Rose Fights to Work as a Doctor in 18th c. England, but encounters village Superstition, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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In the eighteenth century women were forbidden to work as doctors (though many did in rural areas) and were denied any medical education.

Rose is determined to learn from the local doctor in a Cornish village filled with secrets and superstition. She has just had an unsuccessful encounter with him, but she won't give up.

Travel with her as she is embroiled in the local history, mystery. and deadly events.

An excerpt
Rose rubbed her palm over her temple as she stalked from Dr. Nelson’s cottage. The doctor was an insufferably insecure man, even if she had acted too brazen. His rejection weighed on her confidence, but she’d have to make amends so he wouldn’t scurry off like a rabbit.

It shouldn’t be a sin to want to be someone useful, a student of medical science instead of a master of perfect hem stitching. She’d proven herself smarter in her schooling, plus applying in a limited capacity the medical texts she’d read. Now she yearned to use her knowledge to promote healing.

                                       
Rose blew out her breath. Forced to leave America, she’d convinced herself that as a stranger she might find it easier to establish herself among people who didn’t know her. Had she been foolish to believe she could shape this village to her wishes? An ancient land of castles and traditions might thrust up higher walls for her to scale.

Her resolution returned; she stiffened her spine. She needed to become a part of a doctor’s—any doctor’s—practice.

Near the mill, an old woman hovered, staring. She wore a threadbare blue dress over a squat form and a red shawl with fringe about her shoulders. Hatless, her round face a network of wrinkles, she had wispy white hair that floated in the breeze.

Rose nodded politely and kept walking.

“Dydh da, a good day to you, Miss.” The old woman smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I’m Mrs. Trew. Hebasca they call me, an’ I need to talk to you, if you please.”

Rose paused, not wishing to be rude to the villagers. “I’m Miss Gwynn and I’m actually in a rush. We’ve recently moved in and there’s so much to do.” Still flustered, she longed for time to plan her next strategy. “Why did you need to speak with me?”

“You’re one o’ the new tenants at Avallen, an’ look a mite disappointed.” Mrs. Trew drifted nearer in a scent of sage. She had odd, yellow eyes, which she prodded over Rose. Perhaps she suffered from jaundice. “I see you’ve visited the lending library an’ visited with our Damawyn.”

“I wanted to research my ancestors who are supposed to be from this area.” Rose gripped her books, restless to continue on. “And find out some of the local history. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“I’m the village charmer.” The old woman touched her finger to the side of her right eye. “Ask me what you seek. I know the history here; you don’t need no books for that.”

Rose took a step away. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Trew. Perhaps another time?”

“Hebasca, I insist. An’ there’s no time like the now. Me cottage be over there.” She placed her gnarled hand on Rose’s sleeve and pointed.

A sudden breeze sent Rose’s hair tickling along her neck. The clob cottage—built with a mixture of slate into the wattle and daub her father had explained—crouched across the road in a yard tangled with brambles and gorse. Its roof had thatch missing in places, and the shutters were worn and peeling paint.

Reluctant to visit there, Rose tested the old woman. “Do you know anything about the big stone ring near the cliff behind Avallen?”

“Ess? You seen it already, have you?” Hebasca nodded slowly, a wry grin curling her thin lips. “The ancient ones believed, and some still do, that if you be ailin’ or struck down with disease, if you crame on all fours...”

“I’m sorry. Crame?”

“That be the local word. If you crawled on all fours through a ringed stone, nine times backened to the sun, the ancients believed it would cure your ills.”

Rose recalled the ridiculous sensations she’d felt when she viewed the ring. “How peculiar. I guess ‘backened’ means your back to the sun?”

“It do.” The old woman’s cat-like eyes gleamed.

“Of course it’s all nonsense.” Rose prided herself on her steadiness, not given to vapors or swooning as many girls were.

“Not to people here.” Hebasca grasped Rose’s arm and tugged her across the road. “Cummas 'zon, an’ we’ll share a cup o’ tea. I’ll tell you more tales. Your ancestors are from hereabouts. That story be a bleak time from Lankyp’s past.”

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

An Englishwoman Braves the Wilds of New Brunswick, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

In 1784, a woman braves the wilds of a burgeoning Canada, in the province soon to be named New Brunswick. Will Amelia Latimer marry the callus soldier her father has chosen for her, or start a romance with the handsome Acadian trader, Gilbert? A man forbidden to her.

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I had so much fun writing this story, learning about the formation of New Brunswick. I even traveled there to visit the sites I wrote about. I hope you enjoy it, too.

In this excerpt, Gilbert is teaching Amelia how to fire a pistol.

Mademoiselle Latimer and her maid waited in the once tall grass, now matted down by frost. Both of them were wrapped in capes, their hoods pulled up. The girl held the wooden box the pistol came in.

Gilbert dismounted and approached them. “Bonjour, ladies.” He tipped his hat.

“Good day to you, Mr. Arsenault.” Mademoiselle Latimer smiled and pulled the pistol from her muff. “I thought I’d put the Muff Pistol to its original purpose.”

Flintlock Pistol

He chuckled, happy to be in her company, though disturbed that she had this tug on him. He took and examined the small gun, then got right to business. “First, let me show you the trigger mechanism. This lever is called the sear and the trigger lowers from here. Engage the sear to keep the trigger in half-cock. That will keep the pistol from going off unexpectedly.” He caught her eager face, then stared at the weapon again. “When you’re ready to shoot, you pull to full cock and the hammer forces the trigger down. The sear and trigger are locked together, and pulling the trigger releases the sear. Now the pistol will fire.” 

He fingered the metal pieces gently as he glanced up. “No one has loaded this, have they?” At her head shake, he pointed the barrel at the woods and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He handed the pistol to her. “You try it, and always treat the pistol with caution.”

She didn’t hesitate, which impressed him. Arm extended, she pulled the trigger.

“Bon. Now we’ll load it. Observe closely.” Gilbert went to the maid, and took the box, which contained balls, flints, a powder flask, and cleaning rod. The girl smiled, as if relieved to be rid of her burden.

                                       Laverty Falls in New Brunswick

Setting the box on the ground, he crouched, unscrewed the pistol barrel, and inserted only seven grains of the acrid powder into a chamber behind the threads. He placed a ball over the powder. “Now I very gently re-screw the barrel. If any powder residue is left on the threads, the stuff could ignite and the gun may explode. So clean these threads with a cloth after each use.”

“Oh, my, that does sound dangerous. But pistols aren’t toys, are they?” Mademoiselle Latimer rubbed her gloved hands together. The cold pinked her cheeks attractively. “I don’t know how many people or beasts I’ll have the need to shoot, yet.”

“Be aware, this little gun won’t stop a large animal, though the noise might.” Gilbert hid his amusement, half-cocked the weapon and stood. “Please make certain you clean this pistol, care for it diligently, so you don’t get hurt.” This time instead of handing her the gun, he stepped behind her, put his arms around her and pressed her finger on the trigger. She felt warm against his body. Her hair smelled flowery. “Use both hands and be prepared for a slight kick-back.”

She quivered under his touch. “All right. I’m ready.” Her voice trembled, then she straightened her arms and pulled the trigger. Smoke puffed out and the bang echoed around them.

The maid had crushed her hands over her ears. Mademoiselle Latimer gasped and slipped back, deeper into his arms. Gilbert released her as a heated thrill wriggled through him. He shouldn’t have held her, but he’d meant it for support—hadn’t he? Or was it much more?

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

Alaska, adventure in my fiftieth state, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, please click HERE

Five stars from Long and Short Reviews
"I enjoyed guessing what may happen next and then comparing my assumptions with what I actually read. Paying close attention is key to getting the most out of Sage’s adventures.
Secrets of Lakeluster House thrilled me."

But today's post is about my trip to Alaska, a mysterious land to the far north. I didn't know if I could do it, I'd recently lost my husband and have mobility issues, but my best friend was a huge help-I couldn't have done it without her-and we had the adventure of a lifetime. I'd been through forty-nine states, I just needed Alaska.

Our cruise began in Seattle, Washington. Neither of us had cruised before.

The ship was huge, with over eleven decks. On our second day out, the sea became rough, and my friend seasick. I'm surprised I wasn't sick at all. A good sailor's wife, I guess. Though I couldn't walk anywhere without being bumped against a wall.

Juneau was our first port, a town tucked in among glaciers. You can't access it by road; plane and sea only, because of the miles of surrounding glaciers. The reason it remained the capital is that millions of dollars of gold was discovered here. 

It rained, heavily at times, so I got no picture of the town. Here is the port. 

It's a beautiful frontier town with friendly people. I splurged and bought myself a ruby ring for my birthday.

Our next stop was Sitka, on an island, and where Russia handed over Alaska to the U.S. in 1867.

Russian church in Sitka. Another beautiful town. We also visited a cannery where salmon is processed. Sitka calls itself the Salmon capital of the world.

We were supposed to see black bears, but they were obviously in hiding. That's okay; I've seen black bears in my front yard in Pennsylvania.

Our last port was Ketchikan. We visited a totem pole park, and learned about Alaska's indigenous people.

Later in the cruise, we anchored in Glacier Bay National Park, an amazing sight and site.

Here we are at Glacier Bay.

Along with the service on the ship, the delicious food, I recommend this cruise to anyone. Ask for a cabin with a veranda. It doesn't cost that much more and it lets so much light into your cabin. Plus, you can sit out if you dress warmly.

Now I'll get to work on my paranormal set in California.

                     

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

What if vampires existed on the island of Napoleon's final exile? What can a young maid do to stop them? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this novel click HERE

I wrote this fanciful novel after reading about a story of vampires involved with Napoleon's failed conquest of Russia. Why not set up these enigmatic creatures on the remote island of Saint Helena, a place of myth and hardship?

Enjoy the surreal existence of vampires during Napoleon's final exile. Just who is one of the undead, and who isn't? Young maid Isabelle, a member of the emperor's household, will soon find out. And she must rush to stop a wicked attack.

Here is an excerpt:

Isabelle envied the handsome white stucco colonial house with light gray shutters nestled in its verdant garden. But the Union Jack—the emblem of their imprisonment—that rippled from a flagstaff in front of the structure’s Georgian porch had marred the effect.

This beautiful scenery almost eased her distress over the bat-dream of three nights past, or had that part been real? She stifled a quiver.

“Do you like working here?” she asked the maid who had arranged many of the other ladies’ wraps.

She was a mulatto girl with slightly brownish skin and plump lips. “Yes, it’s one of the best places on the island to work.”

“I imagine it would be.” Isabelle stepped to the ballroom door, watching the ladies twirl like flowers in their gowns of pink, blue and yellow; silks, taffetas and muslins. A reminisce of life back in Europe. She sighed. Not that she would have danced in such company. She turned and helped the other maid arrange wraps and hats in scents of perfume, talcum powder and perspiration. “These English bonnets are not so pretty. Do you like Governor Lowe?”

“I don’t see him much.” The maid held up a wrap with intricate lace on the borders, her gaze admiring. “I mostly assist the Missus.”

“Lowe seems a man of quick temper.” Isabelle said this as nonchalant as she could manage. She caressed a white ostrich feather on one of the hats.

“He can be, but he does not sleep well.”

“How do you know that?” Isabelle kept her tone conversational.

“His valet. . .is my special friend.” She grinned. “He says the governor wanders about late at night.” The maid twitched her lips. “But I should not speak ill of my employer.” Now she watched Isabelle, embarrassment glinting in her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Isabelle decided to leave that topic—though she found that information significant. “Do you know I’m the one who found that poor, dead girl in Sane Valley?” She again pictured Amanda’s distressed face.

The maid started and backed up a step. The feathered hat in her hands wavered. She set it down. “A very terrible sight, I’m certain.”

“Are they still investigating the death?”

“I don’t think so.” The maid averted her gaze and plucked at a ribbon on a bonnet.

“I thought your valet friend might have known whether they thought the death an accident or something more?” In the resulting silence, Isabelle spoke again: “I’m new here, but,” she ran her fingers along a satiny pelisse, feigning indifference, “I wondered if you’ve heard of an animal called the beast?”

                                       

“Everyone knows of that.” The reply sounded more like an accusation, the maid’s eyes sharpening.

“Has anyone ever seen it? Isn’t it more a superstition?”

“No, it’s real.” The mulatto girl twisted at the bonnet ribbon, then turned her back. “But we keep our mouths quiet here.”

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

How does a young woman spy for the British during the American Revolution? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this novel click HERE

I decided to write a story from a loyalist's point of view, the British side, even though I'm American. My ancestors fought on the revolutionaries' side.

My heroine, Rowena, learns to decipher code under the guidance of the Welshman Derec. She must flee her home with her family as Washington's army closes in. Will she ever see Derec again?

I hope you enjoy this different view of the fight over America.

Here is an excerpt:

In the musty stone cottage they’d gathered in before, Rowena laid the paper bearing her cipher on the rough-hewn table. It had taken her all of yesterday to unravel the mystery of the Greek words. Dressed again like a boy, she sat without having to manage with petticoats and hoops. A lantern flickered beside the note. Sam, Derec and James stared down at it.

“This dispatch tells of rebel forces gathering again to protect Morristown in New Jersey. Their General Greene knows they’re outnumbered.” She kept her tone officious and massaged a bush scratch on her hand. She’d taken a great risk sneaking from her aunt’s home this evening. Sam had strolled boldly through the rear garden, the extra guard watching him, while she slipped off in another direction. They’d reunited at the stables to retrieve Kayfill.

On the tip of her tongue, she decided she wouldn’t dare ask the courier’s fate from whom they’d obtained this report. The first courier’s bloody stomach flashed through her mind.

"A well written story, produced by an author who knows her era. Details of espionage and intrigue keep those pages turning."

“Aye, General Knyphausen plans a second attack after the failure of Connecticut Farms.” Derec plucked up the note. “Greene has over a thousand Continental troops, plus the hundreds in the New Jersey militia to oppose the Hessians.”

“Connecticut Farms. Where you imprudently put yourself and Sam in grave danger.” James’ words cut through her. “But you never heed my warnings.”

“Dear James, we must work together to prevail in this war.” She tried Aunt Joan’s soothing manner, instead of allowing him to provoke her.

“I still think you should return to Easton, and Uncle Robert, before you’re hurt or arrested.” He averted his gaze, his shoulders hunched.

She grinned over her irritation. “How kind of you to worry about me, dear cousin.”

“We do worry, geneth.” Derec paced the hard-packed dirt floor, his face in and out of shadow, the note in his hands. He’d briefly smiled at her when they’d greeted tonight and cast her a look now and then.

She thought of his words at the river. The dare about her seeking a husband. The memory of his arm around her sent a heated tremor through her. She rubbed her nape, hard. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she couldn’t be seen as a simpering girl. The boy’s clothing sheltered her.

                               

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Did People really kill over Oysters? The 1950s Oyster Wars, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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A friend of mine said her boyfriend had been a witness to some of the dangerous antics on the Potomac River in the 1950s. Maryland owned the river and shot at any Virginians who were dredging for oysters, a profitable practice but it ruined the oyster beds. My protagonist, Luke, is involved, anxious to make money to support his family.

My critique group said this couldn't possibly have happened, but it did.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Colonial Beach

Spray dampened Luke’s face and shoulders as he held onto the boat’s rail, balancing with the slap of the river. On shore, as the sky lightened further, the sun straining to shine through the murk, people gathered. They cheered for Harvey and cursed at the police.

Bullets flew. Luke and Bobby ducked beside Frank on the slimy deck. Jim navigated near the shore, toward a creek’s mouth they knew about. Up on the bank, tree trunks splintered, struck by gunfire.

Harvey careened around bars and in and out of coves, then he cut a hard turn as the seaplane lowered to the water’s surface. The Miss Ann revved, and Harvey steered her right at the plane.

“Oh, shit,” Jim muttered. “He wouldn’t.”

In a splash of flying water, Harvey gunned his boat. The people on shore gasped. The seaplane lifted just as the Miss Ann swerved beneath her pontoons.

“He’s as insane as Bozo.” Luke gripped one hand to the port rail as he still kneeled.

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

“We’re spotted.” Jim slipped Sally into the creek, amongst thicker foliage. Little sunlight had penetrated in there yet. The mist clung like a smoky curtain.

A sudden shift in water again, and a low engine sounded behind them. The police had followed! A spotlight lit up their boat. “Stay where you are!” a disembodied voice shouted. “We’re coming aboard to check your equipment.”

Luke cursed. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

“Dammit. Jump overboard. All of you.” Jim flicked his cigarette away. “I’ll take the heat.”

Luke hesitated, but he urged Bobby and his cousin—though they both cursed—to crawl over the side and slosh through the shallow water.

“You got a young family,” Silas hissed and pushed at Luke’s shoulder. “Get goin’. Now.” 

Luke couldn’t be any help to anyone in jail. Especially his family.

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

A haunting excerpt from Secrets of Lakeluster House, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this novel, click HERE

 For those of you who like spooky stories, but not overly so, please enjoy this excerpt from my young adult novel. It's also a coming of age story for my protagonist.

Editorial Review by Renee Duke A YA novel that will definitely appeal to young teens who like scary stories, Secrets Of Lakeluster House successfully conveys the insecurity and emotional turmoil of its adolescent and preteen protagonists as they find courage they didn’t know they had.

An excerpt, the children are exploring a secret passage:

Sage stopped and raised her light; the hall appeared to curve. She couldn’t see Patrick anywhere. She was about to call out for her cousin. Something materialized in front of her, shifting hues of white and beige, transparent, yet slightly solid.

She froze, mute, unable to turn her head to see if Nate was there. Alarm rushed through her.

The woman in the long apron morphed out of the floating material. She turned her pleading eyes on Sage. “He no longer loved me,” she murmured. “We had plans.”

“Grandma Esther?” Sage thought she said the words aloud, or were they in her head? Had she really heard the woman speak?

The young man who resembled Huntley in a thinner version appeared beside the woman. “It was over, Essie,” he said with a British accent. "We had a bit of fun. Let’s remain friends.”

Sage’s stomach tightened into a fist. Why couldn’t she speak?

The man then stared right at Sage, his eyes black holes, which suddenly changed to ice blue. “Sage, you must go back.” His voice was so familiar. “You aren’t safe.”

He’d said her name! How was that possible? The woman nodded.

“He’s right. Leave us, dear. Be a good girl.” Then she pulled something from her apron pocket. The pistol.

Sage shuddered and nausea rose in her throat.

To purchase my books, visit my publisher's author page:

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

A young adult ghost story, written with my granddaughter, by Diane Scott Lewis

                                           

NEW RELEASE To purchase this young adult novel, click here

 I wrote this story, released this month, with my granddaughter, Jorja, who is fifteen now; I'm so proud of it. I hope you enjoy the spooky tale. 

Here is the blurb:

Sage, at fourteen, grows up in turmoil in Nahant, Massachusetts. Her changing body, her parents’ rocky marriage. When her cousin Patrick visits for the summer, his parents’ divorce has given him a reckless anger. He insists they explore the creepy mansion in the woods. Nate, Sage’s younger brother, is reluctant to approach the manor where a beloved teacher was found hanged months earlier. The children’s great-great grandmother worked at Lakeluster House in a previous century and was under suspicion of shooting another servant.

Now an old lady and her butler have moved in and the kids bring a welcome cake. Invited inside, Sage encounters a strange little girl who shows her the manor’s dark secrets—sparking Sage’s curiosity. Will the butler—a man with his own mysteries—throw them out for snooping? Who is real and who is a ghost? Was her relative guilty? And what danger lingers in the attic? Sage must gather her courage, risking her life to find out.

My late husband chose the setting for the story: Nahant, Massachusetts, an almost island dangling off the coast.

The gazebo mentioned in the novel

Writing from a younger POV gave me new insights. I'd use words my granddaughter would puzzle over, so I had to change them. Or she'd say "I'd never say that!" I also had to figure out the current teenage slang. Like bougie for fancy. My critique partners said it was their new favorite word.

She is a recipient of literary awards, a girl after my own heart!

An excerpt:

Sage, the fourteen-year-old protagonist, is exploring the manor library, when a child comes up behind her.

“Do you live here?” Sage felt the room go colder, as if someone had opened a window. She rubbed her arms. “Is Miss Dora your aunt or…?”

“My room is upstairs, on the third floor.” Bella cocked her head. “I don’t come down often.”

She had a stilted cadence to her speech, as if she only recited lines written by somebody else. Or she’d repeated them many times before.

“Are you all right?” Sage wondered why she’d ask that. Was this child a prisoner, or a guest? Or just an odd family member? Then Sage remembered the dream she had of a child. A child who resembled this one. How could that be? Her heart twitched. “Do you… like it here?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bella frowned. “It’s my home now. But the others never liked visitors.”

“The others?” Sage felt for a moment she was being pranked. She shook her head. “Um, okay. There’s a photo album here. Would you like to look at the pictures with me?” Sage turned to the desk and opened the album, at first filled with sepia pictures with posing, glum people: fusty and dusty. Maybe she could get the child to tell her more. A chill crept up the back of her neck and she looked behind her.

Bella was gone.

Sage scanned the room, and it was empty. A lion carving in the fireplace mantel had its eye on her, a live eye that blinked! Sage gasped. The eye returned to plain wood. Big yikes? She stepped over and tentatively touched it, cool and wooden as could be. Then she looked down and cringed.

Bella’s ribbon, still in a bow, lay on the fireplace grate.

To purchase my books, visit my publisher's author page:

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

A Romance Parody. You Were Supposed to Laugh, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this book, called "a worthwhile read (and nice change of pace)." ~ Long and Short Reviews, click HERE

If you like parodies, and funny romps through the 18th c., you'll enjoy my story where I poke fun at the tropes of romance novels. At least if you take it with a grain of salt.

I read many historical romance novels and usually found the formula, boy meets girl, they immediately fall in love, trouble ensues, but love and lust conquers all, contrived. I wanted to pen more believable stories, with long simmering attractions. But first, given the parodies of the popular Fifty Shades of Grey, I had to combine the usual tropes of this genre and have some fun.

Here is an excerpt: (Melwyn and Griffin are betrothed, but neither wants the match. He confronts her in the Vauxhall Gardens)

The chit’s wrist felt sparrow-thin in his hands. Griffin glared down at her, as she stared up, raspberry ice cream on her lips. At first startled, she didn’t scream and composed herself quickly; he had to admire that.

“How is your sojourn in London, my lady? A sudden urge to travel, had you?” Griffin smiled at the rising anger in her blue eyes.

“How dare you follow me, sir. And drag me into bushes.” Miss Pencavel pulled away from him, chin jutted out. “I told you my wishes in Cornwall. You have wasted your time if you’re here to change my mind.”

“Truth is, I did have business in town, so it’s not a total waste.” He rocked back on his heels, arms now behind his back. His actions were irrational, and totally alien to his usual demeanor. “You intrigue me, Miss Pencavel, such as a wasp might intrigue one. You wonder how close you may hover before being stung.”

He baited her, and enjoyed it. This slip of a girl provoked him, and that was disconcerting. Most females he understood as connivers or simpletons. Miss Pencavel appeared to be neither. Her eyes shone with an innate intelligence. Why had he followed her into the garden—while he had to admit that he’d searched for any sign of her in town—when he had little use for marriage? A wife like her would only get in his way.

Thomas Rowlandson 1780s, "Entrance to Vauxhall Gardens"

 
“I assure you, you will feel my sting.” She backed up a step and took another bite of her dessert. “You said cruel things about my mother. Even if they were true, you were still despicable.”

“I must apologize; I should have waited until I knew you better before being so straightforward.” He softened his words as a twig crackled under his buckled shoe. “But are you like your mother, partial to servants and other low-lifes?”

“I might be partial to whoever takes my fancy, a sailor, a groom, a particularly handsome nightsoil man.” She scrutinized him closely. “I’ve heard you have sinister inclinations, not that such things would bother me, being the free-thinking person I am, but I’d rather not be troubled with you.”

Griffin pondered what she really knew. He decided to deride her, to nudge her off-balance. He resisted the urge to brush a stray leaf from her cheek. “Are you already ruined, my girl, is that why you shy away?”

“I have been in various positions where I might have been ruined, but not in that compromising position I know nothing about, and you no doubt insinuate.” She licked her spoon, slowly.

'

"Beer Street and Gin Lane" by William Hogarth 1751

Many reviewers took offence at my fun-poking, but it was not meant to be taken seriously. My book club thought it hilarious.

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

A woman doctor in the 18th century, impossible, or is it? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young woman seeks to learn a physician's skills in the late eighteenth century, but discovers strange village secrets, and a possible murder, instead. To purchase this book, click HERE  

For this novel I delved into eighteenth century medical practices, and found some interesting facts concerning women. I hope you find them interesting as well.

In this time period woman weren't allowed to study as doctors in Great Britain. But some women found ways to circumvent the restrictions.

Women were often relegated to treat female issues only, but a few went beyond that practice.

An Irishwoman named Margaret Bulkley dressed as a man, attended Edinburgh University, and graduated a fully fledged doctor. Her charade went largely undetected in her many years of practice.

Margaret as "James Barry"

A Mrs. Roman in 1760s Wiltshire, England, worked as a physician, for the poor, treating both men and women. She was paid the same as the male doctors but her formal education is unclear.

Here is an excerpt from my novel, when Rose confronts the village doctor. (all her examples are pre 1790s) 

“Why are you interested in these things, may I ask?” Dr. Nelson's tone turned a little cold as he scrutinized her.

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss with you.” Rose scanned two other book titles then faced him. “Since I was a little girl I’ve been interested in healing, practicing on cats and dogs, mostly. I set a dog’s leg, and he recovered quite well. I even treated our servants in America with poultices and syrups.

“I discovered a Lucretia Lester of Long Island who practiced midwifery for years, but she was respected as a nurse and doctoress to the women she treated.” Rose sat in a Windsor chair before a large oak desk, the books in her lap.

“Women have long been respected as midwives.” Nelson sat at his desk. The size of the piece dwarfed him, and it displayed no personal items and no portraits hung on the walls.

He stared down at his hand and tapped a finger. “Of course, since the use of forceps started twenty years ago, which brought men into delivery rooms, midwives were relegated to rural communities or serving the poor.” He related this as if delivering a lecture. His stiff words pushed aside any friendliness.

Undaunted, Rose plunged on. “I also read an article in an old edition of the South Carolina Gazette about a Mrs. Grant who attended lectures by professors of Anatomy and Practice of Physick in Edinburgh. She had a certificate and practiced as a doctoress in Scotland.”

“I have heard of her. That was almost thirty years ago.” Nelson looked up again, his frown deep. “What do you hope to accomplish, Miss Gwynn?”

“Women were allowed to be physicians in England until Henry VIII legislated to put a stop to it.” She pressed the history books against her thighs. “It’s time that women were allowed back into the practice.” 

“Do you intend to find a way to attend a medical college? I’m afraid that’s— impossible.” His skin flushed as if he fought against a stronger emotion.

A quack doctor assists a patient in 1792

Rose has no idea she's stirring up trouble for Nelson, but soon she'll be in the thick of it. Along with her meet Catern, a tavern wench out for revenge against the earl who is courting Rose's sister, and the mysterious Charlie who watches them all, hoping to help or hinder.

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

The Trials of Eighteenth Century Publication, (or little has changed) by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase my novels, please click HERE

Take a trip to the past to see how authors in the 18th century struggled to be published. I'm fortunate to have found BWL for my publications.

Georgian authors searched for a publisher at the many booksellers’ shops that huddled in the shadow of London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. They would cart their manuscript to the Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row, where several stationers, booksellers and printers conducted their business.

The author would choose a bookseller, often after local advice, whose imprint he’d seen in newspaper advertisements or on a book’s title page. In 1759, Laurence Sterne, an obscure cleric in York, sent his unsolicited manuscript of Tristram Shandy to Robert Dodsley on the recommendation of John Hinxman, a York bookseller.

Sterne

Sterne’s accompanying letter assured the publisher that his book had both literary and commercial value. Dodsley wasn’t impressed. He refused to pay the £50 Sterne requested for the copyright. The novel was rejected by several publishers, but eventually achieved critical acclaim.

Whether the author approached a bookseller or used the post, his reception was usually chilly.

The arrogance of the bookseller was a common grievance among novelists. Though booksellers like Edmund Curll abused their position and their writers, many in this profession were honest and prudent men. They bore the burden of publication and profit and were inundated with manuscripts, most of which had no commercial merit. The sheer volume of submissions made it hard for them to discriminate. Most stayed with established figures rather than risk their money on an unknown author.

From the booksellers’ perspective, the letters Robert Dodsley received over thirty years showed authors as exacting and demanding in their requests, extolling their works as the perfect creations whose publication was eagerly awaited by the world, and they would “allow them to pass through his firm.”

Aware of the fragile ego and financial status of writers, a few booksellers formed literary circles where authors could slake their thirst with food, alcohol and conversation. Brothers Charles and Edward Dilly, who published Boswell’s Life of Johnson, were famous for their literary dinners.

When an author approached a bookseller, he could also verify the merit of his work if he found a famous author who would publicly endorse it. Dodsley’s literary career was promoted by Daniel Defoe. Despite bickering and competition, writers stood together to brace one another up in this risky endeavor.

Literary patronage—via a rich gentleman or the Court—was another way for an author to find publication, though this was fading by this century. Still, some thought of patronage as prostitution. Poet Charles Churchill proclaimed: “Gentlemen kept a bard, just as they keep a whore.”

Subscription might also secure publication: collect pre-payments for a book not yet published. Dr. Johnson organized many subscriptions for unknown writers that he admired.

Constant rejection drove several authors to self-publish their works, which mirrors the Indie authors of today.

Information garnered from: The Pleasures of the Imagination, English Culture in the Eighteenth Century, by John Brewer, 1997.

Diane lives with one naughty dachshund in western Pennsylvania

Life's Total Twist, by Diane Scott Lewis

To purchase my latest novel, and more, click HERE

May 12 would have been my 49th anniversary. So long! I can't believe it. I must have been eight when I got married (wink).

I hope you like my trip down memory lane.

When I was nineteen I joined the navy because I wanted to travel the world. On my first assignment, in Nea Makri, Greece, I watched a guy ride onto the base on a motorcycle. Being a California gal, I always loved riding on motorcycles.

This is a recent pic of the neglected base, but I was standing on that far left corner
when we met.

The guy got off the bike and took off his helmet. He had dark brown hair and dark eyes, sort of my "perfect" visage for a man.

My sponsor said immediately, "That's George Parkinson, he's trouble. Stay away from him."

Well, sad to admit, this intrigued me more. We eventually started dating, took a fantastic bike trip through southern Greece (I need to scan those old pictures), and a year later got married. But it wasn't an easy process. He was married, but legally separated. Everyone kept warning me, he's married. 

His mother found him a divorce lawyer, and though it took a year, he got his divorce. By that time I was pregnant with our first child, so a quick wedding was in order before I left the navy and flew back to California, waiting for George to join me.

We had two sons, and lived in Puerto Rico, California, and Guam, before settling in Washington DC until he retired.

He worked for the Navy as a civil servant and I started writing novels, a passion of mine since I was a child.

We had our ups and downs in our marriage, but held on. Now we have two beautiful granddaughters.

Five years ago we returned to Greece for a reunion. The base was derelict but the people friendly and welcoming.

In his early seventies, George started coughing, and lung cancer was detected. He did chemo and radiation. But on April 2nd he passed away. 

I want to celebrate a good man and a life well-lived. Not perfect but decent, and an adventure. Loved to the last.

I'm still getting used to not having my closest friend beside me.

Cherish your loved ones. I had fifty years and I hold on to that.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Will a German Soldier Defy his Own Country? And Commit Sabotage? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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Winner of Best Historical for 2023

How do I make a German officer during WWII sympathetic?

I make him a real person caught in a terrible war. He loathes Hitler's increasing madness. But how does he commit sabotage and escape the regime? Falling in love with an Englishwoman complicates his plans.

August von Gottlieb was nearly killed during Hitler's purge of enemies, when he tried to warn friends of the coming danger. While he healed, still in the army, his wife was diagnosed with cancer. He had children to feed and doctor's bills to pay. He rose in the ranks, and saw more and more of what a horrible madman Hitler was.

Now a widower and stationed in France, he's in charge of the southern region of Brittany. August tries to keep order, waiting for the secret war machine on its way to his port. A machine he hopes to destroy. The war can't go on like this with the slaughter of innocents.

An Englishwoman, with her own tragic past, is also trapped in this chaos, unable to return home after the German invasion. Norah must confront August to free her young cousin from arrest. He now watches her sketching birds in the woods. Is she a spy?

He requests she sketch his picture to find out more about her. The money he offers is too good for her to pass up. They come to know one another and an attraction neither of them wants develops.

A forbidden affair will turn Norah into a pariah, but her love for August, and knowing he's a decent man, keeps her steadfast.

The war machine is coming. August must finalize his plans, and find a way to slip off to Switzerland with Norah as his superiors breathe down his neck.

"A formidable and unforgettable tale of bravery, betrayal, and profound love. Where secrets and impossible choices can mean the difference between life and death. Truly a heart-wrenching and heart-pounding love story set amidst the chaos of war." History and Women

 Diane lives with one naughty dachshund in Western Pennsylvania