Reading by Season by Eileen O'Finlan

                                                                                                                                                                   

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Over the years, I have noticed an interesting phenomenon. At certain times of the year, usually at the change of seasons, I get the overwhelming urge to read specific types of books. Often, just as we are sliding into summer, I get the hankering for historical fiction set during either the American Revolution or the American Civil War. I've no idea why the warmer weather induces such a fancy. After all, those are hardly what most people would call beach reads, but there we are. 

I've never been into the typical "beach read" anyway. The last time I read a book on the beach (many, many years ago), it was The Shining by Stephen King. I was so into it that I completely lost track of time - a common occurrence when I'm reading a good book - and didn't realize that four hours had gone by. I'd been laying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. I got a massive sunburn and wore the outline of it on my back from my low, scoop-back, one-piece bathing suit for the next two years! Yes, Stephen King books can be dangerous!

Now that we are heading into fall, the temperatures here in New England are beginning to dip, the days are getting shorter, and autumn is definitely on its way, my book cravings are turning to the supernatural. I'm beginning to amass a "to be read" pile of such books, having just finished two of the genre's classics - Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Henry James's The Turn of the Screw.

I'm sure I'm not alone in turning to these types of books at this time of year. It makes sense. (Certainly more than yearning for Revolution and Civil War books just because it's summer.) Come the holidays and the long, cold winter, I'll probably start looking for something more cozy. But from now through Halloween, bring on the vampires, ghosts, and haunted houses. 

While it took a year to write The Folklorist, (after at least six months of research), I really got into it the most during the fall. It was exciting to craft a novel that could have been on my own autumn TBR list at the same time I was craving that type of book. I think it helped me write the kind of book I most wanted to read at that moment.

Included in this fall's reading will be books from BWL's Paranormal Canadiana Collection. If Nancy M. Bell's Night at the Legislature is any indication, they are sure to induce plenty of spine tingles!

Of course, I might throw a book or two by Stephen King into the mix. At least at this time of year, I won't be risking a sunburn.

The beginning of my fall TBR

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

 

To Purchase this book click HERE

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

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

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Storytelling Magic

 

Find "I'll Be Seeing You" here

You're never going to kill storytelling, 

because it's built into the human plan. We come with it.
~ Margaret Atwood 

As I complete my third book in my award-winning Navajo Code Talker Chronicles series (All of Me...coming in November), I am, as usual in awe of the power of storytelling. It's the power of the creative spirit... the ability to make something out of nothing that we all possess. We express it in many ways... a well-tended garden, a dance or song, a painting, a family. And it is nothing short of magical.

Our grandson is at an age where he's starting to get the mechanicals behind creating magic. He loved joining his mom to create beautiful illusions to benefit our local Friends of the Library. I enjoyed that spark in his eyes as he pulled a bouquet of flowers from a silk scarf...astonishing even himself. I recognize the same in me as I stand back from a section of dialogue that seems to come from my characters themselves or plot twist that even I didn't see coming. Wow. Moments of magic.

Our young magician

Evan our six-year-old knows that making magic requires craft...presentation, patter, storytelling... and practice, practice, practice with the tools of magic. 

So too for his grandma and her tools of storytelling magic: character development, plotting, dialogue, narration, description... and edit, edit edit!

I hope you'll find the results as pleasing as my grandson's magic!

3 generations of magicians

Book 1

  

Book 2

Book 3

My Changing Author Photo

Please visit my website or click this link for book purchase information.

When my first novel, A Deadly Fall, was published in 2011, I decided to get a professional author photograph for book promotion. A friend recommended her friend, Deb Marchand, a local Calgary photographer who specializes in portraits, family pictures, and special events like graduation photos. 

I contacted Deb, found her cost reasonable, and arranged a photo session. Deb likes to shoot outdoors and prefers the evenings for better light. We picked a date, but that summer kept getting hit with evening thunder showers, and we had to cancel our first date. The next time, another storm loomed, but we agreed to chance a downpour. 

Deb chose a location on a park ridge. I had asked her advice on clothing for my portrait. Since it would be a head shot, clothes only mattered from the chest up. Deb said a plain coloured top with a rounded neckline would be best. I had also read that it's best to avoid jewellery in portraits since it detracts from the face, which is what people most want to see about the person. 

I looked through my wardrobe, couldn't find the perfect top, and threw a bunch into a bag with the plan to discretely change on the ridge until we found the top that worked. Fortunately, on that evening of looming clouds few people were out walking in the park. After taking numerous photos of me in several tops, I went to Deb's house, in the rain, to go through the selections on her computer. An agonizing choice when so many photos looked similar and I'm not the biggest fan of pictures of me. 

In the end, I settled on a photo of me wearing a white top with a V-neck. I liked the look so much that I had the photo enlarged for my family room wall. 

Deb and I became Facebook friends. She came to my book launch and read A Deadly Fall and my next two novels. In 2019, I realized my eight-year-old photo was out of date and asked Deb if she'd be interested in another photo shoot. This time, we met on a clear, spring evening in Calgary's St. Patrick's Island Park, and I had the perfect top--red with a rounded neckline.  

 

Six years passed. I published three more novels, let my hair go naturally gray, and. thanks to cataract surgery didn't wear glasses anymore. Every time I sent out my author picture, I felt it didn't look like the current "me." I messaged Deb who was enthused about working with me again. She suggested Prince's Island Park downtown for our third photo shoot.  

Deb asked if I'd prefer a city or nature backdrop. I chose nature because I liked the greenery in my past photos and thought high rise buildings in the background would portray the wrong image for my shift to historical fiction. Deb thought a light-coloured top would be a good contrast to nature colours. I chose a pale pink rounded-neck T-shirt top. 

On a warm, slightly windy and smoky evening in June, we walked around the Prince's Island Park and caught up on each others' news. Deb photographed me on a staircase to the Bow River and in front of trees and flowerbeds. She had me do models' poses--chest out and swish your arms down your hips to your thighs--and fussed with my windblown hair. It reminded me that I wouldn't want to be a model. 

After the session, Deb emailed me a longlist of photos as well as her five personal favourites, from which I chose my two author photos. Here they are:

  

When I want, I can crop the bottoms of these photos for more close-up views, which works especially well when the promotion image will be small.  

Deb also sent black and versions:   

 

Deb and I shared a few laughs during the photo shoot. She said that, as a bonus, she'd add a joyous portrait as her gift to me. "It will be one of those great laughing photographs that makes me smile as big as your smile in the photo." 

I was touched when she gifted me with two joyous pictures. Thanks to Deb Marchand Photography for all these years of great author photos. 

  

  

 

                                 

 

They Don't Make Them Like That Anymore by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                               

Whenever I do research for a new historical novel, I always find things that surprise me. Currently, I'm working on the research for the third book in my Children of Ireland series. Like Erin's Children, this one will also be set in Worcester, Massachusetts but a decade later during the American Civil War.

Naturally, I have to research the politics of the time, life in the military and on the home front, as well as the war itself. Equally important is research on everyday life at that time. That is my favorite type of research. I find it fascinating to learn about how people lived, what they wore, what they ate, what they did for work and leisure, and what things they had in their homes.

Recently, I read about some types of furniture that were common in the mid-19th century. I was amazed to learn that patent - that is, convertible, collapsible, or folding furniture - was all the rage in American middle-class homes. These included such items as sofas and lounges that converted to a bed, a bed or a bath tub that converted to a wardrobe, or a bench that doubled as a table.

Wanting to see for myself what some of these furnishings looked like, I did an online search for images of 19th century American patent furniture. My favorite is the Wooton Patent desk. Closed it looks like a intricately carved work of art. Open its double doors to reveal a multitude of drawers and cubby holes, many of them on the inside of the doors, and a pullout platform for writing. It is a masterpiece of a desk.

Another favorite is the metamorphic desk chair. Closed it's a round table, but pull it open and you have a chair with a rounded back attached by a hinge to a half-moon table with a drawer.

These are just a few of the innovative designs of 19th century furniture. I would welcome either as additions in my own home. I'm sure I will find a place for some of these items in my next novel. Meanwhile, I have more research to do. I wonder what else will surprise me.

In an Era of Fake Alpha Males, Cowboys are Sexier Than Every, By Connie Vines #Sexy Cowboys, #Alpha Males, #Rodeo Romance

 Have you noticed? The times are a-changing.

In an Era of Fake Alpha Males, Cowboys are Sexier than Ever.

The cowboy fantasy isn't just about romance. When men in power are unserious and unworthy. Or when the media depicts all men as deadbeat dads with inflated egos, there's nothing hotter than a symbol of quiet strength, reliability, and competence.

Do you recall the classic 1999 country song by The Chicks? 

The song informs everyone that a rugged man sweeps a woman away to the freedom of the wide-open plains.

That fantasy --- the allure of a cowboy and the promise of escape -- has endured for generations. Woven into country songs, fashion, romance novels, movies, and all eras of pop culture alike. 

No matter how much the world may change.

The cowboy endures.

The era of the itinerant cowboys driving cattle herds through Texas lasted 25 years. However, the cowboy in our hearts has been around much longer.

The loner. The protector. Core values: Hard work, independence, courage, honor, and freedom. His word is a solemn vow, and... cowboys ride horses.

He'll love animals and probably have a dog or two. 

A cowboy's got to be tough to ride the land, but he might have a heart of gold beneath that rough 'n' tumble exterior. He's willing to tame the harsh elements around him to get what he wants.

There's a hint of a gentleman about a cowboy. He'll tip his hat and be respectful.

Every woman loves a cowboy.
(connie's Canva photo)

A cowboy's got to be willing to take on danger and have endurance. After all, he's got to keep on working, whether he's running a days-long cattle drive, barrel racing, or sticking to a rebellious steer's back on the PBR.

A Stetson, flannel, buckle, and denim look good pretty much any guy...whether or not he can dance.

There is a cowboy for every era.

Some may save a 1800s town from a tyrannical railroad baron, a working ranch hand, or a sensitive soul crooning a country tune. 

Do you reach for a Cowboy Romance?

If so, who's your favorite on-screen cowboy? Or your Favorite movie?

Mine:

Dances with Wolves (1990) and Quigley Down Under (1990).

Favorite Western actor: Sam Elliott (love his gravelly voice).

Best Cowboy song: Should've Been a Cowboy by Toby Keith.

My Favorite Cowboy Motto:  "Don't Corner Something Meaner Than You". 

I hope you enjoyed my post.

Please add your list of "Faves" in the comment area (my cowboy heroes love to please the ladies 😉🤠 🐴).

Please visit my links and follow my website and blog. 

My links: 

https://connievines-author.com

https://mizging.blogspot.com

https://books.apple.com/us/author/connie-vines/id624802082

barnesandnoble.com/s/connie%20vines

And, of course, at your favorite online book seller!

The tidy corner of my office 

My awards and some of my research materials.

Spending quality time at my PC at 1:00 AM

Happy Reading,

Connie

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:

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

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

The Scents of Summer

 

                                                             Frind me among our authors

Summer has finally arrived here in beautiful Vermont! 

My garden is producing snow peas, tomatoes, raspberries, corn, beans, squash, herbs, peaches and flowers I can trim and set in a vase on my dining room table. Oh, the joy!

I recently joined our daughter Abby on the coast of central California where I assisted her classes at an acoustic music camp. It was right on the Pacific Ocean. Sage and wildflowers were growing among the sand dunes. Each morning we awoke to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sage! Those scents will forever remind me of our mother/daughter time together.

What are the scents of summer like where you live? Is it the smell of vinegary barbeque sauce? The pine of a cabin's surrounding trees? The fresh and briny scent of the ocean?

Hope you and yours are enjoying our precious summer season, dear readers, and that it includes a hammock and the scent of a fresh cracked open book!

There's Always a Silver Lining by Eileen O'Finlan

 

 

Click here for purchase information

Recently I've been dealing with some very serious health issues. In early April I was hospitalized for almost five days with peritonitis. I was released after the IV antibiotics did their work, but the cause was still unknown. After more tests, I was back in the hospital by mid-May having major surgery. It turned out that I had ovarian cancer. Thankfully, my very skilled surgeon was able to remove it all. So, now I'm off from my day job for six weeks while I recover from a full hysterectomy.

It has been a rough couple of months, but they have not been without several silver linings. First, if I hadn't had the peritonitis, I would not have had the tests that led to the surgery and I would not have known I had cancer. It was caught and removed in the earliest possible stage. Had I not had those tests and that surgery I'd still be walking around with cancer unawares, probably until it was too late. Having a very painful case of peritonitis probably saved my life. That, along with three amazing doctors who would not give up on finding out the cause and then moving on it extremely quickly. Thank you Dr. Kelly O'Callahan, Dr. Leah Rothstein, and Dr. Larissa Mattei. I am forever grateful to you!

The other silver lining is that not being able to go to work or do much of anything for several weeks means that I've been spending a lot of my time camped out on the living room couch with books and notebooks doing research for my next historical novel. I still don't have a working title, but it will follow my Irish characters from Kelegeen and Erin's Children. Like Erin's Children, it will be set in Worcester, Massachusetts but moving forward into the 1860s. This means that it will in large part include the American Civil War. This entails a lot of research for which I had previous been finding little time to accomplish. Suddenly, I have loads of time to devote to what for me is a fascinating subject.

As usual, I have Autumn Amelia, to help. While she plays nurse and hangs out with me 24/7, I am getting a lot done. No doubt she is also multi-tasking as my Cat Tales muse. I'm sure that as I read and take notes on the history of the War and Worcester in the 1860s, my subconscious mind is whirling with ideas for the third book in the Cat Tales series thanks to her constant healing presence.

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.