A Regency Christmas by A.M. Westerling

 First off, I would like to wish all our American friends a Happy Thanksgiving! Hope everyone is enjoying a wonderful turkey dinner with loved ones with perhaps a dish of NFL football on the side. 

And what comes after Thanksgiving? Christmas! During the Regency era, Christmas was referred to as Christmastide. It spanned the period from Christmas Eve to January 6, or Twelfth Night, which marked the official end of Christmastide.

On Christmas Eve, families brought greenery indoors, but not before then as it was considered bad luck. Traditional decorations included holly, rosemary, bay, laurel and mistletoe. Evergreens were considered either symbols of eternal life or fertility symbols. Also brought in was the Yule log. It was kept burning as long as possible, at least to the end of Christmas Day and perhaps even until Twelfth Night. Splinters were set aside and used to light the log the following year.

The decorations were taken down and burned once Twelfth Night was over as leaving them up past that date might bring bad luck. Even today, some people take down their decorations before January 6. We do that although I never knew that was the reason!

Christmas Day was a national holiday. It was mostly a religious festival and included charity to the poor. Gifts weren’t usually exchanged although small gifts might be given to children. People went to church and returned home for a splendid Christmas dinner with friends.  Personally, I love decorating the dinner table for Christmas dinner. (As an aside, Christmas trees did not become popular until later in the 19th century so were not part of the Regency era.)

Usually a goose or turkey was served, or for the gentry, venison. Another popular dish was boar’s head, a kid of potted meat dish. This was followed by plum pudding, so called because one of the main ingredients were plums or prunes. These puddings were doused with brandy and set aflame, a key entertainment of the season.

Food played an important part throughout the season as there were a lot of parties and dishes that could be prepared ahead of time and served cold were popular. The wassail bowl was a common drink. Similar to punch, or mulled wine, it was prepared from spiced and sweetened wine or brandy. Apples garnished the bowl from which it was served. Mince meat pies, made from dried fruit, chopped meat, sugar and spices, were also considered staples of a Christmas feast.

St. Stephen’s Day, the day after Christmas, was a day for charity. The gentry gave their servants “Christmas Boxes” which might contain food, old clothing and other castoff items. Often, the staff would be given the day off. Churches collected money and distributed it to those in need. This is how the term “Boxing Day” originated. Also, this was a traditional day for fox hunting and the start of festivities for the remainder of Christmastide.

From the ceiling hung kissing balls and boughs made from twigs, greenery and decorated with seasonal fruit such as apples and of course, mistle toe. No lady could refuse a kiss beneath these. A mistletoe berry was picked for every stolen kiss and once the berries were gone, the practice was over. During the Regency, Christmas carols weren’t popular other than hymns sung in church.

Twelfth Night signaled the end of the season and was marked by another party. Activities during these parties included games such as hoodman blind, hot cockles, snap dragon and bob apple as well as more drinking, eating and dancing. Sugared cakes were part of Twelfth Night and these were the precursor to today’s Christmas cake. Traditionally a slice was given to all household members.  

Sadly, this extended Christmas season came to an end shortly after the Regency period due to the disappearance of the rural way of life and also the Industrial Revolution and the need for workers to continue working through out that season.

It seems only proper to give the closing words to Jane Austen: “I wish you a cheerful and at times even a Merry Christmas”.

*****

You might enjoy my Regency era Christmas novella, Evelyn's Beau:

 As a favour to the local vicar, Lady Evelyn Kendall agrees to organize a Christmas pageant involving disadvantaged children, never realizing it would lead to disaster for both her and Lord Oliver Harrington, the man she loves. 

The ebook is available at your favourite online store HERE. A print version would make an ideal gift! Available on Amazon in both the United States and Canada. 

Find all my books on the BWL Publishing website HERE.

The Manuscript and the Stock Car Race by A.M.Westerling

If you’ve been following my blog posts over the past months, you’ll know I’ve been posting excerpts from my latest  manuscript, ‘Sophie’s Choice’, Book One of The Ladies of Harrington House. Well, I’m thrilled and proud to announce Sophie’s Choice was released earlier this month! You can find it at your favourite online store HERE.


I know what you’re thinking. How can there possibly be any connection between writing a manuscript for a Regency romance and running a NASCAR race? I’m sure you’re also thinking I’ve spent way too much time at the keyboard! However, like writing a book, running a race has its stages.


The first stage, the beginning of the race. The cars are bright, shiny, unscratched, not dented. The drivers are fresh, cute and full of energy. There are the driver introductions, the fanfare, the invocation, the flyover, all building up to those fabled words: “Drivers, start your engines.” The motors roar to life, fans are on their feet, the cars roll around the track for the warm-up laps until the green flag drops and the race begins!

The first few laps are amazing. The growl of the engines rumbles in your chest, the speed of the cars is dizzying, the jostling for the lead exciting. You settle in to watch, convinced the next two hundred and fifty laps are going to whiz by as fast as the cars flying past on the track. 

The first stage of a manuscript is similar. It’s your new baby. The characters are engaging, the ideas shiny and different, the plot brilliant. You sit down at the computer and your hands scoot across the keys as page after page of absolutely the most dazzling book ever appears beneath your oh so nimble fingers. The first fifty pages come together as if by magic. This is it, you think, this is the book to end all books. This is going to land me on the NYT Best Seller list. 


Then hits the middle stage. Quite frankly, the race has become rather ho hum as the excitement has worn off. It’s hot, you’re thirsty. You check the score board and realize only eighty laps are down and you have to sit there for at least another three hours.  Your favourite driver is somewhere in the middle of the pack and nowhere to be seen. The drivers settle in and peel off the laps, regularly going in for pit stops for fuel and tires and whatever minor repairs are needed. Someone might make a mistake, a tire might blow, there may be a crash. There will be caution laps. But really, there’s not much at stake as the finish line still seems so far away. All the drivers can do is circle the track, counting down the laps. 

For a manuscript, it’s the dreaded saggy middle. Now your manuscript is absolutely the worst thing you’ve ever produced. The characters have become limp, the plot has fizzled. But you need to do it. You need to have the middle because otherwise how would you get to the end? This is where you take your pit stops and take a step back to replenish the well. You may very well have your plot crashes where you’ve written yourself into a corner. Like an extra long pit stop, or even a trip behind the wall to the dreaded garage, you may need to back track and tweak something to keep the engine/muse going. But you will do it. You need to do the laps.


In the last stage, the race picks up again. The last fifty laps become racy as drivers and crews know the elusive finish line isn’t so elusive anymore. It becomes important for the drivers to stay close to the front so they can make a move to finish first. Teams become aggressive because they know the chance to win is small but in order to even have a chance, they must be positioned properly.


With a manuscript, it’s the point in the story where you realize exactly how it’s going to finish and how many scenes have to be written. You’ve done your time and worked your way through the middle. The end is in sight and enthusiastic, you’re back at the keyboard pounding away. Your excitement builds again. For me in Sophie’s Choice, it was around Chapter Fifteen, when Sophie discovered the pages in Bryce’s library that could mean he was involved in smuggling. From there I knew what had to happen to complete the book.


Finally, the race is over! The winning car crosses the finish line to the frantic flap of the checker flag. Fans cheer, the driver circles the track carrying the checkered flag and spins doughnuts in a cloud of smoke and dust before heading to the winner’s circle for a few minutes of glory and media attention. Then it’s back to work. One race is only one race in a long season. Load up the semi trailer trucks and move on to the next track.


A writer’s finish line excitement is typing “THE END”! It’s when you can stand up and do the happy dance, congratulating yourself on a job well done or treat yourself to a lovely glass of wine. It’s been a long haul but your baby is finished. You read it over a few times and marvel at your skill. It’s your sure ticket into the hearts of thousands of adoring fans. You did it. You finished the manuscript.


Now it’s time for business. Time to send it to your publisher for final edits and it’s time to start the next book. For it too, will be your new baby, shiny and fresh and ready to run the next race. I’ve already started my new baby – it’s Book Two of The Ladies of Harrington House series, Leah’s Surrender. You’ll find an excerpt in the back of Sophie’s Choice for a sneak peek of the adventures in store for Leah.

A former engineer and avid NASCAR fan, A.M.Westerling writes historical romance and is currently on the opening laps of her seventh race, er -, manuscript. You can find her on the BWL Publishing home page www.bookswelove.com, Facebook, Twitter or at www.amwesterling.com

More Tidbits on Cornwall by A.M.Westerling

A fugitive young mother, a desperate Viscount and a rough and tumble gold rush town. What could possibly go wrong? Find Barkerville Beginnings at your favourite online store HERE.

As a writer of historical romance, it’s my job to provide enough details of the setting to make my readers feel as if they are living in that particular time period. The romance is the main plot but events of the era I’m writing in give me secondary story lines. For example, I discovered smuggling was rampant in Cornwall during the 18^th and 19^th centuries so that became the background of the soon to be released Sophie's Choice, the story of Lady Sophie Harrington and Lord Bryce Langdon, set in Cornwall in 1805.

Research plays a part in anything I write which I absolutely love because I always discover interesting facts. Here are a few things I didn’t incorporate into the book:

- Not only tin and copper were mined. In the mid 1700s, China clay was discovered and the scars of long ago mines can be seen from space. The clay is used in the manufacture of paper and porcelain and unlike copper and tin, this industry is still a going concern today.

- I only mentioned fishing in passing but fishing was also a mainstay of the Cornish economy particularly pilchards which are a variety of small oily fish related to herrings. ‘Huers’ standing on cliff tops would direct fishing boats to giant shoals of pilchards. Many boats would hold onto a large net, creating a circle which closed to capture the fish. They were sold abroad to countries such as Italy and Spain and these exports were such an important part of the local economy, a ditty was sung about them: “Here’s to the health of the Pope and may he repent and lengthen six months the term of his Lent. It’s always declared betwixt the two poles, there’s nothing like pilchards for saving of souls.”

- The Cornish climate is warmer than much of the rest of the British Isles so agriculture also played an important part with crops such as corn, wheat, barley and oats. Also the raising of livestock such as cattle, milk cows, pigs, chickens and geese.

So concludes my study of Cornwall. For now. 😊

Stay tuned for Leah’s Surrender, the story of the middle Harrington daughter.

For more information on Cornwall's history, check out: www.cornwalls.co.uk/history/industrial

  

******

And here you have it, the final excerpt before my April release date. A gentle reminder, I’ve been posted excerpts of Sophie’s Choice here on the 25^th of every month. Happy reading!

Sunbeams streamed into the morning room when Sophie entered. The pleasant, cheery space always brought a smile to her face, what with the starched white eyelet curtains, yellow and white checked table-cloth and painted blue ladderback chairs.

She helped herself to scrambled eggs, bread and ham before sitting down. Mama poured her tea and Sophie added cream and sugar, stirring until the liquid frothed.

Leah was already seated and flashed a sour look at Sophie. She returned the look with an innocent look of her own. Had Leah noticed Bryce’s glances towards Sophie last night while dining? Was that the reason for her sister’s foul mood?

Sophie raised her brows. “I swear you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she whispered.

Leah scowled but remained silent. She stabbed a piece of ham with her fork with such force her curls jostled.

“Leah,” warned Mama. “After our conversation this morning, I expect better conduct from you.”

“Yes Mama.”

Pointedly Leah ignored her sister which brought a small grin to Sophie’s lips. Leah needed a comeuppance every now and again and it appeared as if Mama had delivered. Her sister’s expression was, if not exactly chastened, peeved. It had nothing to do with Bryce’s glances at supper last evening. No one had noticed and Sophie hugged that thought to herself. That and the remembrance of dark eyes warm and admiring on her. Now she and Lord Langdon had two secrets to share – their stolen glances last night and their accidental meeting earlier in the day. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. When could she see him again?

Lady Harrington spoke then. “I am visiting Lord Langdon this afternoon. I had thought to bring Sophie.”

“Me?” Sophie swung about to look at her mother. She couldn’t believe her ears. No sooner had she wished for another encounter with Langdon and the fates delivered. She kept her expression neutral. No point in raising suspicion in her mother who already had her hands full with one daughter being altogether too familiar with the man. Her mother would surely swoon if she learned of the meeting at the beach yesterday.

“Yes, Sophie, you. The head mistress was most complimentary about your assistance in the school’s library so I suspect you have a very good idea of what needs to be done to organize Lord Langdon’s library.”

“Mama, please may I come? I’ve naught to do today,” said Leah.

Sophie raised her brows again and looked at her sister with a grudging admiration. She had to admit Leah had impudence. Or no sense whatsoever, to tread in forbidden territory so soon after her mother’s admonition. But then again, Leah desperately wanted to find a husband and apparently Lord Bryce Langdon was her target.

Evelyn’s lips tightened. “No, you may not. I’ll have no repeat of your embarrassing actions of last night. Your task for the day is to oversee the maids in the bedrooms. The mattresses are to be turned and the carpets taken outside to be pounded.”

“Yes, Mama,” Leah said, her voice small. Her shoulders slumped and she looked, for the moment anyway, defeated.

The act didn’t fool Sophie one bit. Leah, desperate for a suitor, would not give up that easily. Eligible bachelors did not come along all that often here in Cornwall, far from the London scene. Which suited Sophie eminently and brought her back to her mother’s conversation yesterday about the upcoming London season. Bryce’s words last evening of him being a prize had put her to thinking. Had he mentioned that as an indication of his interest in her? The thought brought a lightness to her chest, that a man and a handsome one at that, found her attractive. Perhaps she should set her sights on him thereby solving two problems with one solution – pleasing her mother by marrying without the drudgery of London’s social scene. Surely a barrister would be a suitable match and would satisfy her parents.

But would it put her at direct odds with her sister? Despite the odd argument and despite Leah’s unfortunate behaviour last night, the sisters got along well and Sophie was loathe to disturb that harmony. No, she decided. Leah was only eighteen and Papa had made it clear none of the girls were to marry young. So yes, perchance it was not totally outlandish for Sophie to consider Lord Bryce Langdon as a potential husband.

A shiver whisked down her spine at the thought of seeing him this afternoon. Would he be pleased to see her again?

The Vikings in Cornwall by A.M.Westerling

 Find A Heart Enslaved at your favourite online store HERE.

I thought if I wanted to highlight my Viking romance while promoting Sophie’s Choice, Book One of my Regency series, The Ladies of Harrington House set in Cornwall, England, I had better find a link between the two. And sure enough I found it.

Although we tend to think of Cornwall as being in the far west, 1000 years ago Vikings traveling down the Irish Sea considered Cornwall a central gathering point. From here ships sailed to the south of England or across the English Channel to Frankia. They raided often for example attacking the monastery at Padstow in 980 and in 997 sailing up the Tamar river to attack the abbey at Tavistock. 

Photo of the Tamar River By Tony Atkin, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12499850

However, they also traded as actively in the area as they did in the Loire and the Seine valleys. The Orkney sagas indicate that the Vikings used the Isles of Scilly just off the Cornish coast as a base. Lundy, the island in the Bristol Channel, is an Old Norse word for Puffin Island which also proves the Viking route.

There’s not a lot of archaeological evidence of the Vikings in Cornwall – a few sculptures with Scandinavian art motifs such as the cross at Cardinham in East Cornwall on the edge of Bodmin Moor which is similar to works from the Viking age in northern England. Common in Cornwall are “hogback” stone sculptures thought to be grave markers. They’re not found in Scandinavia and are believed to have been invented by Viking settlers in England. They have a pronounced ridge and look like a small stone long house like Lanivet near Bodmin. They may have been the work of itinerant sculptors and it’s a strong possibility the patrons may have been Scandinavian settlers. (Below is a cast of a 10th C hogback stone from Govan Old Parish Church in the Kelvin Grove Art Gallery and Museum in Glascow.)

However, people searching in the West Country over the past few years are discovering increasing numbers of metal objects from the period such as Viking dress-fittings, lead weights, coins and silver ingots. Also all manner of gear for horses which strikes me as odd because I mostly associate Vikings with long ships!

Later during Viking times Cornwall was allowed to continue as an independent nation as long as they paid danegeld to the Kings of Denmark. If you're interested in learning more about the Vikings in Cornwall, you might like to check out the following websites:uth-wst were not immune from the atD,

https://www.cornwalllife.co.uk/out-about/places/the-return-of-the-vikings-1-1631755

www.theconversation.com/viking-invaders-struck-deep-into-the-west-of-england-and-may-have-stuck-around-57598

https://www.thevintagenews.com/2017/01/25/hogbacks-stone-carved-viking-monuments-generally-accepted-as-grave-markers/

***

If you've been following my blog posts on the 25th of every month, you know I've been including excerpts from Sophie's Choice, coming in April. Here's the next one!

 “Oh, I assure you, Lady Sophie, I find none of your skills lacking. You ride admirably well, your voice is lovely and it’s obvious you’re not one to kowtow to society’s rules.” The scamp. Again he referred to their unexpected meeting earlier today.

“By your comments, you demonstrate you are not one to follow proper etiquette,” she sniffed.

He chuckled and poured himself another glass of wine. “What is proper etiquette far from the madding crowd? We comport ourselves as we see fit for the occasion, do we not?”

“Far from the madding crowd? Do you favour the works of Thomas Gray?” She cocked her head and dared look at him full on. So much for being the coquette. Why should that comment surprise her? As a barrister, he would be a man of letters.

He blinked, whether from surprise at her question or her bold stare she didn’t know. “You’re familiar with his poem, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard?””

“Why does that astonish you?” She finally let go of the table and reached for the wine.

“May I?” He leaned past her and snagged a glass for her. He pointed towards the red wine and at her nod, poured.

She caught the fruity aroma as he handed her the wine and her head spun. Since when did the fragrance wine affect her? When Lord Bryce Langdon handed it to her, that’s when.

“You haven’t answered me,” he said. “About the poem.”

“I do enjoy reading a well written poem,” she began. “Because I enjoy time well spent in my father’s library with a good book of poetry. Shakespeare for one, although that may not be considered pure poetry. Lord Byron. Percy Shelley.”

“Since when do you enjoy poetry?” Leah interrupted. She’d made her way over to stand on the other side of Bryce at the table. “You never comment favorably on what I write.” Her sister flicked open her fan and gazed at him above the lacy edge.

Sophie ground her teeth at the blatant adoration in her sister’s eyes. “I dare say there’s a fair discrepancy between what Gray and Byron write and what you consider poetry.”

“We shall let Lord Langdon be the judge, then, shall we not? It’s almost time for me to read aloud my work and we shall ask.” She fluttered her eye lashes at Bryce, who appeared not to notice.

If Leah batted her eye lashes one more time, Sophie thought, she would bat her sister right out of the room. She’d not stoop to arguing with her in front of Bryce Langdon, though. Instead, she fixed her gaze on her sister and glared. Her sister had the grace to blush; she looked away. Good. Maybe the minx finally realized her behaviour was totally beyond the pale.

“Which I most assuredly look forward to,” said Langdon. A smile hovered over his lips and he clamped his mouth as if to ward it off. “If you ladies shall excuse me, I’ll return to my seat.” He bowed and walked away.

“Really, Leah, must you be so forward? Mama will be having fits over your actions tonight.” Sophie shook her head.

“You’re jealous because he favours me. Did you see the look on his face when I mentioned I wrote poetry? Nothing but admiration.” Leah flounced off.

Lady Harrington stood and raised a hand. “Attention all, shall we continue with our program?” At the murmurs of assent, she waved Leah over to the music stand by the pianoforte, who flipped through the sheaf of papers on the stand.

“My poem is not here,” she said. “I left it here earlier.” She glowered at Sophie. “What have you done with it?”

“Oh my, you must search again. It was there when I finished my piece,” Sophie insisted.

“Lord Langdon, perhaps you could help me search?” Leah cast a beseeching look towards him.

Bryce frowned and he rubbed his hand along his jaw, uncomfortable with the request.

“Come Leah, there’s no need to bother our guest,” said Lady Harrington. “Sophie, perhaps you misplaced it.”

I did not. Leah is playing another one of her tricks. “Let me look.” Someone snickered. Bryce, perhaps? Sophie hoped not. She could smack Leah for her antics this evening, how childish he must find the two of them. At least Catherine had retired to a chair by the window and kept out of it. She watched the proceedings with an innocent look on her face, no doubt enjoying the spectacle being put on by Leah.

Sophie made her way to the stand. “It’s here, you ninnywit,” she whispered to Leah, pulling the sheets of poetry from beneath the music. Sophie raised her voice. “No harm, it’s here. Leah must have missed it in her fluster to read for our company.”

She turned to find a seat; Bryce gestured to the chair beside him, the one on which Leah had sat. Turnabout is fair play, she thought. She glanced at Leah. Her sister’s eyes popped from her head and she looked about to have a fit. Watch me, thought Sophie, watch how a lady comports herself for a gentleman. Although earlier today, he’d implied otherwise and perhaps he had a point seeing as how he had found her bare foot and bare headed. Nonetheless, this evening she would conduct herself beyond reproach and worthy of mention in the pages of WHAT. Bryce rose and offered his hand. She lowered her gaze, placed one hand in his, collected her skirts with the other and sat down.

“Have I mentioned how delightful you look this evening?” When she shot him a glance, he quirked a dark eyebrow.

“I thought you preferred my attire of this afternoon.”

He chuckled at her sharp rejoinder. “Ah, but there’s nothing more lovely than a lady in her evening dress. But yes, you looked delightful earlier. I daresay there’s not a moment you don’t look utterly delightful.”

She flushed at the compliment and looked away. “You are too kind.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hands on his thighs. Firm hands, manicured, a bit tanned. He didn’t spend all his time inside ensconced with his books then. She flapped open her fan and peeked at him from behind the safety of the printed silk. She sat up straight, folded her fan, and put her hands in her lap. This is how a proper lady sat.

She hoped he noticed.

So conscious of his presence was she, she heard none of Leah’s poetry. Not that it mattered, she’d heard those three particular poems many times before. Leah tried but her poetry tended to be quite insipid.

Instead, she could only hear the man beside her – the sough of his breath, slow and steady. The occasional creak of his chair as he shifted position. The tap of his boot on the parquet floor. He leaned down to brush something off his pantaloon and she lifted her nose to catch his scent, a whiff of leather and citrus. So crisp, so masculine, so – enticing.

Leah finished her recitation and Lady Harrington stood, waiting for the applause to die down before saying anything. “Thank you, Leah, that was utterly charming. Now, if all of you could follow me, supper is served. Leah, you and Catherine shall pair.”

“Oh,” Leah pouted. “I had thought to ask Lord Langdon his opinion on my poetry.” She threw a pleading look towards Bryce that made Sophie want to vomit.

“That is quite enough, Leah,” said Lady Harrington. She looked at Bryce. “I must apologize for my daughter’s outspoken ways.”

“If I may, I found the reading most agreeable,” said their guest, oozing politeness. “Lady Leah is indeed a young lady of talent.” Leah preened herself at Bryce’s words and darted a victorious glance in Sophie’s direction. She made a move towards Langdon but one glance from her mother convinced her otherwise and with a shake of the head, she linked her arm with Catherine’s.

Despite Leah’s best attempts and to Sophie’s delight, she found herself paired with Bryce.

“Do you enjoy yourself?” Sophie managed to whisper as they made their way to the dining room. “You must find us bumpkins.”

“Not at all,” he murmured. “I am flattered to find myself considered a prize worth pursuing.” This time a smile spread fully across his lips, brightening his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.

So, he had noticed Leah’s behaviour because Leah evidently considered him worth pursuing. However, had he noticed Sophie sitting beside him? Had he been as aware of her as she had been of him?

“I would think many have thought of you as a prize?” A prying question, to be sure and she astonished herself with her boldness. “I must ask, what game do you think we play, sir, that you are the end reward?”

“A game of your choosing.” He inclined his head. “As far as the spoils going to the victor, I suppose some may think me a good catch but it seems to me the attraction must go both ways for any union to be successful. Do you agree?”

Oh my, now who asked the bold question? She looked up at him and his eyes were on her, intent on her answer.

“Why yes. One need only look to my parents to see the proof of that.”

He handed her off and maneuvered past the chairs to his place at the far end of the table. Just as well they didn’t sit together, she was sure she couldn’t eat a bite if he were beside or directly across from her.

But almost every time she looked up, his eyes were on her. And if they weren’t, within a second or two they were, as if he could feel her gaze.

Her stomach fluttered with nerves and excitement at his perusal. It didn’t help her appetite but it helped with her self confidence. He gazed at her.

Not Leah.

Her.

Cornwall Continued by A.M.Westerling

Haha, I know, a medieval knight hasn't got much to do with 1805 Cornwall but I love this eye catching cover! You can find it at your favourite online store HERE.

In my blog post last month, I talked a bit about Cornwall and the large part smuggling played in its history. Research is actually one of the reasons why I enjoy writing historical romance as much as I do. It’s always interesting to see what curious bits I can find and in today’s post I thought I’d share a few of the anecdotes that caught my fancy.


Once smuggled goods were dropped off on shore, the contraband made its way to inns and hostelries such as Jamaica Inn on Bodmin Moor. This inn is the inspiration for Daphne Du Maurier’s novel which now is on my to be read list. Then there’s the quick-witted landlady who hid a keg of spirits beneath her skirts during an unexpected search by the revenue men. Hmm, I don't think I'd have the nerve to do that. And it’s rumoured some villages had so much illegal gin the villages washed their windows with it! Why not, glass cleaner contains alcohol although not of the drinking variety. *wink*



Finally, signals were needed so smugglers knew when it was safe to land their cargo on shore. A local farmer used a white horse – if the men saw a white horse parading up and down the coast, they knew it was safe to land. If there was danger, the farmer would simply ride his horse home.


Of course there are many other examples but I have a Grey Cup party to go to this afternoon so am keeping this post short. Haha, yes, I am a master of procrastination…😊


I’m finishing off with the next excerpt from Sophie, Book 1 of The Ladies of Harrington House series coming soon. This is scene number four. Enjoy!

Bryce cantered up the gravel drive to Harrington House, flanked by manicured holly shrubs interspersed periodically with the silvery white trunks of birch trees. He rounded a final curve and came upon the building in all its three-story brick and stone glory. The pediment above the front door held a coat of arms and the carving on the solid oak door depicted a stag with multipronged antlers. In short, the country estate of a silk stocking family. He didn’t have much of a chance to examine the workmanship before the door swung open on well oiled hinges.

“Good evening.” The butler bowed. “You must be Lord Langdon. Welcome. I am Montgomery.” He held out one arm. “May I take your coat and hat?”

“Thank you.” Bryce handed over his gloves and beaver hat. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Polished black boots, black pantaloons, white shirt, striped grey, black and red waistcoat with a grey jacket. Simple yet well tailored and in the latest fashion. He hoped to make a good impression on his guests for not only did he want acceptance by the local ton, he wanted their confidence.

He adjusted his white silk necktie then glanced around at the comfortable yet elegant front hall. Harrington House showed pride of ownership. The planked oak floors gleamed, the oriental carpets lay perfectly, the candles in their wall sconces cast an inviting glow as did the massive brass candelabra on the marble topped table. A row of portraits, Harringtons past presumably, looked down their noses at him. The most recent portrait showed a young couple with two small dark-haired girls and a toddler. Yes, that must be Sophie and her family. Even at the age of the girls as shown in the portrait – five, perhaps six? – he recognized her dazzling green eyes and shade of hair. The pretty little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman.

Montgomery returned. “This way if you please.”

The butler showed him into a sitting room dominated by a pianoforte in the corner. “Lord Langdon,” he announced before bowing and backing out.

“Welcome to Harrington House. I am Lady Evelyn Harrington.” An attractive blonde woman in her forties rose and made her way to him. She carried herself with the grace and assurance of one who knew her place and knew it very well.

He bowed. “Lord Bryce Langdon.” He glanced about the room – a settee, several groups of arm chairs – but no sign of glossy chestnut curls. Had Sophie been mistaken, that they were to meet this evening? He stifled the disappointment and kept his expression bland.

“My husband, Oliver Harrington.” A middle aged man with brown streaked grey at the temples lifted his hand.

She gestured to a well dressed, elderly couple seated on a bench by the windows. “Lord and Lady Blackmore.”

“Please, not so formal,” said the man. “Call me Simon.”

“And I am Priscilla,” twittered his wife. The woman, resplendent in pearls and an outmoded dress of royal blue satin, lifted her pearl studded lorgnette and regarded him intently.

Bryce had the uncomfortable sensation she studied him for nefarious purposes. As if she searched for something from him and found him lacking. Thankfully, another couple entered the room just then and he turned away.

“Ah, Vicar, Mrs. Sinclair, welcome.” Lady Evelyn waved them over. “This is our new neighbour, Lord Bryce Langdon.”

“Well met, my boy.”

My boy? Bryce stifled a grin. The vicar, a tall balding man with a bearing as upright as his convictions, didn’t appear to be much older than Bryce.

Mrs. Sinclair curtsied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stood almost as tall as the vicar and with her severe black frock, sharp features and prominent nose, reminded Bryce of a crow.

“Of course you know the Earl of Blackmore and his wife?”

Both the vicar and his wife nodded. “Indeed we do.” The vicar cleared his throat.

“Indeed,” squeaked his wife, dropping another curtsy in the vague direction of the Blackmores.

The two were obviously uncomfortable with the company they kept this evening. Bryce stepped over to strike up a conversation to put them more at ease. “How long have you served the local parish?”

The vicar cleared his throat again. “Just over a year.”

“A year.” Mrs. Sinclair fluttered a hand toward her neck then dropped it to clutch her reticule so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Seeing as how you are relative newcomers, perhaps you could help me?”

She turned wide eyes to him. “Help you?”

“I am finding it difficult to set up my house and would welcome advice.”

“Advice?”

Bryce almost snorted with laughter at the horrified expression that crept over the woman’s face. Surely as a vicar’s wife, she would be accustomed to helping parish members in whatever capacity was required? He took pity on her. “Please, forgive my impertinence. I’m certain you have much more pressing matters in the parish to attend to than helping a newcomer settle in.”

A sigh of relief whooshed out of the woman’s thin lips. “I thank you for your understanding.”

The vicar spoke then. “If you wish, I could raise the matter this Sunday with my congregation. I’m sure someone would be pleased to oblige.”

Lady Harrington barged over. “My goodness, Vicar, there is no need. I should be delighted to visit Lord Langdon in his new home to give him my thoughts.”

“Lady Harrington considers herself something of an artiste,” remarked Lady Blackmore. “I myself have relied on her judgement. No one has a better eye for colour than she does. You must come and see my drawing room and draw your own conclusions.”

“How kind of you to say so, Priscilla.” Evelyn flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that,” protested Bryce.

“Nonsense, it’s no imposition. Are you in tomorrow afternoon?”

Despite her diminutive stature, Bryce realized no one dared argue with Evelyn Harrington. “I am and I would be delighted to receive you, say four o’clock?”

She nodded. “That’s settled then. I shall look forward to it.”

The door opened and Bryce looked towards it hopefully. A footman entered carrying two decanters of wine and crystal glasses. Damnation. Still no sign of the lovely Lady Sophie. After serving the room’s occupants, the footman left the remainder of the wine and three glasses on a side table and left.

The clatter of slippers on wooden stairs and girlish giggles drifted through the air and the door burst open to reveal Sophie and two other young ladies who could only be her sisters. His chest tightened at the sight of her in a charming lilac frock and he could scarce tear his eyes away during introductions.

“Finally, our daughters have arrived. Better late than never, I always say,” Lord Harrington said fondly. Eyes bright with pride, he pointed as he chimed off their names. “Sophie, Leah and Catherine.”

Bryce noted Sophie and Leah obviously favoured their father, both of average height and with chestnut coloured hair, while Catherine, short and blonde, took after their mother.

“Please accept our apologies for our tardiness,” murmured Sophie, dropping a graceful curtsy. Leah and Catherine followed suit. “However that is the hazard of sharing a maid,” she continued. For an instant she looked directly at Bryce; a faint flush coloured her cheeks and Bryce thought he had never seen anyone so alluring. His heart stilled briefly then began pounding.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem if Leah hadn’t insisted on trying every evening frock she owned before deciding on the very first one she put on,” interrupted Catherine, her voice grievous.

“I wasn’t the one who demanded three ribbons threaded through her hair,” Leah grumped. She stared at Bryce until Sophie thumped her in the ribs with a well placed elbow.

“Girls,” admonished their mother. “Our guests have no interest in hearing your difficulties.” She clapped her hands. “Now, we have planned a small program to entertain you while we wait for our dinner. Lord Langdon, if you please.” She pointed to the chair closest to the pianoforte.

“Bryce if you please. Lord Langdon makes me sound like my father.” With an incline of his head, he sat down.

“Very well, Bryce it is.”

Before her mother could say anything more, Leah scuttled over and dropped into the chair beside him, which elicited raised eyebrows from both her parents. Lady Harrington frowned but said nothing. Apparently her daughter’s forward action was not worthy of a rebuke. At least not in public.

The vicar and his wife settled in behind them while the earl and countess stayed where they were. The Harringtons chose the settee.

“La, sir, I am certain you will enjoy this.” Leah leaned over and tapped her fan on Bryce’s knee. Her altogether too familiar deed drew a puzzled look from Sophie. Then comprehension dawned on her face and she compressed her lips while glaring at Leah.

Bryce had the distinct feeling he was going to be the centre of a battle between the two young women. He well knew from his own sisters how nasty things could get between them if all wanted the same prize. Deuced uncomfortable situation particularly as Sophie piqued his interest, not Leah.

He ran his finger beneath his starched collar and swallowed hard. How should he comport himself in order not to insult Leah, his hosts and especially Sophie?