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

 

Click here to purchase.

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

Thank Goodness for Spring, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Visit my Author Page to purchase my books: click HERE

Today, thinking about the warmth of spring, and how much I miss it, I thought I'd look into the history of the season. I hope you enjoy the brief - I promise - explanation of the rite of Spring.

Being a California gal, I never went through harsh winters. 50 degrees was chilly for us. If we wanted to frolic in the snow, we drove up into the mountains.

Now that I'm married and have traveled all over with my navy husband, we live on the east coast, where temps can dip far below zero. Each winter I wait for spring.

Spring was the beginning of a new year, the celebration of fertility and the abundance of nature. In the fourteenth century, the period known as Lent, where people deprived themselves of certain things, when it ended it started to be known as "springing time". This was because plants and other greenery started springing back up from the ground.

And people before electric lights could actually spend longer hours outside and plant their fields, so they had food before another winter came. The circle of life.

In California it meant no more sweaters, fog and rain. We had it so easy.

Now, for me, spring is the longer days, the warmth of the sun, and if I was a billionaire I'd return to California. But I would miss my granddaughters, so I'll stay here.

More on the history of spring. The pagans, not understanding the rotation of the earth in relation to the sun, had a god or goddess for everything to explain the changes in seasons. 

Ostara was the pagan goddess of fertility and spring.

Sometimes her name was known as Eastre or Eostre. From this came the word Easter. The goddess of fertility had the animal symbol of the bunny. That's probably why rabbits are associated with Easter. Plus rabbits are known for their procreation abilities.

The poor chicken got left behind.

As for eggs, they represented new life and rebirth. In the medieval period, during Lent eating eggs was forbidden. So by Easter Sunday, eating an egg was a treat. 

Decorating the eggs started from a Persian custom adopted by the early Christians of Mesopotamia. They stained the eggs with red coloring to represent the blood Christ shed at his crucifixion.

For me spring is being able to go out on my front porch and not shiver. Also, sitting in the sun and reading a good book is my treat.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one rambunctious dachshund.

A New Title, and excerpt, "Bretagne: a forbidden affair", by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, please click HERE

Formally "Outcast Artist in Bretagne," my WWII novel is now "Bretagne: a forbidden affair."

In the month of love because of Valentine's Day, enjoy a different kind of romance. A romance no one would expect to survive without dire consequences.

August is the German commandant of southern Brittany. Norah is an Englishwoman trapped in France after the German invasion. The two fall in love after she draws his portrait, desperate for money. August loathes Hitler and has plans to take Norah to Switzerland. Every moment is rife with danger.

Read an excerpt:

“I understand. It’s so awful.” Norah drank from her cup, her gaze searching. “I just want us out of this war, some place safe for you and me. A cottage on Lake Lucerne?”

“I’m working on that. As soon as my son graduates next autumn, I can put in my papers, then take him out of Germany.” August drank half his cup, stood, fetched his tunic, and put it on. “I have to leave now to inspect the airfield at the tip of this peninsula. I’ll return tomorrow. Why don’t I bring over my horse, and you have your cousin Jean spend the night here? He can ride Maler, and I’ll rest easier knowing you aren’t alone.”

She rose and stepped up to him, her smile tempting, her eyes moist. “That’s a perfect idea, thank you.”

He bent, longing to wipe away any hesitation, any lasting doubts, and kissed her, hard, his hands in her hair. Tasting the sweetness of her lips, he pressed her close. She wrapped her arms around him. He pulled back, stabilizing himself before his resolve melted. “I wish I could stay, but we slept late, and I must bring Maler.” He turned from her flushed face, put on his hat, and left the cottage. August’s body thrummed like a tuning fork. He yearned to indulge in their passion, but needed to stand aloof, the man in charge, for just a little longer.

Diane lives is Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

Best historical of 2023; read an excerpt, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

On Sale, only 4.99. To purchase, please click HERE

I'm so thrilled my WWII novel won best historical of 2023. I hope you enjoy the excerpt, which changes Norah's journey as she's trapped in France after the Germans invaded.

At the sound of a boot scraping over stone, Norah peeked around the tall rock. Her pulse spiked. The Commandant stood a couple of feet away, straight as a steel beam, arrogant, gazing out over the Atlantic. His Nazi uniform was a terrible mockery to the village of Saint Guénolé.

She’d thought herself secluded here. Why had she taken the chance? She hunkered down and should slip away, since she could be apprehended for spying on the German officer. Though that’s not why she was there. Loathing coated with fear rippled through her.

Almost frozen with inaction, she slid down a little more into the cove of the rocks’ shadows. She glanced at her drawing book. The sketch of the Atlantic Puffin, delicate in its lines traced in colored pencils. The orange legs and strong red and black beak on a body of black, pale gray, and a white underside shimmered on the page. In profile, its eye shone with life, and the puffin looked about to take flight.

A gust of wind tossed her hair into her face, a thick sweep of strawberry-blonde in the scent of brine from the sea.

Did she hear his boots scrape closer? What if he peered over the rocks? Swiping her tresses aside, she shrank deeper into a cleft and glared over the ocean, longing for her home in Yorkshire, angry and upset at being stranded. But she must pretend to be calm, in control.

The Southern Finistère coast, with its rugged, rocky outline, was a buttress against the forceful ocean waves that slapped the stone slope two yards below her toes. The dark indigo of the Bay of Biscay reflected a blue spring sky. Spray filtered through the air, a mist that refreshed her skin—except today. If she could only sneak to the north coast and be capable of swimming the channel.

Inching to the side, Norah crept, head down, out from the semi-circle of tall rocks on the opposite side from the Commandant. Thankful she wore trousers and not a skirt, plus sturdy Oxford shoes, she brushed off her backside. She hurried past the monolithic-like stones with golden lichen clinging to their bases, across an open area of grass and into the bushes then woods. Her pencils rattled in the canvas bag. Her legs grazed against the orange and yellow wildflowers.

A sentry or two always patrolled this area. She tried to remain inconspicuous, but more soldiers had arrived in the last few weeks. The Germans had started to build ports somewhere along here and a special one, heavily guarded, right below the village. She must be more careful.

As she pushed her way through gorse bushes and scratchy plants, sharply fragrant, she pondered the German officer’s reasons for standing at the cliff, which he did often—but never so close to her cove. Was he waiting for reinforcements by sea? Or coveting England across the channel? But that view was on the northern coast of this peninsula that stuck like a fat finger out into the Atlantic.

The Nazis’ bombing raids had already decimated so much in London in the Blitz. They’d also dropped bombs on York, but with minimal damage so far. Her country had been attacked by German planes from September ’40 to last month—the worst raid ever on London. She groaned. Now June, would it start again?

Since last year, Hitler planned an invasion of England, but he had failed to land any troops.

Her stomach clenched with more anger she needed to temper. She increased her stride, sucking in the fresh air. Rustling behind her, footsteps—too close. Someone panting then a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Count your blessings, Cherish every day, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase my novels click HERE and scroll down.

I've learned a lot this tumultuous year, but mostly to appreciate what I have. In our rush-around world we forget what is important. I hope you all out there really take time to slow down and smell the honeysuckle (I know it's supposed to be roses, but I love the scent of honeysuckle).

At the beginning of the year my family received shocking news and I wasn't sure how to manage the emotions. Now I see I need to appreciate every blessing in my life.

Firstly, my two granddaughters, lively and funny, and of course, talented. Here's an old picture of us on Mother's Day. The girls painted themselves and me, face to fingernails.

I've always overthought things and that can lead to negative vibes. I need to make the best of everything. I grew up in a loving family, a comfortable home, food always on the table, that is something to be thankful for. Did I appreciate it at the time? Not enough, I'm sure.

I got to travel to many different countries in the navy and as a civilian. I met my husband in Greece. Then we returned for a reunion four years ago. Here we're in front of the base (now closed) where we met. (and he didn't even attempt to Return me, lol)

We have two healthy sons together, both who are pitching in to help us out at this "bumpy" time.

I'm still in contact with women I went to elementary school with. We talk on the phone, or PM through Facebook. They cyber hold my hand when needed. I do the same for them.

I love and appreciate all these family and friends. I try to cherish the simple things, hearing the birds chirp in the morning, watching the geese fly by, a doe and her fawn grazing in our grass. Rain against the window. The silly laughs from the grandgirls.

In this divisive world, spread love not hate.

I go to my happy place (a warm, sandy beach, with crashing waves and rippling wildflowers) when I need to find calm.

It's devastating to lose people in your life, but I try to think how lucky I was to spend time with them in the first place.

And, no, none of this is easy. I get frustrated, panicky, but I'm making my best effort.

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with her husband one very naughty dachshund.

Working on a YA with my granddaughter, by Diane Scott Lewis

To purchase my novels click HERE and scroll down.

I've never worked on a novel with another person, much less a girl who is almost fourteen. Please enjoy the folly and reward of this decision.

At first, Jorja was excited and we planned out the beginning of the story. I put in some suggestions, and so did she. 

I began to write it and gave her the chapters to go over. She'd change a word or two and give it back.

I said I wanted her to give me insight, story changes, different ideas.

We went over the dialog together because she said the main character, Sage, spoke too formally. That was great, just what I needed. Give me some teen slang. Do you like the direction the story is going?

The set up is three children explore a haunted house where their great-great grandmother supposedly murdered her lover. Also, a favorite teacher is found murdered near the manor five months previously. 

New people have moved into the mansion, but there's something odd about all of them. Sage hears strange footsteps and sees other inhabitants that no one else does. Are they ghosts?

Is it scary enough? She said yes. But I plan to make it even scarier. It's meant for kids twelve to fifteen, so I won't go too gory. I've enjoyed the creation of this story and will press her to contribute more. I know she will if we just buckle down in front of the computer.

Of course, Jorja is busy being a middle school teen, different friends, and new experiences. And she's working on her own novel. I love that she is writing and loves to read. She takes after her grandmother.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

A tender moment between illicit lovers, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, please click HERE

I hope you enjoy this intimate moment between my characters, after last month's turmoil when August caught Norah with forging material. This scene takes place prior to that. An unlikely romance during WWII.

August kissed Norah’s naked shoulder, her skin warm after their lovemaking. Her lithe body felt natural against his in their mutual musky scent. Crickets chirped through the open window where a slight breeze filtered around blackout curtains, into the dark room of the gardener’s cottage. The moonlight outlined them both. “I love you, mon amour.”

“I love you…so much. And this is nicer on a mattress,” she murmured, her back to him as they snuggled under the sheets on the iron bed.

“You seemed a little agitated earlier; is something wrong?”

She turned and touched his face. “I’m fine now. Can I ask where you got that huge scar on your right side?”

“I was shot seven years ago, trying to warn friends.” He really didn’t want to go into the details, the pain, at this moment. But he was naked, like she was, to be explored in all his flaws. He shoved away those ugly memories, brushed his lips over hers, then traced his fingers down her silky, soft back. “I’ll tell you more later. In the morning, we’ll plan our picnic, and you can meet my stallion, Maler. He might like his picture drawn, then painted.”

“Another handsome portrait. I’d be happy to.” She reached up and ruffled his hair. “Even in the shadows, I like your hair mussed up.”

He smiled. “No military strictness?” Wouldn’t it be ‘freeing’ to not have to wear that uniform each day, which wrapped him in the menace of the Wehrmacht?

She nestled her head on his chest. “My cousin’s husband might ask me to leave their home.”

“Why? What has happened?” His mind immediately went to the rumor of a forger, an inquiry he’d yet to begin.

“He thinks…I’ve been there too long already.” She sounded evasive. Or he read too much into it.

“Is it as straightforward as that?” Here was the source of her anxiety. A shame to have to discuss these things after they’d shared such sweet passion tonight. He did need to find out what she knew. “Is it because you are with me?”

She sighed and ran her fingers down his abdomen. “That’s part of it. I was wondering, though you might object, if I could move in here.”

August closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, but now these other problems pushed in. “You’d be alone, though I could come most nights; unless I leave for inspections. Let me think about it.” He could throttle the damn butcher. He wanted to recapture that languid, satisfied feeling he’d just had. 

“You could provide me with a pistol, for protection,” she whispered.

He grasped her wandering hand. “That is dangerous, too.” Non-Germans weren’t allowed weapons, for obvious reasons. “I would worry about you out here.” But where else could she go? Anywhere close by, without her family, she’d be open to worse scrutiny and hazard.

She kissed his chest, her mouth warm on his skin. “I know how to fire a gun.”

“I’m not surprised.” He pulled her against him and kissed her firmly on the lips. “We should sleep, then talk about this soon. I’ll think of a solution.” Another, more personal question niggled at him. He hated to continue to dishonor her when he felt this intensely about her. He let the question slip out. “Norah, would you marry me? Though as a German officer I might be a threat to you and your people for a short time more."

She breathed in slowly. A few minutes of quiet. “As difficult…yes, I would. We’ll go to Switzerland, you said. You can retire next year?”

“That is my intention.” As soon as he could take his son with them—after graduation—away from the Nazis, and count on his daughters being protected by their husbands.

He kissed the top of her head as he hugged her, holding on to his dream, making it real. He needed her love, though other troubles such as the direction of the war, and the business with the U-boat, kept him from any true peace. But negotiating life was always a challenge. She couldn’t be involved in the clandestine activities in the village—he must believe that. Yet Schmidt was certain to cause problems.

August closed his eyes, trying to drag himself into oblivion. He knew his family wouldn’t be thrilled when he married an Englishwoman. One thirteen years younger, and his mistress. But his love blurred all these battles.

He rested his cheek on her lush, fragrant hair as she snuggled against him. Her name was whispered in the allegations. The picnic—he swallowed a groan; he must question her then.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

Norah is caught forging, will August forgive? Outcast Artist in Bretagne by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, please click HERE

My turbulent couple caught up in WWII hide secrets from one another. He's a German officer who hates Hitler. She's an Englishwoman forging passes to help Jewish families escape France. Enjoy an excerpt when Norah is finally caught.

Norah stood tiptoe on a chair and pulled the documents from the attic, the narrow place she’d dusted the best she could. Giselle was coming over for coffee, and to look at what she had. The mayor’s wife had friends who could distribute paperwork and collect information. She had to trust her. Norah felt a burden lifting from her shoulders at no more sneaking around, no more deception.

Last night, as August slept beside her, she decided this was the best option.

She balanced and went to step down from the chair. A paper floated to the floor. The door unlocked and opened. She sucked in her breath.

August stood in the doorway. “What are you doing up there?” He was supposed to be gone, inspecting the airfield.

The chair seemed to shake with her jolt of emotions. She stepped off, the documents smashed to her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I’m cleaning up some old paperwork. I thought you’d be at Audierne.”

“The inspection was delayed.” He walked forward and picked up the paper from the floor. It was a sketch of her recreation of the Reichsadler, the Nazi eagle over a swastika, required on travel permits. He held it up. “What is this? Norah, mein Gott. You are forging, aren’t you?”

Her breath came in rasps. “Please. Think of the Jewish children.”

“You lied to me. I thought I could trust you.” The hurt in his face jabbed at her, nearly spinning her to the floor.

“August, I…” She had no viable excuse. “I didn’t exactly lie. I never admitted the truth.”

He took the documents from her shivering hands. “Do you know what would happen if Captain Schmidt discovered this? From you, my fiancée. You would face arrest, even torture. Colonel Burmester would be contacted to implicate me. I could be sent from here to Russia, or elsewhere. How would I find you or protect you? I thought you understood.”

“I’m sorry. I thought only of the children, not what could happen to you.” It made such sense when he spoke it. Her head swirled, knees weak.

He slapped the papers on the table, eyes wide and sharp. “What else have you been doing behind my back?”

“Nothing, I swear.” She leaned on the chair for support; icy fear shot through her veins. “I’ll be careful from now on.”

“You must stop at once.” His glare sliced through her, but pain shadowed it. “Do you hear me?”

She knew she was defeated, and she had planned to give up her work. She couldn’t put him in jeopardy. Her body sagged. She struggled to breathe. “I won’t do it anymore. I was quitting anyway.”

He raked a hand through his dark-gold hair, eyes flashing. “How can I believe you? Who else is involved?”

“I can’t reveal that.” Please don’t insist on it!

“If you’re found out, there’s no telling what will happen.” He gripped her shoulders, his fingers on her flesh painful. “Again, how can I trust you? I want so much to. I thought we had something special.”

“We do. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t doing this when we first grew close.” Her eyes dampened with tears. “That sounds worse, but I was convinced my actions would help people.”

“You deceived me.” He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones, his expression miserable. Then he stepped away, shaking his head. “After I warned you, you continued.” He swept his hand toward the table, forehead creased. “Burn those documents and whatever else is up in the attic. Our lives are at stake.”

She nodded, straining to balance herself. “I will. I swear I won’t do it anymore. I want you safe from retribution. I was reckless.”

He stood tall, the commandant once more, as he reached for the doorknob. His flushed cheeks betrayed his upset. “Norah, I understand why you did it. But you should have told me before this. I cautioned you.” The disappointment on his face was obvious, the hurt in his eyes condemning her.

“I’ll destroy them, I promise.” She hated to do it, yet yearned to embrace him, to hold him close. Her pride, her confusion, kept her from begging that he stay. She must not collapse into a grasping female. “Forgive me.”

“I must return to my office. I’ve much to think about. The risks you took. You were dishonest, so heedless.” Words stern over an anxious voice, August was out the door, shutting it after him. A swift, stormy wind had blown over her, scattering her life like dried leaves.

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t admit to the truth.” Heart like a rock weighing down her chest, she bent to the hearth, blinking back tears. A sob erupted. She must bring him back to her, make him understand. They still loved one another, didn’t they? But to destroy all her hard work. She felt frozen in place, her world crumbling. It’s not fair! I was doing the right thing. She reached into a basket for the kindling August had split for her, as her soul felt cleaved in two.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Now I interview my hero, who starts out an anti-hero, the German commandant from Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase the ebook or paperback, click HERE 

I previously interviewed my heroine, Norah, to dig deeper into her character. Today it's my hero (who you'll think at first is an anti-hero) It's fun to talk to them out of the written context of the story. I hope you enjoy it.

Today I interview Major August von Gottlieb, the commandant of Southern Brittany.

Major, I understand that though you're in the German army, you don't care for Hitler's policies?

A tall, handsome man, with blond hair and blue eyes, the Major sits and adjusts his greenish-gray tunic with the Iron Cross. "I came to realize that Hitler is a madman. His policies are getting good people murdered. When I was assigned here, in this bucolic village, I found I wanted a different life. But it isn't so simple to leave the German army. I would be shot as a traitor, unless I plan carefully."

Have you set any of these plans into motion?

"First, unlike so many officers, I refused to starve the population by sending away the food supplies. I make certain the villagers keep their fair share."

Do any of your fellow officers resent this?

"Ja, they do, and are sure to make snide remarks to me. But I am in charge." He rubs his cleft chin, his gaze penetrating. "I was nearly killed in an incident having to do with Hitler a few years back. It's made me more determined."

I see the pain cross his features. Have your superiors complained?

"I was visited by one colonel, but I eased his mind. We need strong workers here to build the special port."

And what will this special port be used for?

His eyebrows rise. "I cannot divulge that yet. It is something I plan to, let's say, take care of so no further damage is done to England or France from this area."

A noble plan. I hear you have a young lady that you're interested in.

"I do. We are both in love." His eyes soften and he smiles tenderly. "She is English, so that is another strike against me. I hope we can manage a future together. I feel such passion for her. But there are many obstacles." He stares off for a moment. "She has had a rough time of it, and I want to soothe her and be a decent man for her."

The villagers have vilified Norah because of her relationship with you.

"I regret that. If I'm not destroyed by the peril to come, my wish is to escape with her to Switzerland and get married. I want to honor her. There are so many secrets and scheming around us." He fists his hand, his gaze troubled. "But I cannot tell anymore than that." Gottlieb stands and puts on his high-capped hat. "I have work to do. I must bid you good day, frau."

Well, thank you for speaking with me. I wish you both success. Hmmm, an officer working from within to sabotage Hitler. I'm intrigued how he will do it, and what needs to be 'taken care of.' Norah had mentioned a weapon in her interview.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

I interview my character, Norah. How could she find a connection to the German Commandant? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase Outcast Artist in Bretagne, click HERE

It is fun to dig deeper into your characters. An interview to let them speak for themselves is always intriguing to write. Here they can talk directly, and answer uncomfortable questions if need be.

Interviewer. "I'm sitting here with Miss Norah Cooper in the small village of Saint Guenole in Brittany. Miss Cooper, you were trapped in France after the Germans invaded, visiting your cousin for personal reasons, and now you just want to go home to England. You're an artist and decided to draw the Major, the man in charge of the occupation. Why was that?"

"He offered me a great amount of money, and I needed to pay my way." Norah brushes a hand through her strawberry-blonde hair in quick strokes. "My cousin's husband threatened to demand I leave. I was eating their food. But I really had no place to go at the time."

"You didn't find this idea with the Major repulsive?"

"Yes, at first. But the Major surprised me." Norah smiles, looking a little embarrassed. "He was very kind, and then I learned a secret about him that really changed my mind."

"And what was that?"

"He hates Hitler's policies. Plus he brought more food to the village after I asked him to." Norah sighs. "He wanted the war to end and live a peaceful life."

"Then an attraction grew between you two?"

"Slowly." Norah gazes around. "When we got to know each other better. I never thought I'd find anyone who cared about me as much as he does. He felt the same after an arranged marriage. His wife died two years ago. And I had my...unfortunate experience."

"Weren't you afraid of being ostracized? Shunned by your family?"

"I am ostracized. The villagers, my cousins. My family in England doesn't yet know. It is very difficult. I went to live in the gardener's abandoned cottage." Norah leans close. "The Major, August, he told me a terrible weapon was on its way. And he planned to disable it so it wouldn't be used against my country."

"I see. Very commendable. Then you fell in love with him?"

Norah smiles again, though it's a little sad. "We fell in love. As crazy as that sounds. I discovered the man he really is, inside. We have a passionate relationship. But I knew it would be perilous."

"Do you have plans for a future?"

"He has to complete his sabotage. I got involved with forging documents to help escaping Jews. We kept secrets. But our love is strong." Norah presses her fingers to her cheeks. "We speak of escaping to Switzerland. But there are so many obstacles. Threats of arrest. Even a firing squad. I still hope we can have our happy ending. Or maybe I'm being naïve."

Interviewer. "I hope you can find a happy ending in the midst of war. Thank you for explaining your situation to me."


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

An Illicit moment, Outcast Artist in Bretagne - WWII heartbreak and forbidden love, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase Outcast Artist in Bretagne, click HERE

It's WWII, and August, the German Commandant, is falling for the Englishwoman Norah. Threats are on all sides. He wants to destroy Hitler, but will Norah destroy his heart? How could they possibly make this work? His attentions will compromise her.

Read an excerpt:

“I realize that.” But August still yearned to know; it had been so long since someone cared—if she cared. “Tell me what is in your heart.”

Norah turned and met his gaze. “I’m not one to mince words. I’m rather blunt, as you’ve pointed out.”

“Then let’s be honest, please.” His throat felt raw. He should let it go, allow her to dismiss him.

She sighed and blinked quickly. “I have feelings I shouldn’t have.”

“Ja. As do I.” Two lonely people, or something more? Silence followed, punctuated by rain and the whistle of wind around the building. Her eyes looked huge, and startled, even in the shadows. A woodland creature; but was he a savior or a predator?

Finally, he said, desperate to say something, “May I see what you’ve done so far on the portrait?”

She smiled, looking relieved by the change in subject. “No, not yet. I want it to be completed first.”

He moved toward her, playfully. “Just a peek won’t hurt.”

She spread her arms as if protecting her masterpiece. “Mais non. I’ll tell you when.”

August took a long step toward her. Fräulein Cooper came forward at the same time. They bumped into one another, her breasts right below his chest. He clasped her upper arms. She stared up at him, lips parted, inviting, yet wary. Past helping himself, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. A tightening started low in his body.

She quivered beneath his hands, but didn’t move away, her breath warm on him.

Thunder boomed and rattled the windows. The rain pounded like drumbeats on the roof. The gunshot sounds from his nightmares faded.

“This is wrong, especially for you,” he whispered into her mouth.

“I know. Terribly improper. We shouldn’t.” She remained in place, her form delicate under his fingers, and kissed him back with a tiny moan.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

The Major faces his nightmares, in my new release, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Just released! Purchase the novel HERE

Read an excerpt: The Major, a man who loathes Hitler's policies, faces a nightmare from his past.

August stretched out on the bed in his cotton pajamas, hand behind his head on the pillow. When he closed his eyes and drifted into half-sleep, instead of the sweet smile of a blonde girl who drew birds, a woman he probably liked too much, Operation Hummingbird, Unternehmen Kolibri, intruded, again, on his thoughts. He tightened his fingers on the sheet he’d jerked up to cover himself.

Seven years before, in 1934, a purge with mass assassinations had taken place. Hitler ordered the murder of top officials, allegedly to prevent a coup—but he wanted complete power. Göring and Himmler had urged him on, aided by the SS and Gestapo.

August pressed on the knot in his stomach that usually formed when he had these ugly memories. He was a captain then.

Kurt von Schleicher, the former chancellor of Germany, had been a friend of his father’s. Schleicher had dared to criticize Hitler’s government, allegedly working behind the scenes against him. August, alerted by his father, had rushed over dressed as a civilian to Schleicher’s home near Potsdam to warn him, to take him and his wife to safety. Almost immediately after August had arrived men in trench coats drove up, knocked, and opened fire.

August grimaced and closed his eyes tighter. Gunfire, the stink of gunpowder, Schleicher and his wife both murdered. Their bodies sprawled in pools of crimson in the hallway. The men had fired at him, hitting him in the side. He felt the sharp spike of pain, the sticky blood on his hands. He’d fallen to the floor and pretended to be dead. A coward! He should have shot one of them. But he had been outnumbered.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.