clemmons,
</i>for pity’s sake! Two ‘m’s.” She stopped, her attention seized by the plate
of shortbread fingers, with their ends dipped in chocolate, sitting on a plate
beside his notebook. “Oh,” she muttered, fanning her face with a glove. “I feel
quite faint.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
constable followed her gaze. “They’re called Viennese fingers, ma’am. From Miss
Greenwood’s shop. They’re a special favorite o’ mine. Would you…?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
took one before he could finish and bit into it with some satisfaction. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
sergeant’s face rumpled with annoyance and his moustache trembled indignantly
as he muttered about crumbs all over the desk. “We’re here to uphold the law,
Constable Wilmot, not feed vagrants off the street. This ain’t the sailor’s
rest or a soup-kitchen.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
with her energy partially restored by that delicious, buttery, crumbly biscuit,
Effie continued, “Now, do follow along! I know that something happened in that
house. You must go there and search the place for a missing Polly.” She paused
to select another shortbread finger. “Then there was today, at the funeral.
Something occurred to me today. Something there was quite wrong, but I do not
know yet what it was. Oh, I wish my head would stop spinning! I have travelled
a long way, of course, and had nothing to eat. ‘Tis no surprise I feel weak.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Receiving
an unsubtle nudge and another eyeroll from his comrade, the constable put down
his pen yet again and closed his notebook. “I reckon thee ought to sit down and
take a bit o’ supper. Come the mornin’ and a clear ‘ead—"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
am <i>not</i> drunk,” she replied tightly. “Nor am I a madwoman.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
sergeant gave a snort of amusement and swiftly moved the plate of biscuits out
of her reach. “Well, thee would say that, wouldn’t thee?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
beg your pardon?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
spoke carefully, making big ‘o’s with his lips. “A mad wench wouldn’t go around
confessing to madness, o’ course. That would make her sane. But if she be mad,
the more she says she en’t so, the more she is so.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
makes you an expert in the matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
chuckled. “I know <i>I</i> ain’t mad.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
leaned across his desk. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That
wiped the humor from his face. “And us men don’t suffer from hystericals.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hystericals?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aye.
All het up and twisted about. Fainty and whatnot. ‘Tis a fit of the female
hystericals.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh,
I can show you hysterical, you bumptious little man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Look,
<i>your ladyship</i>, we’re very busy here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Do
you imagine that I am not? Yet I put myself out and delayed my return to London
just to speak with your detective fellow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
reckon ‘tis a doctor needed here, ma’am, not a detective.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Is
that what you <i>reckon</i>, insolent fellow?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ma’am,
there’s no occasion to get all aerated,” said the young constable, trying his
best to intervene peaceably. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
shall be as aerated as I wish. Now, listen to me! A murder has been committed
in that house.” She took a struggling breath, one hand pressed to her bosom. “It
was <i>not</i> a figment of my imagination. Not this time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
sergeant exhaled a tight huff and folded his arms. “Go home and sleep it off,
ma’am. Come back on the morrow, when thee be sober. If thee still thinks
there’s been a murder then. Otherwise, we’ll be obliged to put thee in’t cell
for the night, and that’s no place for a lady like thee’sen.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
licked her dry lips and hugged her reticule, wishing again that her flask was
still full, for she was going to need a strong drink to get through this. “I
was the one left with life,” she muttered. “And what good have I done with it?
Old Pip was right to remind me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sergeant
Moffat shook his head. “Go home, ma’am. Constable Wilmot will hail you a Hansom
cab.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her
legs felt very weak now, as if they’d run a fair distance in heavy boots to get
where they were and her lungs burned with a fierce fire. As did her head. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Go
home? She had none. She had nothing but the contents of her reticule and a tattered
steamer trunk of belongings being held for her at the train station. For all
her finery and bold manners, Lady Carew was a dried leaf, blown by the winds of
autumn. And Effie, underneath it all, was a little girl lost and alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
lady like thee’sen,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">
the sergeant had said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
what was a lady like herself? Was there such a thing? Alma had told her she was
a monster; an “elemental creature”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“As
if there could ever be another like you,” her grandmother had sneered once.
“The Almighty would have thrown away the mould in shame when he saw his
mistake! There was only ever one of you, girl. One was more than enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
felt the strike of a hard, stinging cane across her palm and she jolted out of
her memories, drawing a quick, tortured breath. Those rather lovely,
chocolate-dipped shortbread fingers, she feared, had only very briefly helped,
but they had not been enough to fill the aching void inside her. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Euphemia,
dizzy again and breathless, turned away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Was
it any wonder she felt so ill, after the day she’d just endured and the ghosts
she was forced to encounter? The guilt?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Gin
could only blunt the edges for so long and so far.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">No
more blind eye. No more cowardice and hiding in hot, sunny places. She had not
known what she meant to do when she came home. But now she was here, she would
see it through to the bitter end, even if that end was her own. Something had
drawn her here. Something waiting in the dark to be set free.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“God
help me,” she gasped softly, “I will not leave that part of me behind there again.
I will find it and be whole.” Perhaps then, whatever it was that waited for her
to come back, would stop haunting her with terrible dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">With
one hand she reached for the wall to keep herself from falling. But there was
nothing. Darkness closed in. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The cupboard door under the stairs banged
shut and she heard the rusty bolt, disguised as a caterpillar in the
intricately carved wall paneling, screaming as it slid back into place...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><b>READ MORE ABOUT THE MYSTERIES TACKLED BY DETECTIVE INSPECTOR DEVERELL IN THE BESPOKE SERIES:</b></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07NJ71RYD/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1">BESPOKE</a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07TLXVN7W/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i2">A LOVELINESS OF LADYBIRDS</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>And more to come!</b></p><p>(Image: 'Portrait of a lady in a feathered hat', by James Sant c. 1860 and 'Tea Leaves' by William Paxton c. 1909)</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-486026745947476132021-03-05T03:28:00.000-08:002021-03-05T03:28:07.226-08:00Release Day!!<p> I’m celebrating with lots of exclamation points!!!!!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Today is the day! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT</a> is
officially released.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Join Detective Inspector Deverell and Miss Lucy Greenwood as
they embark on quite a tangled adventure, in an attempt to solve a handful of
mysteries all at once. </p><p class="MsoNormal">And will they ever make it to the altar? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-up6zJYvcuQ8/YEIVS0AhYsI/AAAAAAAACwk/0JSe162iRDM5Ufry8TiyzWGaciz49fJVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1018/katie%2527s%2Bletter%2Bhaynes%2Bking%2B1897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="807" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-up6zJYvcuQ8/YEIVS0AhYsI/AAAAAAAACwk/0JSe162iRDM5Ufry8TiyzWGaciz49fJVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/katie%2527s%2Bletter%2Bhaynes%2Bking%2B1897.jpg" /></a></div><br />This is the third book in the Bespoke series, and although
it’s not necessary that you read the first two books to enjoy this one, I hope
you will want to read them all! <b>BESPOKE</b> (book I) is currently available
at a very special price to help you get acquainted with Lucy and her Deverell,
if you aren’t already.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So make a cup of tea, shake a martini, or pour a glass of
wine; then curl up with your book, or e-reader, and escape to 623 pages of adventure
and entertainment. No mask is required and you won’t even have to leave your
chair. How can anything be better than that?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hope you enjoy the latest installment in this series and I
can promise you that there are more to come for Lucy and Tolly! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.</p><p class="MsoNormal">If you would like to win a copy of A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT, please check out my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Jayne-Fresina-137708499635497">author page</a> on Facebook for some competition opportunities this weekend!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_stfv_K7Pk/YEIVBZUyHzI/AAAAAAAACwc/yfLQK1Q_ZK8Xv6cytK0U0Vp96o2XFDRZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bookre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K_stfv_K7Pk/YEIVBZUyHzI/AAAAAAAACwc/yfLQK1Q_ZK8Xv6cytK0U0Vp96o2XFDRZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bookre.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jayne.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">(Images: Katie's letter by Haynes King, 1897 and my photo)</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-59489182633185039062021-03-02T05:40:00.000-08:002021-03-02T05:40:08.966-08:00Exclusive Excerpt from A Deadly Shade of Night<p> Today I'm sharing with you an excerpt from A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT (A Bespoke Novel III).</p><p>Enjoy!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">* * *</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Detective
Inspector Ptolemy Deverell did not pursue dangerous women. Unless, of course,
it was part of his duty and his job. When it came to his personal life, he left
such questionable sport— and subsequent headaches— to the other males in his
family. They seemed to enjoy it, bless ‘em. He would much rather read a book by
the fire, go sailing, or enjoy his own garden, from a bench beneath an ancient,
shady tree, with a tankard of beer in hand. Almost anything that he could do
alone, actually.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bk3624buGLc/YD5AFqCGlfI/AAAAAAAACwM/rxMZj8zOhp0Q4yw--fHkVh3SoEOIxZZmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/raspberries-on-a-leaf-lilly-martin-spencer-300x211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bk3624buGLc/YD5AFqCGlfI/AAAAAAAACwM/rxMZj8zOhp0Q4yw--fHkVh3SoEOIxZZmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/raspberries-on-a-leaf-lilly-martin-spencer-300x211.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
a consequence of this “eccentric” behavior, there were some in his rather
notorious family who considered him to be the most tedious and humdrum fellow
that ever breathed. His brothers had gone so far as to suggest he was a foundling.
He was definitely, so they teased, old before his time and a “bit of a
let-down” for anybody anticipating the usual Deverell mischief and mayhem. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">During
a parlor game at one family Christmas gathering, he was voted the Deverell
“most likely to become a monk.” He was a man of moderate habits and mild
manners. He had never ridden a horse across a beach wearing only a wet shirt
and breeches. He had never thrown a woman over his shoulder or stormed about,
slamming doors and cracking whips. He hardly ever sulked and brooded. At least,
nobody noticed if he did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
short, he was hardly romantic hero material.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
then along came Miss Lucy Greenwood, who had swept into his life wearing tiny,
tempting, raspberry buttons; an audacious demeanor; a droll smile, and with the
air around her sweetly evocative of cake.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Naturally,
she did not wear <i>only</i> the buttons. They were attached to a perfectly
respectable dress. But the very fact that this requires confirmation should
tell you something of their effect upon the luckless detective.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today
he had entered her kitchen resolved not to look at her buttons at all, for this
was no time to be distracted by the details— as was his habit. He must not
think of opening any buttons today; he was closing them. Firmly and decisively.
To do it properly, he needed his wits, steady hands, and all his words about
him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
despite these intentions and before he could speak at all, he was undone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Turning
to him with arm outstretched, raising her spoon and one slender eyebrow with
the same eager anticipation, she said, “Mind you don’t burn your tongue.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
like that, in the blink of an eye, the moistening of a taste bud and the breath
of a yearning sigh, the goodbye that he had gone there to say was forgotten;
the train ticket in his overcoat pocket abandoned to its dark, linty depths. Because
he couldn’t leave. He knew, in that moment, for better or worse, that he never
would abandon her. He might even ride a horse through the surf one day, getting
his shirt and breeches soaking wet and stained with salt in the process, just
for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Alas,
here before him stood the agent of his downfall; the cause of a few sleepless
nights and just as many daylight fancies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Detective
Inspector Deverell had faced a plethora of viciously armed and brutally
determined villains during the course of his career, but they had nothing on
Miss Greenwood wielding a spoonful of jam. It might as well have been a ten-ton
weight with which to clobber him about the head and render him insensible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Mother
Nature, like a watchmaker in a mischievous mood when she made Miss Lucy
Greenwood, had tucked a secret message into her creation: a little parcel of
instructions with a diagram of his mind and body burned upon it. Consequently,
this woman took one look at Ptolemy Deverell— “Tolly” to his closest friends—
and immediately saw every crack in his armor, every soft spot in his being; all
those things he spent his days concealing from the world at large. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
seemed to know all the tricks: everything to cheer him out of a glum mood, no
matter how determined he was to be in one. For example, he never knew he had a
sweet tooth, until he sampled one of the delightful creations from her kitchen.
His only weakness, prior to that, was for jam— a partiality he had never
mentioned to anybody— and the way that sticky, sugary aroma invoked memories of
schoolboy yearning, hunger pangs, treats and comforts. A single teaspoon of jam
was the reminder of a happy childhood home and unspoken affection; all those things
that did not need to be said, they simply were. And Miss Greenwood’s raspberry
jam was in a class of its own: nectar of the gods. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">None
of this had he ever expressed to her. Yet, there she stood, today of all days,
tendering a spoonful of that precious comestible, to stop him in his tracks and
make him stay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before
he even managed to tell her that he was leaving.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Whatever
is the matter?” she inquired, her spoon halfway withdrawn. “Upon my word! You
look like a man about to be knocked down by a charging herd of amorously-inclined
dairy shorthorns, and quite stuck to the spot. It’s only <i>jam</i>.”</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5cHLNzco4_Q/YD4-gQluHLI/AAAAAAAACwE/KNbV-TO6T5ICctI87vQ1J8Ogvj6t69aLACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/vintage%2Bdessets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5cHLNzco4_Q/YD4-gQluHLI/AAAAAAAACwE/KNbV-TO6T5ICctI87vQ1J8Ogvj6t69aLACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/vintage%2Bdessets.jpg" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Only
jam.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
now he was in a bit of one himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Miss
Greenwood was a formidable force, against which he stood no chance whatsoever.
In her eyes, an obstacle was merely a challenge from which to learn; a wall,
something to be climbed so that she might enjoy the view from a better vantage
point, and a great distance between two objects, nothing more than the
opportunity to travel between them, in as reckless, exuberant and shocking a
manner as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Heedless
of his attempts at discouragement, she steadily and fearlessly teased her way
under his solemn shell, her mission helped, naturally, by that little packet of
information sewn under her skin: a Tolly Deverell Owner’s Manual. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Miss
Greenwood…Lucy.” He stared at her lips, which were as lushly pink, tender and
tempting to his taste-buds as the bowl of raspberries that had just tumbled
into one of her bubbling pots. “We have known each other now for some months. A
year, in fact.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her
mouth was slightly pursed, eyes bright and curious. In the heat of her kitchen,
a routinely wayward coil of hair— the color of burnt sugar and in the shape of
a question mark— wafted loose against her nape and collar. “Which, I suppose,
since you’re a man and I’m a woman, means you claim the right to take charge
and chastise me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Chastise
you?” He frowned. “Why? What have you done now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aha!
You will not catch me out, <i>Detective</i>!” She gave an arch smile. “I shall
not be caught confessing all my misdemeanors and, in so doing, not only remind
you of a few you might have forgotten, but inadvertently draw your attention to
those of which you are not yet aware. Doubtless you keep each one neatly
labeled and stored away in those little rosewood drawers of your tidy mind. I
must have an entire category of wickedness to myself in that cabinet by now.
Can you possibly have room yet for more?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
set down his hat, only to pick it up, fumble with it for a moment, and then put
it down again. But he chose the wrong spot for its rest, and her eyes flared
when she saw his hat trespassing upon the precious surface of her worktable. At
once he swept it up and dusted off the sugar. Thoughtless! He was distracted,
of course, and a bag of nerves. Which was not like him at all. On a tight
breath, he muttered, “It occurred to me that it might be …I wondered whether…if
you could find yourself favorably disposed toward…if you might be prevailed
upon—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
am never prevailed upon, if I can help it. Sounds painful. Look, Deverell, I’ve
got three sponge cakes and a dozen meringues to make. Those egg whites won’t
whisk themselves.” She tasted the jam for herself, nodded, and set her spoon on
the table. “We’re not characters in a Jane Austen novel, you and I.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Indeed,
he thought, morose. Life was considerably more complex for them. More murder, mystery
and marmalade than courtship, candlelit cotillions and carriage rides.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
enjoy a good romance as much as anybody, but I am not idly meandering my way
through a drawing room in search of an untended, defenseless pianoforte and a
politely long-suffering audience,” she added with a wry smile. “It’s a sad
state of affairs when a stiffly whipped egg white is the only thing between me
and the workhouse, but that’s real life for this modern heroine, so please do
get on with it. If you did not come to point out my many and varied sins
against propriety, yet again, the reason for this curious visit in the middle
of the night continues to elude me.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes
he thought she could talk for England.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just
be still a moment, Lucy. I shall not distract you for long.” But a tiny piece
of his brain, yet retaining some good sense, urged caution. He should consider
the pros and cons from all angles. It was not like him to rush into anything.
They called him “The Tortoise” and not without good reason. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She,
however, was devil-may-care in almost everything she did, from her passion for mail-ordered,
impractically lacy Parisian underthings— according to the postmaster’s wife and
local gossips— to her plan of opening a sumptuously decorated cake shop and tea
room here, on a street traditionally reserved for discreet clubs that welcomed
gentlemen only. For at least three hundred years, Charles Place in the ancient
city of York had been the preserve of staid tailors, bootmakers and barbers,
who strictly serviced masculine sartorial needs only, and of tobacconists, who
cultivated a thick cumulus of cigar smoke to keep ladies away. But Lucy had
invaded that manly enclave and created within it a chocolate mahogany and
strawberry crème, damask shrine to the sweet tooth and gossip. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
her shop, women gathered behind the artful drapes of velvet and silk to eat
cake, sip tea, and share conversation, away from prying male eyes and ears.
Although men were permitted on the premises, very few confessed enough interest
to step beyond that door and see for themselves what the women got up to.
Instead, they feigned haughty disinterest, while privately speculating on the
contents of those pink boxes, wrapped in gold ribbon, which their womenfolk
came out cradling with as much care as they would hold newborn babies. Not to
mention the cause of those broad, cat-in-the-cream smiles upon the ladies’ faces.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">To
Lucy it was evidently all very amusing. Her eyes gleamed wickedly whenever she
spied some befuddled gentleman hurrying by the shop with his head down, his coat
collar turned up, and his gaze fixed upon the pavement to avoid her myriad
temptations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of
course, she claimed innocence and entirely benign intentions. But she did enjoy
being mysterious. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">On
her shelves she kept several jars with labels that had been badly smudged or
worn away, so that nobody but she knew what they contained. He wouldn’t be
surprised if one of them was ‘eye of newt’. Whatever it was she put in her
cakes and jam, it had made her a darling of the wives of York, while her
outspoken ways caused the husbands some grievous stomach upset.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
do not try to aggravate the male species,” she had said once. “Nor do I want to
be a man. And I do not claim to speak for all womankind, for I know many who
are perfectly content. <i>I </i>simply desire the same choices and
opportunities as those offered to men, and I believe that’s only fair. I
believe we should all have options.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
was never hesitant to say how she felt about anything. Indeed, Tolly had known
her only a year and heard all her opinions on everything from women’s suffrage
to how many times a cup of tea might be stirred (three and a half spins of the
spoon at most) before it became an insult to her ears and cause for a hard
stare. Oh, her hard stares were the very worst!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Women,
contrary to popular opinion, are not children, lapdogs, or hysterics,” she had
continued. “We are adults capable of sound reason, a useful exchange of ideas, and
thoughtful, well-balanced judgment.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
had laughed. And then, remembering that she was perfectly serious and he should
be listening to her words not simply enjoying her expression— the way her eyes
filled with tiny flames that danced in their depths and how her dimples came
and went— he had made his own face solemn and said, “Oh, <i>votes </i>for
women? I thought you said boats. Boats for women. Little round, pink things
with frilly, embroidered sails. And presumably a great many life-preservers and
flares. Not to mention an enormous compass to help you navigate, or else you’d
all get lost no doubt.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">At
that point she had approached him, rather menacingly, with an apple corer in
one hand, so he had decided to end the teasing with a, “Good lord, that pie
does smell delicious, doesn’t it? You must have the hands of an angel to craft
such delights.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
truth, he had no objection to the idea of votes for women. He feared the ladies
were destined for disappointment once they had their say, but they ought to have
it, all the same. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TNAvhtZa_V4/YD474iMccOI/AAAAAAAACv8/UCMOZdeWBsQ1jv9EL0ADwhREI9dSvvjgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Edward%2BHenry%2BCorbould%2B-%2BA%2BGirl%2BReading%2Bin%2Ba%2BSailing%2BBoat%2B1869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="263" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TNAvhtZa_V4/YD474iMccOI/AAAAAAAACv8/UCMOZdeWBsQ1jv9EL0ADwhREI9dSvvjgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Edward%2BHenry%2BCorbould%2B-%2BA%2BGirl%2BReading%2Bin%2Ba%2BSailing%2BBoat%2B1869.jpg" /></a></div><br />Really,
men were foolish to think it could be prevented. Women like Miss Greenwood
would never stand quietly in a corner and pretend to have no opinion, however
more convenient it might be for the men if they did. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
should have steered clear of her from their first encounter, when she took
unconcealed delight in the idea of being a murder suspect. That was a warning,
if ever he needed one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Before
he met her, he would much rather <i>not </i>be the hero of this story, or any
other. All he had ever really wanted was a quiet life. Happy to solve other
folk’s problems, it was always his intention to avoid any of his own. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
now it was much too late for all that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
simply couldn’t help himself, when it came to Lucy Greenwood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">His
gaze wandered to a pot of tea, sat brewing nearby, a little kiss of steam
visible from its spout. Ought to have a knitted cozy tucked over it, he
thought, or the contents would get cold. His mouth felt dry. Yes, he could make
good use of a cup right now. With something stronger in it for a little extra
courage...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><i>Find out what happens next when A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT finally falls on Friday, March 5th. Available now for <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">pre-order</a>.</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><i>Happy Reading!</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Images: "Raspberries on a Leaf" by Lilly Martin Spencer c. 1858; Vintage dessert graphic; "A Girl Reading in a Sailing Boat" by Edward Henry Corbould c. 1869)</span></span></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-69141964184927366452021-02-28T05:03:00.006-08:002021-02-28T05:22:08.776-08:00Character Showcase: The Deverell and Miss Greenwood<p style="text-align: center;"> <b>(Or the Tortoise and the Hare!)</b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Detective
Inspector Ptolemy Deverell and Miss Lucy Greenwood -- owner of Bespoke Temptations Bakery and Very Proper Tea room, in York-- have known each other now
for a year. They have spent that time becoming slowly better acquainted and events have now progressed to the point where local folk think they must be engaged. If
they’re not, they ought to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uqJAws_mxeE/YDuTuhNJ_MI/AAAAAAAACvc/_aaDV7UxLl0xjdcwjOmqMC5sl0QExiEawCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Fresina_Bespoke_3_DeadlyShadeMD.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uqJAws_mxeE/YDuTuhNJ_MI/AAAAAAAACvc/_aaDV7UxLl0xjdcwjOmqMC5sl0QExiEawCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fresina_Bespoke_3_DeadlyShadeMD.jpg" /></a></div>Lucy
has known, for some time now, that Tolly is the only man for her, but he tends
to enjoy teasing her and suggesting that he’s only after her cakes. It’s been
six months since he used the word “love” in reference to her and he’s such a
cautious fellow that she fears she’s frightened him off with her bossiness and
her new bicycling bloomers. Well, it’s partly his fault since he bought her the
bicycle in the first place!<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
man really doesn’t seem to know what he wants. Sometimes, when he looks at her,
she thinks he only sees a Victoria sponge!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tolly
Deverell is a cautious man. He is eight years Lucy’s senior and, in his eyes,
she is often too reckless and “devil-may-care”. He knows he moves too slowly
for her, but he wants to cross all his ‘T’s and dot all his ‘I’s. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">After all, he was married before, briefly. Six
years ago it ended in tragedy, when his wife threw herself from a bridge and
drowned in the river Thames. Although the coroner’s inquest at the time decided
it was suicide, Tolly never agreed with that verdict. It’s a matter that has
haunted him ever since and he knows he cannot move forward with his own life
until he’s resolved the questions about his first wife’s death; until he’s put
her spirit to rest and knows that it was nothing he did that sent her to the river
that day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He
wants to be sure that he’s doing the right thing this time – for Lucy’s sake
more than his own.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Can
Lucy find a way to stop shocking the poor fellow and let his eyebrows relax
from their sadly quizzical dance? Being a modern woman she would propose to him
herself, if she could be more certain of how he felt about her. But she made the
mistake, once before, of misreading the fellow and pushing herself forward
rather improperly. Not long after they met— and disdaining the rules of
gift-giving between unwed people of the opposite gender— she bought him a warm,
new coat, thinking he needed it to replace the shabby old thing he wore every
day. Now he keeps that new coat for special occasions only, still preferring
the comfort of the familiar, no matter how ragged it gets, and Lucy fears he
might think she meant to change him, or to rush him into a more intimate relationship
before he was prepared. Or before he even thought her anything other than an
annoying, revolutionary female. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOE8R6gPCHI/YDuUCMao9NI/AAAAAAAACvo/EgKyRQszTaAO5S7wjRWR-4PasiPdxdbWACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/yorkshire12.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOE8R6gPCHI/YDuUCMao9NI/AAAAAAAACvo/EgKyRQszTaAO5S7wjRWR-4PasiPdxdbWACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/yorkshire12.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">She must not overstep the boundaries again, for
he is likely to bolt if he feels himself being cornered. She knows that people
are talking about them and this too heightens her anxieties in regard to their
friendship. Lucy wants the fine beast that is Tolly Deverell to come to her by
his own choice and stay at her side; not because he feels it is expected, or his
duty; not to save her reputation or try to 'fix her', but because he is ready to love and trust her with his shy, guarded heart.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gLtIJW8E0Q4/YDuT7AbEkjI/AAAAAAAACvg/YOo_0L9c7LMGetj2vH2igpzZT6yZemRVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/yorkshire11.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gLtIJW8E0Q4/YDuT7AbEkjI/AAAAAAAACvg/YOo_0L9c7LMGetj2vH2igpzZT6yZemRVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/yorkshire11.jpg" /></a></div><br />Can she convince Tolly that she doesn’t want
to change him; that she welcomes the steadiness he brings to her life, and that
she is not out to cause him trouble? Can she prove to the Detective that she intends to
be a companion and a loving wife, not just an ambitious “new woman”, running
her own business, and that she can make a success of both? That she will wait for him, no matter how long it takes, because she's not going anywhere with any other man?<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Will
Tolly finally succeed in finding out what really happened to his first wife,
even as he embarks upon a tangle of mysteries – both new and old – and tries to
unravel their twisted threads. He’s a man on a mission. Several missions, in
fact. At the end of it all, will he finally get the reward he deserves, or will
Miss Lucy Greenwood drown him in a large vat of hot, raspberry jam?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD22y_Sl37Y/YDuTYxw7ZPI/AAAAAAAACvU/vGk7ZueJizsKrhj30TwqrK-AxYqs8jl2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s944/the%2Bwedding%2Bmorning%2Bby%2Bjohn%2Bhenry%2Bfrederick%2BBacon%2B1892.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="944" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rD22y_Sl37Y/YDuTYxw7ZPI/AAAAAAAACvU/vGk7ZueJizsKrhj30TwqrK-AxYqs8jl2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h315/the%2Bwedding%2Bmorning%2Bby%2Bjohn%2Bhenry%2Bfrederick%2BBacon%2B1892.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Find
out what happens next to Lucy and Tolly in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT</a> (A Bespoke
Novel III) coming March 5</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> and now available for pre-order.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">**<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This
week I will be sharing a few more tidbits from the new release, so keep an eye
open for more teasers on this blog!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thank you for reading!</span></p>(Images: cover art courtesy of Twisted E-publishing, of course; author's own recent photos of very old York streets; and The Wedding Morning by John Henry Frederick Bacon c. 1892)<p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-605063166728294042021-02-27T10:07:00.004-08:002021-03-02T11:00:42.234-08:00Character Showcase - Alma Clemmons<p>People have a habit of disappearing around Alma Clemmons.</p><p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
a DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT, one elderly lady— the mistress of Furthermore— is
about to breathe her last. She’s been clinging on for a long time, not because
she enjoys life, but because she’s resentful of the fact that her grandson will
inherit everything and he has been such a great disappointment. In fact, she’s
resentful and bitter about most things, and finds her only enjoyment in making
people miserable.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alma
Clemmons must be well aware of the fact that nobody will mourn her passing,
but, on the other hand, she does not intend to go too far. If she gets her way
(and she usually does) Alma will remain to haunt everybody who dares enter her house, long after she’s
passed from this world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u2RBUPy4YpU/YDqI1zbe90I/AAAAAAAACvE/HCm0wDHYae4q6OvFzT5MVV4bAP8UDPUYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/portrait-of-a-woman-1894-1900%2BThomas%2BEakins.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u2RBUPy4YpU/YDqI1zbe90I/AAAAAAAACvE/HCm0wDHYae4q6OvFzT5MVV4bAP8UDPUYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/portrait-of-a-woman-1894-1900%2BThomas%2BEakins.jpeg" /></a></div><br />She’s
lived in the house they call Furthermore for many years. When her father died,
he left the property to Alma, as his only child. But because of the laws of the
time, once she married, the house and farm became her husband’s property. When <i>he</i> died, the property
then became her son’s, but there was a provision in the will that
made certain it could not be sold until Alma died.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">For
this reason, her grandson, Constant, has eagerly awaited Alma’s death for years.
Once she’s gone, he wants to sell the house and take his fortune off to London.
Whitherward Fell and the nearest city of York are far too provincial for Constant
Clemmons and he has always had tastes beyond his means, so getting his hands,
at last, on Alma’s fortune, as well as the property, will finally let him lead
the life he’s always wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">To
say that Alma is not well-liked, is quite an understatement. But she wouldn’t
have it any other way. She is a stern, miserly, dictatorial woman, who believes
in living a spartan life and the importance of “suffering”. She thinks of
herself as “pious” and “god-fearing”, but she has her own interpretation of
what those words mean. In the words of one character, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">“It is people like
Alma, Detective, who give religion a bad name.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">Alma
has always been strong-willed. She would never have married at all if her
father had not warned her before he died, “A woman alone in the world, and one
left with a considerable portion— as will you be, my dear— becomes subject to
unsavory attentions. Better you find a man that you can live with tolerably,
than give them all a chance to swarm about when I am gone. Make a marriage on </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">your
</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0in;">terms, to avoid the bother of fortune hunters and charlatans.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Alma,
mindful of this advice, had watched Augustus Clemmons handling a bull, heard
him bartering a brisk sale on some piglets, and decided he would do adequately
for her purposes. So she approached him with an offer and he had not dared
refuse. As long as he stayed mostly outdoors and she inside, they had a
peaceful, proficient and profitable marriage partnership. She fed him, cleaned
his clothes, cut his hair and toenails, and pulled the occasional sore tooth
for him. In return he worked the farm. She never felt endangered by any such
thing as his intelligence, which was focused on animal breeding and crop
harvests, but did not reach beyond that. He never challenged her orders; never
had the gall to suggest she lacked judgment or the ability to manage their
lives perfectly well. He let her make all the decisions about the house. As her
father had urged, she made a marriage on <i>her </i>terms and chose a simple
man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sadly,
Augustus left her with a son, who grew up one day to turn against Alma in favor
of a witch. The less said about that the better.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Well,
she had seen them all off eventually. At ninety-four, she remains in the house
called Furthermore. Nobody is going to chase her away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“She
will stay until the Good Lord takes her,” the vicar remarks to the doctor one
afternoon, when their visits overlap.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">To which the
doctor replies, “Good luck to Him for trying.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mrs.
Clemmons is a great age.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes.
Almost a bloody century. But she won’t go before she’s
ready. Ever seen anybody attempt to bathe a cat, Mr. Grisdale?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">So,
for now, Alma remains in her house, clinging angrily to life, with the windows
shut and the thick, stale air indoors rarely disturbed. And with her nightmares
full of screaming ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Here,
in this house there is something that reeks of evil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some
say it’s Alma herself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
has been said that the only thing feared by the Beast
of Whitherward Fell is Alma Clemmons. People do have a habit of disappearing around her.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps,
when she’s finally gone, all hell will truly break loose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> **</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Read
more about Alma and the Beast of Whitherward Fell in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Deadly-Shade-Night-Bespoke-Novel-ebook/dp/B08XMYCGBJ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=a+deadly+shade+of+night&qid=1614448902&s=digital-text&sr=1-1">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT</a>. Available now for pre-order.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: Portrait of a woman by Thomas Eakins c. 1804-1900)</span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-4437200344187886022021-02-26T06:01:00.003-08:002021-02-28T08:52:07.693-08:00Character Showcase - Josefina Dallet<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT, Detective Inspector Deverell – living and working in
1894 Yorkshire --is haunted by a murder that happened eighty-two years prior. In
a house known as Furthermore, on a wild, windblown place called Whitherward
Fell, the Thorley family were murdered by meat cleaver. It is a crime for which
the young maidservant “Josefina” was tried and hanged, but there is a gentleman
who firmly believes she was innocent and, all these years later, he is out to
find justice for Josefina.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">A
newspaper account of the old case, has brought all this to Deverell’s attention
and it won’t let him rest now, until he has proven, to his own satisfaction,
who committed the crime. He joins Mr. Alaric Jacoby’s crusade to uncover the
truth of what happened to the Thorleys and, if possible, to clear Josefina’s
name. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
won’t be easy. After eighty-two years, many of those who were alive at the time
of the trial are dead and others do not like to talk of the gruesome tragedy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Josefina
was an orphaned waif taken in off the streets by William Jacoby when she was
approximately eight years of age. Her provenance before that was never known,
but she was a bright and cheerful child, who quickly become a favorite of Mr.
Jacoby’s. He taught her English and she trained as a maid in his house, but she
was as much of a daughter to him as his own children. When she was old enough,
he gave her a good job in his mill. But he always saw in Josefina something
special; something that suggested she was destined for greater things. In his
diaries he wrote of his ward, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e6ugCNlzgEE/YDj-bXAxClI/AAAAAAAACu8/66l9TH6e0nQnFx96XibOcHEVWffT2xdDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s732/portrait%2Bof%2Ba%2Byoung%2Bwoman%2Bunknown%2Bswiss%2Bartist%2Bc.%2B1800.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e6ugCNlzgEE/YDj-bXAxClI/AAAAAAAACu8/66l9TH6e0nQnFx96XibOcHEVWffT2xdDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/portrait%2Bof%2Ba%2Byoung%2Bwoman%2Bunknown%2Bswiss%2Bartist%2Bc.%2B1800.png" /></a></div><br /><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Josefina
Dallet is a girl who looks at the world and people in it as an amusing
diversion. She is inquisitive, and in her quest for knowledge she sometimes forgets
her own safety, or her manners. Or to wear her shoes. When reprimanded in
anger, she is more curious about the chemical reaction that causes the
scolder’s face to flush scarlet, than she is in her apology and contrition. But
there is no intentional harm in her. It seems I am the only one who sees this.</span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As
much as she studies the world with her bright eyes, she has yet to learn that
not all have good, straightforward and honest motives. Since she speaks exactly
as she sees, the contrivances, cunning and darker side of humanity are utterly
unknown to her.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Although
a clever girl who could learn quickly anything she was taught, Josefina also
had a tendency to do “</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Silly things like keep climbing a tree to jump out,
over and over again, convinced she might take flight if she tried often enough.
She would wander in the garden during a thunderstorm, daring the lightning to
strike her, or touch something that she’d been warned was hot and likely to
burn, just because she wanted to see for herself</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
she would only learn if the subject and the teacher had caught her imagination.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
many ways, she was a girl who lived in her own world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">William
Jacoby was a kind and generous man, always looking to help those in need. So
when he sent Josefina to work as a temporary maid for the Thorleys on
Whitherward Fell, his intention was to show the young woman more of the world;
to let her enjoy the fresh air of the countryside away from the mill and the
town life. He thought it would expand her horizons and be a good experience to
build her confidence. He knew she was very gentle and loving with children for
she had a child-like curiosity and zest for life herself, so he believed she
would be a great help to Mrs. Thorley – a tired, sickly woman with eight
children and a demanding husband. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">On Whitherward Fell, Josefina
liked to sing to the Thorley children, accompanied by a music box that William Jacoby
once gave to her. She was described by those who knew her as a “<i>Sunny girl. Always light-hearted,
never cross.”</i> She had an ability to see only the good in people and the beauty in life.
If somebody was sarcastic or deliberately unkind it generally went over her head
because she did not understand anything that was not simply honest and
straight-forward. As William Jacoby wrote of her: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">She
lacks an ability to read the intentions of others, or comprehend the mood of
the crowd, but she is not an imbecile. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Unfortunately,
William’s good intentions ended tragically for everybody involved and he never
forgave himself for what happened next. The last forty years of his life were
spent fretting over what he might have done differently and trying to clear
Josefina’s name. In his diaries he wrote it all down – all his own theories
about the crime, and his unwavering belief in Josefina’s innocence. Before he
died, he passed everything into the hands of his ten-year-old grandson Alaric,
certain that, one day, somebody would come along to help investigate.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now,
forty years after William’s death, his grandson has put the story back in the
newspaper and it has fallen into the capable hands of Tolly Deverell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Can
the wrongful conviction of Josefina Dallet be proved at last, or will the
Detective uncover a truth more startling than anything anybody could have
expected?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Find
out in A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT (A Bespoke novel III), coming March 5th, 2021! Available now for <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08XMYCGBJ?fbclid=IwAR0so14xke4PrOOy_ZiM_wKQRx4iSeOAzifD24AHoOIZEbyDPpmZXKhc1pY">pre-order</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: Portrait of a Young Woman, artist unknown. Swiss c. 1800)</span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-88495152011349121842021-02-24T05:06:00.004-08:002021-02-24T08:39:22.626-08:00A Bespoke Price for the most Discerning Readers!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rMx5hGq-9Zk/YDZK5WO3wkI/AAAAAAAACuM/_Q8L5LLJSds5WLd5wD1ydCoR0C6R1FhxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/bespoke.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rMx5hGq-9Zk/YDZK5WO3wkI/AAAAAAAACuM/_Q8L5LLJSds5WLd5wD1ydCoR0C6R1FhxQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bespoke.jpeg" /></a></div>Later this week I will have more character showcases to share with you from the upcoming release in this series, but today I have news in celebration of two things: the promise of spring and the imminent arrival of A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT (A Bespoke Novel III)! <p></p><p>You can now obtain a copy of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bespoke-Jayne-Fresina-ebook/dp/B07NJ71RYD/ref=pd_sbs_13?pd_rd_w=FQ8ow&pf_rd_p=c52600a3-624a-4791-b4c4-3b112e19fbbc&pf_rd_r=2VCV1CZQXN42NC2G8NQH&pd_rd_r=e98dfdc3-ece0-44d3-b08a-f6bba3d8be4f&pd_rd_wg=qcgy3&pd_rd_i=B07NJ71RYD&psc=1">BESPOKE</a> (Book I) at a very special price! So if you haven't had the chance yet to meet Lucy Greenwood and Detective Inspector Ptolemy Deverell, here is your opportunity.</p><p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">He's been sent from Scotland Yard to solve a case of blackmail in the Yorkshire Dales; she's just opened her own business in York baking bespoke cakes. He wants a peaceful life; she's aiming for revolution. He likes to keep both feet on the ground; she dreams of scandalizing the neighborhood on a bicycle. He prefers to fade in with the wallpaper; she's proud to be a black sheep that stands out in the crowd.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">He's never getting married again—most women ought to be stamped on the forehead with a danger warning and clapped into handcuffs. She thinks men are simply an obstacle to her ambitions and if it's true that the way to a man's heart is through his digestive system, that explains why a great deal of gaseous waste frequently finds its path out of the wrong end.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">The two of them might appear to be mismatched flavors in an unlikely recipe, but when blackmail turns to murder, it's the start of a remarkable partnership in crime-solving. And a match made in chocolate.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">It's late Victorian England and the world may be on the cusp of change, but is it quite ready for this pairing? They're not even prepared for it themselves. Nevertheless, some wayward kind of chemistry keeps drawing them together and it can't be blamed entirely on the cake.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Or the corpse in the conservatory.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">* * *</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: times;">Will this odd couple find a way to live with their differences and can wedding bells possibly be heard in their future? Along the way, their strange romance will have to compete with many mysteries, a few gruesome murders and much mayhem. But maybe they wouldn't have it any other way, for the enjoyment and satisfaction in solving a tangled riddle is one thing they do have in common.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: times;">Also available:</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;"><b style="background-color: #f9cb9c;">A LOVELINESS OF LADYBIRDS (A Bespoke Novel, part II).</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxd6OfF4McI/YDZM1iiGxAI/AAAAAAAACuc/BS5UrkhUWd0mWhwn1M3F6VgCiFcYlWCcACLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Fresina_Bespoke_2_Ladybirds%2BMD.jpg" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxd6OfF4McI/YDZM1iiGxAI/AAAAAAAACuc/BS5UrkhUWd0mWhwn1M3F6VgCiFcYlWCcACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fresina_Bespoke_2_Ladybirds%2BMD.jpg" /></a></span></div><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><br /><span>The continuing adventures of Lucy Greenwood, baker and creator extraordinaire, and Detective Inspector Deverell.</span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><em style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home…</em><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Ten years ago, at ‘The Brindle Horse’ Hotel, Amarinda Siddaway ran barefoot out of the fog, with a bloody knife in her hand and a children’s rhyme on her lips. Tangled with rumors of lurid scandal, an illicit love affair with a young man a dozen years her junior, and a missing corpse, the mystery of Mrs. Siddaway seemed destined never to be solved. Tried for murder and acquitted, the scarlet woman disappeared from the world just as thoroughly as her alleged victim.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">But was she truly innocent, or did she get away with murder?</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Now, a decade later, a very similar crime has been committed, once again at the same hotel. Can it be nothing more than simple coincidence that several characters involved in the first incident are present at the scene of the second? Another woman with a bloody weapon in her hand; another nursery rhyme, and another missing dead man.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Some folk might think that old ghosts are to blame. Or is it the ladybirds again?</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">A spinning weathervane on a boathouse roof points in turn to all four directions of the compass. And four letters, sealed with red wax, stamped with the image of a ladybird, are out in the world, linking both crimes with a curious, winding chain.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">And there is only one man with the patience and wisdom to unwind it. Only one man can connect the clues and stop that weathervane spinning.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Detective Inspector Deverell is not fond of coincidences or the supernatural. But whatever is going on at ‘The Brindle Horse’, he’ll get to the bottom of it. Fortunately, he has the eager amateur sleuth and creator of remarkable cakes, Miss Lucy Greenwood, to help him out.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">* * *</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;"><b style="background-color: #f9cb9c;">AND COMING SOON:</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b style="background-color: #f9cb9c;">A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT (A Bespoke Novel, part III).</b></span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">How
do you take your tea?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p><span face="Amazon Ember, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
Beast of Whitherward Fell has been blamed for a great many mysterious events
and gruesome murders on that wildest, perilous stretch of the Yorkshire Moors.
But what, or who, is the real monster? And can there be only one that has
stalked this place since the beginning of time?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Detective
Inspector Ptolemy Deverell does not believe in mythical beasts or supernatural
phenomena. He’s a quiet, unassuming, pragmatic fellow, who seldom falls prey to
emotion. Nobody pulls the fleece over his eyes. So if anybody can shed light on
the rampaging fiend behind the bloody history of this place, surely, he can.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But
when the detective embarks upon three cases at once, he has no idea how tightly
they are entwined, or that this tangle will lead him into the darkest part of
Whitherward Fell. To face the Beast head-on.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8vhk9gYDfs/YDZN8S4zkDI/AAAAAAAACus/6ERf-m2fujEjK7XW49Un1g5KKcjCt4RDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Fresina_Bespoke_3_DeadlyShadeMD.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8vhk9gYDfs/YDZN8S4zkDI/AAAAAAAACus/6ERf-m2fujEjK7XW49Un1g5KKcjCt4RDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fresina_Bespoke_3_DeadlyShadeMD.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">With
a lady in search of vengeance; a gentleman on a mission for truth, and a little
girl waiting for justice, the detective already has his hands full. On top of
everything, he— the most unromantic fellow in the world—is in love. Will he
ever get around to proposing marriage to the very modern, bicycle-riding, baker-extraordinaire,
Miss Lucy Greenwood? And, if he does, will she laugh in his face and try drowning
him in raspberry jam?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Not
only that. A ghost from his own past has returned to haunt his nightmares, and
he cannot get on with his life until she’s finally at rest.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tolly
Deverell might not believe in the Beast of Whitherward Fell, but he is preyed
upon by a scavenging creature that lurks in the bleakest shadows of a dream,
waiting to tear him apart. The great shadow of its wingspan falls from above
when he is most susceptible.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
comes to him when he’s alone in the dark. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
comes to him when all but his mind is quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
comes in the deadliest shades of night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
with words clawed into the wall, it asks,</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">How
do you take your tea?</span></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gZliSW--F-U/YDZO1X1zs2I/AAAAAAAACu0/9B7Jlfsf67UQDaUiKH8UnjX7ef0ToGM4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s752/old%2Bwoman%2Bpouring%2Btea%2Bartist%2Bunknown.jpg" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gZliSW--F-U/YDZO1X1zs2I/AAAAAAAACu0/9B7Jlfsf67UQDaUiKH8UnjX7ef0ToGM4gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/old%2Bwoman%2Bpouring%2Btea%2Bartist%2Bunknown.jpg" /></a></i></b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><b><i style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><br /></i></b></i></b></p><b><i style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span>(Image: Old Woman Pouring Tea. 19th century. Artist unknown)</span><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></i></b><p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f9cb9c; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07NJ71RYD/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i18"><span style="font-size: large;">AMAZON UK</span></a><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07NJ71RYD/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i9">AMAZON US</a></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Bespoke-Jayne-Fresina-ebook/dp/B07NJ71RYD/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=jayne+fresina+bespoke&qid=1614183632&sr=8-1">AMAZON CANADA</a></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com.au/Bespoke-Jayne-Fresina-ebook/dp/B07NJ71RYD/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Jayne+Fresina+Bespoke&qid=1614183693&sr=8-1">AMAZON AUS.</a></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; color: #333333;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9cb9c; 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font-size: 14px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-2037440367685601662021-02-23T04:50:00.002-08:002021-02-23T06:00:00.127-08:00Character Showcase - The Watchmaker, the Brothers Glede, and Vetus Amicus<p> The Glede <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">brothers run a small, extremely cluttered shop called “Vetus
Amicus”. They somewhat optimistically refer to this establishment as an antique
and repair shop, but the locals consider it more of a junk or pawn shop.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YbXf_TVI42k/YDT5M9ttHkI/AAAAAAAACt8/nAl2mSZNhDopZ99IQ_mh6tygxCJUBH2FACLcBGAsYHQ/s615/john%2Bgeorge%2Bbrown%2Bwon-give-us-a-taste.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="497" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YbXf_TVI42k/YDT5M9ttHkI/AAAAAAAACt8/nAl2mSZNhDopZ99IQ_mh6tygxCJUBH2FACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/john%2Bgeorge%2Bbrown%2Bwon-give-us-a-taste.jpg" /></a></div>Archie,
the elder brother, was born with what he calls “crooked bones”, which have only
continued to become more twisted over time. Consequently, he does not get out
of the shop much these days, but in addition to managing the premises and
repairing old, broken and discarded items, he was once hired to make death
masks. A macabre business, some might say, but he always rather enjoyed a good
deathwatch vigil and has attended so many of the dead and dying— bringing with
him the rolled-up plaster bandages and a big pot of goose fat in an
innocent-looking doctor’s bag— that this line of work is, in fact, the source
of his curious nickname. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Send
for The Watchmaker,” sounds less morbid, even relatively benign, to those who,
in their final moments, might overhear the whispered summons. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">His
masks, made soon after death, were responsible for recording a moment in time,
be it by the bedside of a beloved family patriarch; by the cradle of a
cherished child, or by the scaffold at the execution of a condemned prisoner. Occasionally,
his services were required to make a mask of some poor soul’s last grimace as
they lay upon a mortuary slab— an anonymous murder victim that the authorities
hope might one day be identified. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Archie keeps copies of his favorite masks, displayed on the walls around his workroom
as souvenirs. These days, of course, the commemorative death mask has gone
somewhat out of fashion, but he is occasionally sent for still, although his
increased lack of mobility makes him less swift than he once was in answering
the summons. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
is now thirty years since their father died, leaving Archie “The Watchmaker”
and his younger brother Fred to manage the little shop in this narrow alley, and
to look after each other. Which they do, in their own way and to their best of
their abilities. Archie likes to think he is the brains of the operation, while
Fred is the brawn, or the charm— whichever is required. In their family there was
only enough money to send one son to school, so the physically stronger of the
two lads stayed at home to help with the heavy work, while the smaller, weaker
boy was sent away for an education.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">If
Fred resents this fact, he never shows it. In fact, he has no respect for “book
learnin’” and considers a man’s experiences and his natural wits to be of
greater importance. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Fred
has no appreciation for antiques, or for the satisfaction his elder brother finds
in delicate, time-consuming restoration work. Fred thinks only of how to make
money and the quicker the better. To that end there was always some scheme
afoot and it is seldom on the right side of the law. Fred is never one to miss
an opportunity and, as their father would have said, he can convince a tiger to
wear spots. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">An
old tin pot, in Fred’s hands, is a newly unearthed treasure that he could sell
to the gullible for five pounds. But he always knows his customer; knows how to
make himself appealing. Whatever works best on that particular punter. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Of
course, in their line of trade, the Glede brothers know everybody’s secrets,
particularly their financial problems. They know who is flush with money to
spend and who is near destitute, selling the family treasures or pawning their
jewels to pay gambling debts. They know who is looking for special <i>cadeaux </i>for
a new lover— or lover<i>s</i>— and who is eager to part with a former paramour’s
tokens of affection. And in such secrets, there is opportunity and money to be
made. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But
unlike Archie, Fred cannot be entirely content with the little bits and pieces
that come their way through the shop door. Every so often he spreads his wings
and heads off, intent on finding bigger and better things, but he always comes
home again in the end, to the shop and to Archie. There, he keeps his head down
for a while, as if he’s been up to no good. Archie doesn’t ask. The best way to
handle Fred is never to ask questions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Lately,
however, Fred seems to be in a good mood. He’s even taking a sweetheart out to
the music hall on her evenings off. More than one sweetheart actually, Archie suspects.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">So life among the ruins of “Vetus Amicus”
has been peaceful of late. Archie hopes it will stay that way. But there is
something in the air— a sense of foreboding that the elder brother
cannot seem to shake off.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As
he works in the shop late at night, he catches a shadow in the corner of his
eye, and watches it run about the piles of old pots, toys and books. He has
told himself that it must be a mouse that keeps tipping things over in the dark
and making a long-buried music box suddenly play a few notes of its tune. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After
all, some of those items must have been there since his father’s time, or even
earlier. Archie has lived in the dust and the gloom for many years, looking
after all these lost “treasures” and talking to the faded china and porcelain
ladies whose faces he refreshes with his delicate paintbrush. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps
he’s been talking to inanimate objects in the dark for too long and now he’s
seeing ghosts. He really ought to have a clear out, clean the grime off those
windows and let the light in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But
if he does, who knows what he might find?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Take
a journey through the Glede brothers' trove of secrets in A DEADLY SHADE OF
NIGHT (A Bespoke Novel iii) COMING SOON.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">(Image: <i>Give us a Taste </i>by John George Brown 1831-1913)</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-32163523412145563372021-02-20T06:18:00.001-08:002021-02-20T06:18:26.422-08:00Character Showcase - Mr. Alaric Jacoby<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT, Mr. Alaric Jacoby is a wealthy mill-owner from
Harrogate. Although he’s a widower, he lives with a house full of nieces and nephews.
This being the case, it might seem impossible that he leads a lonely existence;
sadly, however, the residents of his house are all waiting for their share of
the inheritance when he breathes his last. And he is fully aware of their impatience,
as well as their concern with the way he spends his own money and the manner in
which he runs his mill.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jacoby
takes pride in looking after his workers and their families, believing that
happy, safe, well cared for employees make for a more efficient business. His
safety precautions and the high standards he insists upon are the sort of thing
that his nephews consider a waste of coin. Interested only in profit, they cannot
wait to take over the reins. Jacoby knows that when he’s gone, they will undo
all the good he has tried to achieve. Alas, he’s a large man who enjoys rich food and strong drink, and he's been warned that his heart could
give out at any time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
rather than dwell on this problem, he throws himself instead into an old
mystery that once plagued his grandfather, William Jacoby— the founder of the
mill and a good man, who believed in honesty and justice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">William
had spent the last forty years of his life trying to prove the innocence of a
young maid accused and convicted of murdering an entire family on Whitherward
Fell. The maid, Josefina Dallet, was an orphaned girl William once took under his
wing, so he felt responsible for her and never believed her guilt. Even after
her execution, he continued the struggle to clear her name. Unfortunately, he
never succeeded. Upon his death, he passed his diaries and his fight for
Josefina’s exoneration into the hands of his grandson who, at the time, was
only ten.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZP7ixiTQJjM/YDEZPeVl97I/AAAAAAAACtw/h8RhnRUTJfYa8pDetcK4ANxB9zSWpeyAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s478/Dr%2Bhoratio%2Bwod%2Bby%2Bthomas%2BEakins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="370" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZP7ixiTQJjM/YDEZPeVl97I/AAAAAAAACtw/h8RhnRUTJfYa8pDetcK4ANxB9zSWpeyAQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Dr%2Bhoratio%2Bwod%2Bby%2Bthomas%2BEakins.jpg" /></a></div>Now
in his late forties, warned that he might not have long to live, Alaric Jacoby
is determined to take up the gauntlet and prove that his grandfather was right.
He pays to put the story back in the newspaper, hoping to dig up old memories.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Will
he also dig up some old skeletons? Or some new corpses?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
the story falls into the hands of Detective Inspector Deverell, it stirs up more
than the dust on an eighty-year-old murder case. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are rumblings heard on Whitherward Fell, as the Beast, prodded awake, yawns, turns over, and stretches its claws.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
a music box, long silenced, begins to play again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Find
out more about Alaric Jacoby and his mission for justice in A DEADLY SHADE OF
NIGHT. Coming soon!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">(Image: Dr. Horatio Wood by Thomas Eakins 1886)</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-64702381349424621252021-02-19T05:46:00.000-08:002021-02-19T05:46:35.273-08:00Character Showcase - Lady Carew<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
infamously scandalous divorcee known as Lady Carew has been away from England
for at least a decade, so her return is causing quite a stir. Even the lady herself isn’t
sure why she came back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
all began with a lost shoe-- one of a very good pair -- and a strange, haunting dream. Although she’s been susceptible to the
odd premonition all her life, this one was especially peculiar, gruesome and
seemingly out of the blue. The effect is powerful enough to lure her back to
England after all these years; to Yorkshire and to Whitherward Fell, where she
was born in the house called Furthermore. She never thought she’d return to
this wretched place of her miserable childhood, but here she is, with several mysteries for Detective Inspector Deverell
to solve.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Firstly,
what, exactly, is living in the cupboard under the stairs?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--1wfS-x2guM/YC-9MiLdDVI/AAAAAAAACtk/8DwM6BwazjcLv0ZD41lVJ6UsgopStKDYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1235/william%2Barthur%2Bbreakspeare2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1235" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--1wfS-x2guM/YC-9MiLdDVI/AAAAAAAACtk/8DwM6BwazjcLv0ZD41lVJ6UsgopStKDYQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/william%2Barthur%2Bbreakspeare2.jpg" /></a></div><br />Lady
Carew likes to tell stories and her imagination is so vivid that sometimes she
loses the boundary of what’s real and what isn’t. So how much of what she tells
him about her past can the detective believe? How much does the lady herself believe? She claims to have dreamed of a
murder, as if she saw it with her own eyes, although she was several thousand
miles away from where it happened at the time. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Secondly,
Lady Carew wants to know who her mother was – not only what happened to her, but
where she came from – for nobody ever knew her name.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“She’d
heard folk whispering of how, four years before she was born, a woman was found
on Whitherward Fell, sat beside a rowan tree, reading a volume of Samuel
Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language. The fact that she was fully and
respectably dressed, clean and well-spoken, was not as much grist to the rumor-mill
as her claim to remember nothing of where she had been before that day, who she
was, or how she got there. She had with her only a small trunk of belongings,
which included a music box, a mirror, a few pieces of jewelry and her
dictionary…”</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">With
such a mysterious provenance, it is, perhaps, no surprise that the woman now called
Lady Carew has not led a conventional existence. Instead she has been drawn to life outside society's rules, going very much her own way. She might be considered an outcast and a scarlet woman, but having got this far, she swears
she will go down with a roar and fighting like a tiger. And she won't go to her grave with any regrets.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Wherever
she went, folk called her The Mad Englishwoman. To them she was a wild creature
who enjoyed swimming in the sea in rough weather, without using the discretion
of a bathing machine, and where there was no lifeguard on duty. In truth,
although she enjoyed cultivating the image, if all her days and nights were really
conducted so recklessly, she would never have survived to be—</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
age of a fine, full-bodied and fruity vintage, thank you very much.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
lady has her secrets and her sins-- and she enjoys every one of them-- but she’s come back to Whitherward Fell
looking for answers to a great many questions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
for a few little things, such as vengeance and justice.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh, and to find out who the devil she really is.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Will she get her answers with Detective Inspector Deverell's help?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Be thee warned: A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT is coming soon!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> *</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: Portrait of a young lady with long dark hair, by William Breakspeare 1855-1914)</span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4368926861588102074.post-56454787481989734422021-02-18T06:14:00.003-08:002021-02-18T09:08:39.398-08:00Character Showcase -- Cuthbert Hotchkiss<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT, Cuthbert Hotchkiss is an unhelpful solicitor with more
interest in his dinner than in upholding the law. His grandfather was a founding
partner in the York firm of Cumberbatch, Hotchkiss and Clapper, and his father continued the tradition. But the old man
is now “not in his right mind” and Cuthbert the younger has stepped into his shoes, his office,
and acquired all his old clients.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
quite a few of his father’s old problems too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QTJWCIYt_zA/YC51cSwLqnI/AAAAAAAACtY/hTTrh3MpLxA1defoZTRNGDLF3iBPldS5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1868/an-appetising-dishby-edwin-thomas-roberts-1898.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1868" data-original-width="1868" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QTJWCIYt_zA/YC51cSwLqnI/AAAAAAAACtY/hTTrh3MpLxA1defoZTRNGDLF3iBPldS5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/an-appetising-dishby-edwin-thomas-roberts-1898.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">When
Detective Inspector Deverell comes asking questions about Mrs. Alma Clemmons, one
of his recently deceased clients, Cuthbert is evasive – when he isn’t being
obstructive, that is. Things get even stickier when Alma’s grandson goes
missing and her scandalous granddaughter, who they all thought was dead, returns
to stir up trouble.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Does
Cuthbert Hotchkiss know what happened to Alma’s missing maid, or to her
grandson?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">What
secrets does the solicitor hold about the house called Furthermore and the
folk who have lived in it for the past eighty years, or more?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span>Hotchkiss
is described as grey and befuddled. Half the buttons
of the fellow’s waistcoat are missing and the other half hanging by a thread. It
is anybody’s guess when he last brushed the wisps of hair that meander about
his shiny pate and there are buttery crumbs upon his cheek, as if he’s been
interrupted mid-luncheon and only just removed the napkin from his collar. </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But is his appearance merely an act that conceals a cunning mind and deadly intentions? Or is he really just waiting for his next meal?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Three generations of Hotchkiss men have now served Alma Clemmons and her family. Rumor has it that they know where all the skeletons are buried.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But the thing about old bones is that they can be dug up at any time. And some of them, as Hotchkiss will learn, come back to life with a vengeance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Uncover the secrets and the bones in A DEADLY SHADE OF NIGHT (A Bespoke Novel iii).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">(</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image: An Appetising Dish by Edwin Thomas Roberts 1898)</span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0