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.

To find out more about me and my books.

                    

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.

Find out more about me and my books

                        

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one 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.”

Find out more about me and my books

                              

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Rowlandson 1780s, "Entrance to Vauxhall Gardens"

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

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

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

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

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

'

"Beer Street and Gin Lane" by William Hogarth 1751

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

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

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

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Margaret as "James Barry"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A quack doctor assists a patient in 1792

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

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

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

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

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

 

To purchase my novels, please click HERE

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

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

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

Sterne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diane lives with one naughty dachshund in western Pennsylvania

The Tribulations of Female Doctors in History, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

"Ring of Stone (former title) is an entertaining read, combining accurate historical details with a fast-paced plot and a number of credible characters." Historical Novel Society

A young woman strives to be a doctor in eighteenth century England, but discovers evil village secrets instead.

To purchase, click HERE

When writing this novel, I dug deep into doctors in the eighteenth century. I found that women were excluded from formal study and earning degrees or licenses in England and America. Although, in other countries this wasn't the case.

Recently, I read a non-fiction book on Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman to earn a medical degree in America in 1847. She fought hard to get into medical school with several rejections. Her entrance into one small college was considered a joke, and no one thought she would succeed. But they ended up shocked by her tenacity and intelligence.

Elizabeth went on to found a woman's medical college, because the major colleges and universities balked at allowing women to attend. That finally changed in the later decades.

In reading about the Victorian medical practices, I was surprised that little had changed since the eighteenth century. Blood-letting, cupping, and other bizarre treatments were still common.

Elizabeth's sister, Emily, also studied to be a doctor, (at her sister's insistence) and she eventually became known as a skilled surgeon. Emily had the people skills that the rigid Elizabeth lacked.

The sisters were still regulated to treating women's problems, as in childbirth and other gynecologic issues. And much of their work was for poor women in underserved communities.

My heroine, Rose, longs to study as a physician, and comes up against a brick wall in a male dominated occupation. It's unfortunate that sixty years later, women were still being denied access to medical degrees.

Rose meets a female doctor who only succeeded by subterfuge. And in reality other women practiced as doctoresses, attended classes and lectures, but without any degree or license.

Rose studies the important medical tombs of the era to keep up on practices, such as the famous physician William Hunter, 1718-1783. I too read his works through library loans. His most famous being, The anatomy of the human gravid uterus exhibited in figures (1774). 

Men believed that women couldn't handle the gore of surgery, or master the intricacies of learning medicine. Women were fickle and flighty, so the men in charge insisted.

Even as a child, I thought it strange when I was seen by my first female doctor. The doctors on TV were always men. Prejudices run deep. 

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

To find out more about her books: DianeScottLewis 

Party like the Eighteenth Century! In January, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Rose aspires to be a doctor, impossible in the 18th century, but uncovers evil village secrets in Cornwall-- and love in the most inappropriate place.

Check out all my historical novels: BWLDSL

But let's explore the lighter side of the eighteenth century, especially the celebrations of Twelfth Night, as Christmas cheer continued into January. 

Twelfth Night, usually January 5th or 6th, was celebrated as the end of the Christmas Season since the Middle Ages. It marked the Feast of Epiphany, when the Three Wise Men visited the baby Jesus in Bethlehem. It also evolved from Pagan fertility rights, celebrating the end of winter and the soon to arrive spring.

In the 18th c., it was the perfect excuse to throw lavish parties. Great spreads of food, especially enticing desserts, were the centerpiece. Over-indulging in food and drink, people partied hard, before returning to the drab winter of their lives.

 

The Twelfth Night cake was the highlight served to guests. Martha Washington's (wife of the famous George) recipe included 40 eggs, four pounds of sugar, and five pounds of dried fruit. A bean or coin, sometimes a metal Baby Jesus, was baked into the cake, (people were warned to chew carefully) and whomever received that piece became the King. This king caused mischief as he presided over the festivities.

The ale-based drink with spices and honey, called Wassail, was put in huge bowls and passed around the revelers. The name is derived from the Old English term "Waes hael", meaning "be well."

People donned costumes and danced and performed plays in the village streets. Some dragged plows house to house, seeking treats and alcohol. While the Upper Crust held elaborate balls.

Mervyn Clitheroe's Twelfth Night party,
by "Phiz"

Live birds were hidden in empty pie casings, so when opened, scared the recipient. Traditional foods were anything spicy or hot, such as ginger snaps. Or anything with apples; apple tarts, apple-walnut cakes. And lots of Port and Sherry to drink.

The common folk partied, drank to excess, releasing the frustration of their hard-working lives. One Pennsylvania upper-class man of the time said of the commoner, "were a set of the lowest blackguards, who, disguised in filthy clothes and ofttimes with masked faces, went from house to house in large companies, ...obtruding themselves everywhere, particularly into the rooms occupied by parties of ladies and gentlemen, (and) would demean themselves with great insolence."

This holiday as a time to party is largely ignored today.

To find out more about me and my books, please visit my website: DianeScottLewis

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

Will my book club like the insolence of Lady Pencavel? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase The Defiant Lady Pencavel: CLICKHERE

Check out all my historical novels: BWLDSL

I had nothing to post with a Christmas theme, but how about a sharp-tongued miss who refuses to conform to the restrictions of the 18th century? Purely a parody and farce, of course. I take all the "romance" tropes and turn them on their heads. "heaving bosoms" and more.

But will my book club like this story or be insulted that I dare make fun of historical romance, as many on-line reviewers were?  

My book club met at Zach's to eat and discuss Lady Pencavel
I'm in the back on the right.

.

One older lady loved it and found it very romantic. She didn't see the 'parody' aspect. Another older lady agreed with her. One said she thought the maid, Clowenna, a little stereotypical. (I loved that character!)

"Funny, teasing and tearing down all the tropes of romance," another said.

"It's accessible to a new reader, plus an experienced reader will understand the layers of poking fun, the satire," our librarian said.

They wanted to know where I found all the unusual Cornish surnames. I had the perfect link for Cornish names and their meanings, but can no longer find it. But other sites are out there.

The consensus was, they loved it, and the majority understood the farce, and didn't think that I'd insulted the romance genre.

My thoughts, romantic stories should be plausible, and not instant love, I must have you forever; though I've heard that happens.

If you want a laugh, and a few winks at propriety, give The Defiant Lady Pencavel a try.

To find out more about me and my books, please visit my website: DianeScottLewis

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

My Favorite Christmas - in a hospital cafeteria, by Diane Scott Lewis

All holidays share different memories with family and friends, close or remote.

We spent one in Puerto Rico, in steaming hot weather, our little, fake tree, just my husband and I and our new baby. I felt alone without extended family, but now see I should have rejoiced in a First, with my firstborn son.

My youngest son was born on that island. Many years later, while my oldest remains single, my younger son married and started a family.

Christmas was thrilling again with our first grandchild. 

Below our oldest granddaughter at Christmas 2011 when we lived in Virginia. If you look close you can see our dog Fritzie behind her, trying to sneak into the gifts.

,

Nearly eight years ago, we'd just moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania. My husband had retired from the government in D. C. and we moved north to be closer to my son and his family. A colder climate for this California girl, when it dropped to 7 degrees, I was in shock. I invested in plenty of long underwear.

A few days before Christmas, my very pregnant daughter in law had to travel two hours away to take care of family business. Her mom was in the hospital. Her father had recently died. My son and their three year old joined her.

My daughter in law wasn't due until the first week of January. But in the middle of Christmas Eve night, the roads icy, with all the stress, she'd gone into labor. The doctor advised her to stay where she was, near Pittsburgh, and have the baby.

Early Christmas morning, we drove down in an ice storm to meet our second grandchild, a little girl stuffed in a stocking.

Later that day, my husband, son, and I, with his three year old, ate Christmas dinner in the hospital cafeteria. The usual fare, nothing fancy, but we laughed and talked, and I thought this is a great Christmas dinner. My family close, a new, healthy baby upstairs. What more could I ask for? I savored the moment.

 

My beautiful granddaughters

In this time of a pandemic, I realize how the simplest things should be cherished, and those closest to you--even if you can't be physically near them--must be held in your heart, especially family.

I wish I had a Christmas novel to throw in here, but let's celebrate more family adventure and turmoil in my American Revolution story, Her Vanquished Land.

Long and Short Reviews says: Her Vanquished Land "Espionage and intrigue keep these pages turning. This is an exciting historical novel well worth the read." 

A Revolutionary War Gone with the Wind. Rowena Marsh fights for king and country, but the ruthless rebels are winning. Where can her family escape to, and will the mysterious Welshman, a man she shouldn't love, search for her? 

To purchase my novels, and my other BWL books: BWL

Find out more about me and my writing on my website: Dianescottlewis

Diane Scott Lewis lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty puppy.