Living, or rather being ruled by, a dachshund, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

My first historical mystery. 1781 Who murdered Lady Pentreath, her unhappy husband or the apothecary who prepared the last tincture she drank? Will these two disparate people find love or end up at the gallows?

To purchase, click HERE Barnes and Noble, or Amazon

Sadly, there are no dogs in this book

My post is about living with the unpredictable breed known as a dachshund. I hope you find it interesting. This is Lilly-Scout (named by my granddaughters) glaring at the camera. She is my boss, or thinks she is. But she is loving and sweet, when she decides to be.

Dachshund in German means badger hound. Over four hundred years ago, these dogs were bred with a long body and short legs to go down holes after badgers, and other burrowing animals.

As a pet, they are demanding, loving, noisy, and will bark at anything, even a leaf blowing by.

Here is a dachshund in a deceptively loving position, when she's really thinking about attacking the next person who walks by. They are very protective and territorial.

Dachshunds love to play, but will only stop when they're ready, after exhausting you.

They are extremely intelligent and can even spell. When we said 'out' our dog would get all excited. Then we resorted to spelling it. From the first time on, he knew exactly what we meant. You can't fool a dachshund.

They also love to burrow under the covers and will take over your bed if allowed in. For such a small dog they can take up more room then a full-grown German shepherd. And don't even try to move them when they're sleeping; it's like moving a piano.

My first weenie dog, as they are affectionally called, was Fritzie. Picture above. He took over my life and my heart. He taught me well the dachshund disposition. He lived for 16.5 years, and it wasn't long enough.

They are loveable, cuddly, excitable, irascible, and full of barks, and will become your best friend. As long as you mind their rules!

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Interesting Cornish Superstitions, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story set in Nahant, Mass. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE Barnes and Noble, or for Amazon

I wrote many novels set in eighteenth century Cornwall and became fascinated with its myths. Two of them, Escape the Revolution and Hostage to the Revolution, were set on the wild northern coast. Cornwall covers the western region of England where tin mining was often the main occupation of the people. Many superstitions arose from this grueling work. 

Miners believed in gnomes called Knockers. They believed any strange noises in the mines were caused by the knockers, who warned of dangers to come, such as cave-ins. The knockers also caused mischief. The miners would leave them bits of their food to placate them.

The Cornish also believed in Piskies (Pixies). To avoid being tricked by the Piskies, they'd wear their clothes inside out to fool them. I'm not sure how that worked.

A scary belief was a Spriggan. They were small and ugly and they guarded treasure. If you angered one, they might kidnap your child and leave you a 'changeling'. This elf or troll might look like your child, but its demeanor would soon become strange.

Fishing was another important occupation in Cornwall. Fishermen would never count their catch. They'd chant over it first to keep the bad spirits at bay. You also could not mention the word 'rabbit' or 'minister', or whistle when onboard your boat, or it would cause you bad luck.

Giants are also part of Cornish myths. The children's story, Jack the Giant Killer is set in Cornwall. Might there be magic beans?

When my husband and I visited there the people were kind and open. And we didn't see one giant or gnome. They must have been hiding.

To find out more about me and my books.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Rough Travels in the Eighteenth Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

The sequel to "Escape the Revolution", to purchase "Hostage to the Revolution", click HERE (or scroll to the bottom)

In modern times we take travel for granted. We can fly around the world if we wish. But in the eighteenth century, it was a rough, often dangerous trip, where you didn't get very far in a day.

Enjoy the ride.

Writing novels set in this era, I had to take into account how far my characters could get from point A to B. Were there even roads where they wanted to go?

When my heroine sailed to New York in 1796, she found she had to take another ship to New Orleans as no roads existed to travel on land that far.

The foreign traveler to England usually came across the English Channel, a stormy and uncomfortable sail in raging water, when at last they rejoiced to see the white cliffs of Dover. 

Then they had to clear the Customs' House. Their person and luggage were thoroughly searched, and any precious items could be confiscated. The richer could bribe the customs men to let them pass easily.

Once onshore a group of bawds, pimps, and pickpockets waited to take advantage of them. The Englishmen considered foreigners suspicious; people who ate snails and disregarded good English beer.

The visitors might be lodged in noisy, dirty inns, waiting to secure a coach to other cities, especially London--eighty miles away. It would take up to twelve days to make the journey.

The rich could hire a carriage and horses, or a post-chaise, but the average traveler was forced to board a crowded coach. The poorer among them rode on top of the coach, suffering the wind and rain. Even the luggage basket at the rear might hold a passenger or two.

Bad roads could turn to mud, and bogs, and coaching accidents were frequent.

The stage-coaches were heavy and lumbering. And your fellow travelers might be smelly and loud. The ride would be jolting, especially before the 1750s when springs were introduced.

The traveler paid by the mile and was expected to tip the driver and guard; the awful trip could be expensive. The guard rode next to the driver and carried a shotgun, hence the term "I call shotgun." Highwaymen often watched who boarded and if they looked rich, they'd rob the coach out on the open road.

When the coach entered an inn yard, the roof passengers had to climb off or be knocked over by an archway. Staying at the coaching inns, men and women crowded in beds, sharing with strangers, and might come away with fleas or bedbugs.

A bill was introduced in Parliament in the 1780s to regulate how many passengers could be allowed to ride inside and on the coach roof. It didn't pass.

All in all, travel is much more convenient now. And hotels cleaner. But putting these details into my writing brings the story to life.

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Walking where my Character Walked, a visit to Cornwall, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

I became fascinated with Cornwall, England after reading books and watching movies set there. Situated at the western end of England, the region of Cornwall, with its Celtic culture, is its own country in many ways. They had their own language as well.

Poldark, by Winston Graham, is a famous series set on the wild northern coast of Cornwall. Graham's books are also a good source of eighteenth century lingo used by the inhabitants. 

My heroine flees France during the French Revolution, and ends up working in a bawdy tavern in this area while she tries to solve her father's murder and discover the whereabouts of her mother.

She soon finds she is pursued by rebels with sinister intentions.

"Simply brilliant," the Historical Novel Society.

To purchase, Escape the Revolution, please click HERE

Of course my husband and I needed to travel there to get a feeling for the place. On a rainy evening, driving on the left side of the road, during the worst rains in 400 years, our adventure began. 

We entered the village in the pitch black, where we had a cottage rented, traversing a narrow road with towering hedges.

The quaint cottage, called Coombe Cottage was perfect. A stone in the wide fireplace had the date 1750 etched into it. Here is a painting my friend, Christine Valenti, did of my husband in front of the cottage.

We walked the coastline where I set the tavern, down to Tintagel, where King Arthur supposedly had a castle, all in ruins now. We ate meat pasties, which miners took with them to eat down in the tin mines. Later, I loaded up on research books in a crowded Padstow bookstore.

Bettina, (Lisbette) my French heroine--the daughter of a count--is shown these places by the mysterious Everett Camborne. He is a man she is falling in love with, but dark rumors surround him.

She also learns to make the pasties, as she acclimates from her privileged life to one of the poorer classes. She learns to be self-sufficient and is proud of it.

We visited the grand estate of Lanhydrock, where I set another novel later on. It was too fancy for Everett's manor.

We walked down to Port Isaac, where the "Doc Martin" series is filmed, and where Everett takes Bettina.

I got a feel for the thrashing sea, the brisk air, the rocky land, and incorporated it into my novel. It adds the "senses" that make the words come alive.

Cornwall is full of quaint towns and beautiful, rugged landscapes. I made up the village of Sidwell where Bettina lives and Maddie's tavern thrives so I could use it as I wished. Bettina, at first determined to leave, finds a home here, and a man she loves. But more events await her, good and bad.

I want to mention we lost the woman who started BWL Publishing at the beginning of this month. Heartfelt condolences to her family and all of us at BWL We'll miss you, Jude.

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund. 

The Mystery of Old Economy Village, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE

Today's post is about a visit I took with my husband and best friend to Old Economy Village, an historic site near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I hope you find it interesting.

The village was founded by German Lutheran separates in the 19th century. A sect that formed to create a utopian society, waiting for the second coming of the Messiah. 

Visitors can explore several historic buildings, original artifacts, and learn about their culture.

George Rapp led the group. He began preaching in his native Germany. When he split from the Lutheran Church he was banned from preaching. He called himself a prophet and defied the church. His subsequent persecution forced him to flee to the United States with his followers in 1803.

He preached celibacy to keep the group pure as they waited for the Messiah. They didn't believe in procreation, and that was their downfall. Pretty soon they died out.

Rapp died in the village in 1847

Here is my husband talking to our guide

The society was self-sufficient. A sawmill, tannery, distillery. We even took part in rope making. I can't find the picture I took of that.

They nurtured beautiful gardens and grew their own food.

Harmonist church-another society in Harmony, PA, founded by Rapp

They were nonviolent pacifists who refused to serve in the military. Following the literal teachings of the New Testament, as interpreted by Rapp, they believed Jesus would come again and a thousand years of peace would ensue. Their experiment failed.

Rapp was sometimes called a tyrant and was sued by former members for compensation, so not everything was peaceful.

The village is mostly intact and welcomes visitors. A fascinating excursion.

A recent storm sent a tree onto one of the buildings, crushing it. Sorry to hear that.

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Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Will Luke Survive the Ruthless Oyster Police during the Potomac Oyster Wars? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To Purchase, click HERE

In 1956 the state of Virginia fought a war with Maryland over dredging oysters on the Potomac River. Maryland had their own Oyster Police Force, who shot at the Virginians.. Dredging ruined the oyster beds but collected more bounty. Here is a scene from my story where my protagonist Luke is involved in this illegal and dangerous business. Enjoy:

This is a fictionalized account of an event that actually happened:

Luke cringed and leaned over the port rail. Images were blurry in the mist, though the faint light of dawn appeared in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay. Miss Ann’s engine roared to life.

The two police boats closed in, pushing strong waves against Sally. Their boat rocked. Bobby and Frank shoved up on either side of Luke.

Miss Ann sped across the water toward Monroe Bay, the two police boats in pursuit.

At a noise in the sky, Luke stared up. “A seaplane, too?”

“Mama won’t like this,” Frank said, though didn’t sound scared.

“Virginia should have a plane,” Bobby groused. “We’re too timid.”

Jim grabbed his binoculars. “Hell, this looks bad.”

Gunfire exploded, shot after shot. Luke winced, though the shots were in the opposite direction, toward Miss Ann.

Captain Jim started their engine. They nosed out into the water. “We should find a safer place, or head to port.”

The Miss Ann careened back and forth over the waves in the glimmer of dawn like a combat maneuver.

“We might get in the line of fire,” Silas said. “Damn fool, Harvey. We should stay put.”

“I should have brought my pistol,” Frank said, breath rasping.

“I warned you about that.” Luke glared at the boy. “Silas is right, we could all be shot. Have some sense.”

“Shut up, Frank.” Bobby pushed on his cousin’s shoulder to force him to kneel. “Stay down. I hope Harvey blasts those bastards.”

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, shoot,” 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. He couldn't risk being arrested. He had a wife and young son to support. 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.”

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Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Norah resists her forbidden attraction to the German Major in war-torn France, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, click HERE

I wrote this novel after watching a tv show about the German occupation during WWII. What if a young Englishwoman is trapped in France after the Germans invade and she must ask for help from the Commandant. She finds he's not at all who she thought he was, and a dangerous attraction develops. I hope you enjoy reading an excerpt.

Norah walked stiffly in, her courage waning, but her resolve anchored. She’d never been in this office before. And now with the Germans in charge, changing everything—and a child’s fate in her hands.

Major von Gottlieb stood behind his desk, tall and imposing, his expression curious. “What can I do for you, Fräulein Cooper?”

“My young cousin did something foolish, but he’s only a child.” She rubbed her knuckle along her collarbone and explained what happened in barely controlled words. “Please, don’t let anyone hurt him. He’s ten years old, and impulsive.” Tears dampened her eyes, despite her effort to appear tenacious. “Release him to his mother. It’s all a mistake.”

She saw the Major’s gaze change from surprised to concerned.

“Extraordinary. I will investigate at once. Wait here, Fräulein.” The Major thrust on his hat and indicated the chair in front of the desk. He marched from the room and shut the door. She heard strong words exchanged in German, the shuffle of feet.

Norah sank into the leather seat, unsure what to do. Her heart beat so fast, her chest ached. She glanced about the office. A picture of Hitler on the wall made her cringe. On a glass-fronted bookcase full of books was a smaller picture of a woman. Broad-faced but attractive. The Major’s wife?

Mahogany furniture filled the cramped room. The desk was neat, with a tan leather inlay. The room smelled pleasant, of lemon oil. She tried to balance herself as her mind spun.

A small table held a partially finished jigsaw puzzle. She stood to see what it was, to distract her upset.

The door opened behind her. She nearly jumped.

The Major strode in, his gaze fixed on her. He removed his hat. “Fräulein, it’s been taken care of. The child is being escorted to his mother as we speak.”

She pressed her hand to her breast, almost swaying. “Thank you. I’m so relieved.”

“Warn him he should not be so impulsive. It’s dangerous.” Without his hat, she saw the Commandant’s hair was sandy-colored, almost golden, a wave over his high forehead. He had a strong cleft chin.

“I will, I promise.” Her words came out too breathy. She still believed it unfair the villagers hadn’t access to their own coast, but she couldn’t allow her resentment to show.

“It seems a problem in your family, this impulsiveness. You should not have been dancing before the cottage the other night either.” He raised an eyebrow, but the glint in his eyes was somehow a challenge. “The soldiers notice these things.”

Her cheeks burned. Had he watched her dance? “You’re right. It won’t happen again. I’ll restrict my dances to the rear garden.”

“Good. See that you do. I’m only trying to keep you out of mischief, if that is possible.” His tone wasn’t harsh, his glance almost teasing.

“I must go and see how my cousins are.” Norah inched toward the door. She should have asked about Mr. Kerguelen, what happened to him? But wouldn’t push her luck. “Thank you, again. I’ll try not to be such a problem.”

“You’re welcome. Be warned to follow the rules no matter how you might object. Guten tag, Fräulein.” He bowed his head for an instant, like an aristocrat in a play. He smiled wryly. “Yet I imagine this won’t be our last meeting.”

Norah blinked then left the office and hurried across the square.

Was Jean home already? Surely the Major hadn’t lied to her. He seemed a gentleman. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. What a bizarre thing to think about a Nazi commandant. What sort of man would follow the dictates of a tyrant like Hitler?

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

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

 

To purchase, click HERE

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.

To purchase, click HERE

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.