Here Comes the Brides of Banff Springs by Stuart R. West

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Rarely do I read romance. Even rarer? Rereading a book. But that's exactly what happened with author Victoria Chatham's elegant and entertaining historical romance novel, Brides of Banff Springs. The first time I read the book, I sat back with a sigh, wishing I could spend more time with Ms. Chatham's wonderful characters.

Books We Love LTD recently rereleased an extended second edition of Banff and, of course, I dug right into it. I loved it all over again.

The title refers to a myriad of "brides" of varying social and economic fortunes, a sort-of "brideacopia" of Downton Abbey-styled colorful characters. There's Fliss, a poor, sad maid at the ritzy Banff Springs Hotel in Canada, who's married to a bellhop, but has to keep their unity a secret in order to maintain her job; on the flip side, there's Burma, a brassy, sassy spoiled brat of a socialite who's engaged to a truly cretinous gold-digger; hey, how about the mysterious ghost bride who haunts the Banff Springs Hotel?; finally--and best of all--there's the heroine, Tilly, a down-on-her-luck poor girl who begins her backbreaking duties as a maid at the hotel while maintaining a never give in attitude and upbeat spirits. She's also being pursued by amorous trail guide, Ryan, but holds her own.

I'm certain you'll agree after checking out the following excerpt:

* * *

To Tilly, it was the loveliest evening of her life. Just before Ryan left her, he chucked her on the chin, and she smiled up at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Wear pants if you’ve got them. I’m taking you trail riding.” Tilly choked back a groan. There it was again, that proprietary streak that gave Ryan his take-charge attitude. It might work for guides and packers, but it sure wasn’t going to work for her.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m going to marry you. I’m going to take you riding,” Tilly said. “Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that a girl might like to be asked what she wants?”

Ryan looked at her in mild astonishment. “Don’t you want to go riding?”

“That’s not the point,” Tilly sputtered. “Why can’t you just ask me, instead of telling me? I do have an opinion of my own you know.”

His easy-going shrug infuriated her even more. “All right. Would you like to go trail riding with me tomorrow?”

“Thank you.” Tilly tilted her chin up as she glared at him. “I would very much like to go riding with you. And I do have pants and boots.”

“Hmm.” He appeared to be considering her response. The gleam of humour in his eyes put her on edge and she looked up at him warily, waiting for the comeback she knew would trip off his tongue. “So, if you’re coming with me anyway,” he said, “why make all that fuss? Why not just say okay?”

 “Because you can’t just take it for granted that I’ll fall in with your plans.” Tilly pulled away from him. “What if I’d wanted to do something else?”

“Do you?”

“Ryan!” She threw up her hands in despair. “I can see that arguing with you will be like trying to catch a cloud.”

“Don’t waste your time then.” He kissed the tip of her nose, wished her goodnight, and walked off leaving her laughing.

* * *

I adore the character of Tilly. And I think that's the secret to the book's success. Hands down, she's one of the best heroines I've come across lately in fiction. She puts the pluck in plucky. But the other characters are just as vividly drawn by Ms. Chatham's exquisite prose. And did I mention there's a ghost story involved? Something for everyone. Hey, if this ol' persnickety codger fell for the book's charms, ANYONE can.

I give it 5 enthusiastic thumbs (or...um, something like that)!

Check into the lovely Banff Springs Hotel today. Tell 'em I sent you.

Book your reservations now!

A Little Bit About Herbs by Rosemary Morris

To find more of Rosemary's work click on the cover above.

Photo Credit- Nancy Bell

Borage ~ The Herb that Cheers

Herbs
Today, we are concerned about pollution, rivers poisoned by chemicals, the ozone layer which becomes increasingly thinner, etc., with the result that a simple lifestyle is becoming more popular. Wonder drugs and pills available over the counter from pharmacists often have unwelcome side effects, but many herbs from the kitchen, garden centers, greengrocers and supermarkets, or those grown indoors in pots or in the garden are easily available and beneficial for minor, everyday ailments.
A Brief History

During biblical days prophets sanctioned the use of medicinal herbs which grew in the Bible lands and throughout the Middle East where marjoram, mint, sage and thyme grew.
In Babylon circa 2000 B.C, the medicinal use of herbs was recorded with instructions for their preparation and administration.
The ancient Egyptians imported herbs and spices from Babylon and India. Through trade they learned how to use many including anise, caraway, fenugreek, opium and saffron from The Middle East.
Greeks studied herbal lore. The writings of Hippocrates, ‘The Father of Modern Medicine’, a physician and teacher, circa 400 B.C. was the pattern for medicine as we know it today. In the first century A.D. Dioscorides, the Greek physician listed more than 500 plants and herbs in his book Materia Medica, the standard work on the subject which Christian religious orders consulted.
Galen, a physician in Imperial Rome wrote medical books which were consulted for 1,500 years. Wherever Romans went they took medicinal seeds and plants. In Great Britain they introduced more than 200 herbs which included borage, betony, fennel, parsley, rosemary and thyme. After the Romans left, monasteries had ‘physick’ gardens. The monks became famous for their use of herbs to heal the sick. Herbal knowledge was mostly passed down by word of mouth until James Gerard, James 1st’s apothecary wrote his well-known ‘Herball’ in which he drew on the work of a Flemish physician, Dodens. Gerard wrote about plants in ‘that new lande’, America and mentioned the potato and the tomato - ‘The Apple of Love.’
The seeds and roots settlers took to America flourished. Native Americans introduced them to bergamot, discovered by the Spanish doctor call Nicholas Monardes, who wrote the first herbal recorded in America. In the 18th century the Shakers, whose influence lasted 100 years, grew and sold medicinal herbs, they included basil, borage, marjoram, horehound, hyssop, sage tansy and thyme with which they made ointments, pills, powders and salves.
During the Industrial Revolution in the United Kingdom, people moved into small terraced houses without gardens. The use of home remedies that required herbs declined. By the 20th century, scientific advancement meant there was no need to support an expensive herb industry. However, the use of herbs survived to this day in Mediterranean countries and elsewhere.
Ready made food made in large quantities to which preservatives have been added lacks aroma, colour and flavor, so many people try out recipes which include herbs and value their health-giving properties. They also drink herb teas and use other herbal remedies.

Herb Tea
In England a wide variety of herb teas are available from health food shops and supermarkets, and fresh herbs are available from greengrocers and supermarkets.
I often make a cup with herbs from my garden. One of my favourites is made with home grown freshly picked black peppermint or home- grown dried leaves.
To prepare most herb teas add a breakfast cup of boiling water to a sachet, to three teaspoons of fresh chopped herbs or one teaspoon of dried herbs and sweeten the drink to suit your taste. Leave it to brew for five minutes then strain it and drink it. To enjoy a refreshing drink on a hot day put a cover over the cup and put it in the refrigerator and enjoy your tea when it is chilled.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019

Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Anachronism by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

Who hasn't watched the movie Braveheart? It stars Mel Gibson as 13th-century Scottish freedom fighter William Wallace. In the movie, Wallace wears a kilt, Scotland’s most iconic piece of clothing. The only problem is: the kilt wasn't invented until the 18th-century. Ooops!

When I started writing my current novel, a historical/paranormal romantic suspense, I knew I would need to do more research than usual. Don't take me wrong, I love research...I love it too much. Discovering new facts is fascinating, and more often than none, I spend too much time searching details I don't need. Still, I'm trying to avoid the obvious and not-so-obvious "ooops".

My story takes place in 1941 during the war. Rationing wasn't enforced till 1942 in Canada, so I don't need to worry about food stamps. I discovered that less than one on four Canadian own a refrigerator, less than half use an electric or gas stove, and more than a third didn't have running water in their house back then. Needless to say, my heroine doesn't own a dishwasher, and when she injured herself, she didn't have access to antibiotics, but she could spend the night in a motel room for $3, which she didn't have. No credit cards.

All of the above were facts I knew I would need to research, but I didn't expect I would start questioning many of the words and expressions I take for granted. I'm constantly asking myself: Did they use that word in 1941? Did that expression existed back then? You could become very angry in 1941, but nobody went ballistic until decades later.

As a result, writing this story is fun and interesting, but it takes twice as much time than I had anticipated. I'm happy to report I crossed the halfway mark, but it won't be finished by Easter, not unless I lock myself in a hotel room at $150/night, which I can't afford either.

The challenges I encounter are giving me an even greater appreciation and renewed admiration for my fellow historical writers. I've read three books of the Canadian Historical Brides Series so far--nine more to read--and I bow to the talents of these writers. They researched every aspect of their story, in some instances every single sentence, and created compelling and accurate historical tales. Well done, ladies!!!
JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

Rosemary Morris talks with Janet Lane Walters by Rosemary Morris

To learn about Janet Lane Walters and Whispers of Yesteryear click on the cover above.

Whispers from Yesteryear by Janet Lane Walters is the novel I most enjoyed reading this year. The tale slips backward and forward from 1755 to July 2017. The past cast long shades over the lives of twin girls in their next reincarnation and those of those they knew in the past. The author led me by the hand through the ups and downs of their lives. Engrossed in the twin’s story I finished reading it in less than twenty-four hours desperate to find out how the havoc wrought by a heartless villain was resolved.

Janet Lane-Walters has been writing and published since the days of the typewriter. She has 30 plus novels and seven novellas plus four non-fiction books published. Janet lives in the scenic Hudson River valley with her husband, a psychiatrist who has no desire to cure her obsession with writing.
She is the mother of four and the grandmother of five with two children expected to arrive soon from China. Janet writes in a number of genres - Romance from sweet to sensual and from contemporary to fantasy and paranormal. She has published cozy mysteries and medical suspense. She also has a number of YA fantasies published.

Blurb
Not the children.” Willow Carey is awakened by the remnants of a dream she hasn’t had for years. Today she is to return to Indian’s Sorrow, a house she inherited from her aunt. The inheritance has caused a rift with her twin sister. Her father and stepmother have died in an accident. Though she doesn’t want to go to Indian’s Sorrow, she must take charge of her young half-sister and brother.
Reid Talbot, a man she once loved lives near the house with his family. Now a widower, he lives with his sons. Learning to trust him again is difficult but he also has dreams.
Together, they must learn the meaning of the dreams before the whispers of yesteryear destroy their newfound happiness.



I hope you enjoy this taste of Whispers of Yesteryear.

Chapter One
July 1755

Willow Who Bends stood at the entrance of the Long House and stared at the sky. Though the sun shone brightly, to the west dark clouds gathered and carried the threat of a storm like the one she felt inside. She knelt beside the father of her spirit. Corn Dreamer had raised her and taught her the ways of healing. She prayed he would wake but feared he wouldn’t. Sorrow rode the beats of her heart and threatened to spill in a rain of tears.
"Corn Dreamer, must you travel to the spirit world and leave this one behind?" Her voice cracked and she caught a breath to still the ache in her throat. "The men have taken the warriors’ path in answer to Waraghuyagey’s call. The-Man-Who-Understands-Great-Things speaks for the redcoats, those men who want our help. What have we to do with the ones who fail to live in harmony with the land?”
Not all the pale-skinned men, she thought. A smile crossed her face. There was one who often stayed in the village and sat at Corn Dreamer’s feet to learn.
Near a moon ago, a message had come for Hair of Fire. He had left the Long House and journeyed west. A shiver crawled up her spine. Was he safe? In these days, danger rode the currents of the air the way carrion birds circled a kill.
She returned to her teacher’s side and pressed her fingers against his wrist. What had made him fall into sleep yet not sleep? Why did his heart flutter like humming bird wings and then slow. She wished for a way to rouse him for he would know the answer.
"Corn Dreamer, spirit father, medicine man, this woman is not ready for you to leave. What can this one do to help?"
She closed her eyes and sought among the things he had taught her. An answer arose. "This one must go into the forest to gather fresh leaves and bark."
From her sleeping place, she lifted a bark basket by the carrying strap and left the Long House. As she stepped outside, she heard the children’s laughter and the voices of the women raised in the growing chant. The sound chased her sorrow.
Across the clearing, her sister sat with the ones too young to work how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place. Do you think Aunt Willow will leave it to us? She doesn’t have kids."
"I don’t..." Willow had turned away. She hadn’t
with the women. Though born of the same mother and on the same day, she and Willow by the Stream had been raised at different fires. On the outside, they wore a single face as reflected in a still pond, but their inner natures were different. As the first born, Willow Who Bends had been given to Corn Dreamer to learn about the ways of medicine and the spirit world. Her sister had been raised as a woman of the clan.
She drank in the sight of her sister. Soon Willow by the Stream would take a husband. That was good and right, but the change would further separate their lives.


July 2017
Chapter Two

"Not the children!"
Willow Carey jerked into a sitting position. Her heart thudded in her chest. Waves of terror flooded her thoughts. She gulped deep breaths of air.
She stared at the familiar surroundings and wondered why the bedroom seemed alien. Like a shroud, the sheet had twisted around her legs. She tugged it free. Her sleep shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to her skin. She shook her head to dislodge the fragments of the nightmare that had awakened her. Terror, grief and rage had followed her into consciousness. What? Why?
Once her heart rate slowed, she reached for the alarm clock. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get ready for work. As the effects of the adrenaline rush faded, her sense of uneasiness grew.
She hugged her knees. Once again, she had failed but she couldn’t remember who or how.
Moments later, she stood in the shower. Warm water washed away the sour smell of fear. The nightmare wasn’t new. Six years had passed since the last time the cry had jolted her awake. Always the same urgency and the same surge of emotions. No matter how hard she tried, she never remembered more than the cry.
She stepped from the shower. After pulling on a blue terry cloth robe, she stripped the bed and stuffed the damp sheets in the hamper.
What had triggered the dream? With the thoroughness of a pathologist seeking the cause of death, she examined the past few days and found no incident that could be called a trigger.
As she made the bed, she recalled the first time she’d dreamed. She’d been sixteen. She and her twin had been at Indian’s Sorrow visiting their aunt. Willow had always loved staying there. This time had been different. One memory lodged in her thoughts.
"Willow, come here. This is so neat." Brooke had opened the gate at the side of the garden.
Willow halted at the opening. She looked beyond her sister. "Get away from the edge."
"I’m fine." Brooke leaned forward. "The rocks look like a giant’s teeth. Come see."
"I can’t."
Brooke laughed. "Chicken."
"Something dreadful happened here."
"And I thought I was the one with the imagination and you were the logical one." Brooke spun around. "I love this place.”

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

History Buffs

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The old cover and title...which I loved...
may still show up at some sites.

~

You may have heard the joke, now enshrined upon an Acorn TV t-shirt:

HISTORY BUFF

I'd find you more interesting 

if you were dead.

Not a very nice sentiment, but, sadly, this is often true of hard-core history fans.  

This is the 29th, which is two days past the birthday of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, which took place on January 27, 1756. Traditionally, it is supposed to have been a gray, bitter day. Wolfgang's mother, typically for the 18th Century European women, lost most of her children. Wolfgang was her last child, 

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born frail, and lucky to have survived his first hasty transport  to the cathedral on the Domplatz of Salzburg. His full name was Johannes Crysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus. In German translation "Theophilus" becomes "Gottlieb" which in time, after a visit to Italy by the young prodigy, became the now familiar "Amadeus." 

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Wolfgang A.M. got well and truly into my head. My vinyl + CD collections, dominated by Mozart and Haydn testify to this. Upon hearing just a few notes of almost anything he wrote and I can win at a game of "name that composer". Maybe not the exact title of the composition, but I certainly known the Maestro when I hear him. I have a long history with this guy. 

Here are pictures from the local Lebanon, PA newspaper taken in the early 2000's.

A nice newspaperman (some of them aren't) came to the house, took pictures and asked lots of questions. To my surprise, much of my somewhat embarrassed chatter made it into the paper. It was a bit strange to have gone public with my mad obsession. 

That day, though, even my orange tiger cat "Hamilton" got into the act, as you can see, doing his "cute kitty" bit to the hilt.  You can see how long ago it was by the size of that monitor. And you may also readily guess what book I was working on while these pictures of me and my favorite cat were taken.

Back then, I had a party for Wolfgang every year, with a top notch bakery cake from a now defunct bakery. How pleased I was when I went into the back of the shop to speak to the chef and found a young German expert in residence! He was sympathetic; he knew exactly what I wanted. The first cake he made had musical notes as well as a host of lovely little white flowers with purple hearts.  One of the last cakes from this talented pastry cook is pictured below.     

  

Has this ever happened to you?

The Ghost of Mozart appears in The Mozart Brothers

  

I had one experience that mirrors this image at the very height of my mania. One Halloween, Mozart appeared to me in my PA kitchen. I was making spinach lasagna while playing Don Giovanni at full rock'n'roll volume. Mozart's appearance led to a leap from one side of the room to the other, those pink high top sneakers I loved apparently giving me wings. 

This date, I knew, had special significance. Don Giovanni had premiered in Prague on that same date in 1787.   

Poor Wolfgang! He was terribly pale and he looked ill, too. Just a flash--and then he was gone, but I was -- once I got over the shock of what I'd experienced -- deeply honored by that hallucinatory visit. 

Around this time, there was an active local writing group in the area to which I belonged as well as to the RWA, one of the few writer's associations that accepted the humble unpublished. This various group of writer friends from Maryland and Pennsylvania had talent; we were all going to conquer the world. 

The idea to have a birthday party in the dark days of January appealed to everyone in the group.  An example of the invitation follows: 

Mozart's Birthday Party, January 26, 2002

1 p.m. until Finale

~~Opera, music, & conversation with

writers & poets & web spinners~~

Refreshments:

Syllabub, tea, coffee, cake, hot chocolate, champagne

Homemade bread, savory steak & kidney pie & other refreshments

It was all great fun. I do look back upon those parties fondly. 

Thank-you everyone who has read this far for your indulgence as I reminisced about those high energy early days. It also gave me an opportunity to show off the smart new covers for my three Mozart-themed books.

The masterwork by a talented chef.

Believe me, it tasted as good as it looks.

Happy Birthday, dear Wolfgang! The Vienna Series, covers shown above, are all dedicated to you by your humble servant, just one of your fan girls, all these centuries later.

~~Juliet Waldron

Hope you will take a look!

All my historical novels may be seen @ these links:

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Decorating with Dad by Eileen O'Finlan

Find buy links to this book on my Books We Love author page

This Christmas will mark the twenty-second time we’ve celebrated the holiday since my dad passed away at the age of sixty-six.  My family is big into holidays.  When I was a kid the house was decorated for every one of them, even the minor ones.  Christmas, though, was the ultimate.  No one got more into the decorating than my dad.  He turned our home into Christmas Land, inside and out.

Christmas decorating got underway once we’d returned from Thanksgiving weekend at my grandparents’ home in Bennington, Vermont.  Dad was in a festive mood after several days of feasting and visiting with a houseful of relatives.

First the living room had to be rearranged.  Over the years Dad, an engineer by trade, developed a strategy for furniture placement.  One layout was for Christmas, the other for the rest of the year.  It wasn’t just the furniture, either.  Knick-knacks and whatnots all over the house exchanged living quarters with the Christmas decorations boxed and stored in the basement.

Once the room was rearranged, the tree set securely in its stand and watered (until we switched to artificial trees), the most difficult and least fun part began - stringing the lights and garland.  Extra bulbs were kept on hand since if one went out they all went out. That meant testing every bulb on the string until the culprit was found, replacing it, and hoping that one worked.  Heaven help us if more than one bulb went out at the same time.  Dad wasn’t much for swearing, but those bulbs were almost guaranteed to elicit a few words more colorful than the lights. 

My sister, Cindy, and I endured the interminable wait in order to pounce the moment Dad finished.  It was our job to help hang the tinsel and ornaments.  We delighted at seeing these old friends that had been out-of-sight, out-of-mind for a year, especially the ones that hung on the trees of my mom’s childhood.  My favorite was a set of three delicate, sparkly silver shoes each with a tiny child inside representing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.  Mom and Dad joined in the tree trimming while we all sang along with the Christmas albums on the record player.

Once the tree was completed, we moved to the rest of the room.  The top of the huge black and white TV was large enough to hold the snow village.  Each house and the church were painted cardboard fitted with a light bulb making their colored cellophane windowpanes glow.  There were decorated pine trees and elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners and felt.  Flimsy it may have been, but it was cherished.  A tinkerer at heart, Dad kept adding to the village.  A mirror became a skating pond, tiny lamp posts graced the “street”.  The village eventually outgrew the TV top and had to move to a new location.

A gold bell that played Silent Night hung from one doorway, mistletoe from another.  A lighted church sat on the end table on top of sparkly white cotton batting emulating snow and surrounded by Nativity vignettes.  Mr. and Mrs. Claus stood on either side of the fireplace.  The last thing to be displayed was the crèche.  I loved the smell of the papier mache figures and the soft glow from the blue light illuminating Mary’s robe.  In the weeks to come I would spend hours playing with the crèche as if it were a doll house.

Not a room escaped decoration.  Every window had a candle either on the sill or hanging inside a red wreath.  Even the bathroom had a bubble lamp and a candle in the window.

Then came the outside.  A large plastic lantern, later to be replaced by a Santa, brightened the front porch.  Dad strung colored lights along the porch railing and throughout the hedge in front of the house.  After a heavy snowfall red, blue, yellow, green, and purple lights shone through giving the hedge an otherworldly glow.

There was no such thing as too many Christmas decorations as far as Dad was concerned.  Over the years, he made tree ornaments including drums and sleds with each of our names on them.  He outdid himself the year he made a perpetual calendar.  The scene at the top was attached with Velcro and could be changed with the seasons.  Naturally, the Christmas scene was the best.  It was a miniature replica of our living room right down to the same wallpaper and the clock and candlesticks on our fireplace mantel.

 

 

With the decorating complete, our home was transformed.  Every day of the Christmas season I played in the wonderland of my own personal Christmas Village.  Every night glowed with colorful splendor.  The saddest for me was the weekend after New Year’s when everything came down, packed away in the basement, the magic gone, the house returned to normal.  It was like waking up from the best ever dream.

Since Dad’s been gone, I decorate the house.  Though my taste is a bit different from my dad’s, I seem to have inherited his love for holiday decorating. I still move furniture, to give the tree pride of place.  I miss the smell of papier mache from the long lost crèche, my current one being made of sturdier material.  I love to sit in the living room in the evening, gazing at the lights on the tree, the one remaining Wynken, Blynken and Nod ornament always prominent.  I can feel Dad’s presence in the quiet of the evening.  Our styles are very different, but unlike me, he was decorating for kids.  His joy came as much from the glee his efforts brought to us as from his own enjoyment of the holiday.  I think he is smiling with me as I create my grownup version of Christmas Land.  And I’m certain he would appreciate the invention of pre-strung lights on the Christmas tree.

Queen Anne Stuart Part Two ~ The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

Click on the cover to discover more about this title and Rosemary's other titles.

Author’s Note My novel, Far Beyond Rubies, in which the heroine is another Cinderella, is set in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign 1702 – 1714.

Princess Anne’s mother died. Her father, James, Duke of York, had taken the unpopular decision to become a Roman Catholic. Her uncle, the childless King Charles II, knew politics demanded his heirs, Anne and her elder sister, Mary, be raised in the Protestant faith. He appointed Lady Frances Villiers, a committed Anglican, as their governess and leased Richmond Palace to Frances and her husband.
The princesses benefited from country air and were privileged to live by the Thames in the days when due to bad roads the river was of great importance.
Anne’s indulgent father visited his daughters regularly, showered them with gifts and often stayed for several nights at Richmond Palace. Yet all was not well with the family. In 1673, due to the Test Act, which excluded anyone who did not take communion in the Anglican Church from public office, James was forced to resign as Lord High Admiral and to give up all his other official positions. In that age of fervent religious allegiances, I wonder what effect religious controversy had on Anne, a stubborn child.
What did Anne think when her father married fifteen-year-old Mary of Braganza? History relates that James was captivated by his bride. Looking at a copy of her portrait, I’m not surprised. She was tall with a good figure, jet black hair, a fair skin and large eyes that her contemporaries at court described as ‘full of sweetness and light’. The proud bridegroom introduced his new wife to his daughters as a ‘playmate’, but Anne formed a bond, not with her stepmother, whose children would be raised in the Roman Catholic faith, but with vivacious Sarah Churchill, who would have such a profound influence on Anne’s life.
Motherless Anne, a Protestant ‘Cinderella’ of her era, has all the ingredients of a fictional heroine, but – a member of the tragic Stuart family - what would she make of her life?

Extract from Far Beyond Rubies

Chapter One

1706

“Bastards, Juliana! You and your sister are bastards.”
Aghast, Juliana stared at William, her older half-brother, although, not for a moment did she believe his shocking allegation.
It hurt her to confront William without their father at her side. At the beginning of April, she and Father were as comfortable as ever in his London house. Now, a month later, upon her return to her childhood home, Riverside House, set amongst the rolling landscape of Hertfordshire, his body already lay entombed in the family crypt next to her mother’s remains. Would there ever be a day when she did not mourn him? A day when she did not weep over his loss?
A cold light burned in the depths of William’s pebble-hard eyes.
Juliana straightened her neck. She would not bow her head, thus giving him the satisfaction of revealing her inner turmoil.
William cleared his throat. His eyes gleamed. “Did you not know you and your sister were born on the wrong side of the blanket?”
Anger welled up in her. “You lie. How dare you make such a claim?”
Hands clasped on his plump knees, William ignored her protestation. “You now know the truth about your whore of a mother,” he gloated.
Well, she knew what William claimed, but did not believe him. “You are wicked to speak thus. My mother always treated you kindly.”
“As ever, you are a haughty piece.” William’s broad nostrils flared. Anger sparked in his eyes. “My dear sister, remember the adage: ‘Pride goes before a fall’. However, do not look so worried. I shall not cast you out without the means to support yourself.”
William rang the silver handbell. When a lackey clad in blue and gold livery answered its summons, he ordered the man to pour a glass of wine.
Juliana watched William raise the crystal glass to his lips. What did he mean? How could she maintain herself and her sister? She had not been brought up to earn a living.
She looked away from her half-brother to glance around the closet, the small, elegantly furnished room in which she kept her valuables and conducted her private correspondence before her father’s death.
Now it seemed, William, the seventh Baron Kemp, and his wife, Sophia, had sought to obliterate every trace of her by refurbishing the closet. Where were her books and her embroidery frame? Where was Mother’s portrait? Rage burned in the pit of her stomach while she looked around her former domain. Juliana wanted to claw William’s fat cheeks. It would please her to hurt him as he was hurting her. No, that wish was both childish and unchristian. She must use her intelligence to defeat him.

Five Star Review of Far Beyond Rubies
By
Janet Glaser

When reading Far Beyond Rubies, I felt I had stepped into the 18th century. Ms Morris has done her homework to bring us such a rich story with all the historic background and social graces of the era. I especially loved her description of the gentlemen's fancy outfits. They dressed as brightly as male peacocks and wore make-up and wigs that even outshone the ladies of the day.
The dialogue filled with authentic words used in that time period and the way her characters expressed themselves added to the enjoyment of the story telling. I read the book on my Kindle and truly appreciated the dictionary just a click away to find the definition of the words used in that time period.
I wasn't familiar with the history of England, so I enjoyed learning about kings, queens, and politics etc. The author made it easy to understand. The sweet romance was filled with interesting characters and so many secrets.
I would recommend this book for lovely escape reading and for the historical value.


About Rosemary Morris

Writing a novel is a solitary occupation. Every day, I am alone with my desktop working for at least eight hours, When I am not thus engaged, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research the romantic historical novel which I am writing. I visit places of historical interest to convey the lives and times of the characters in my novels. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not 21sr characters in costume.
As a historical novelist I don’t think it is possible to portray every minute fact about the past accurately, but I have a responsibility my readers to thoroughly research the era in which my novels are set. In addition to reading non-fiction and making detailed notes, I visit libraries, museums, stately homes and other places of historical interest.
When my words flow well, I am tempted to work for many hours without a break. That would be detrimental. Writing is mentally and physically tiring, so I have a five-minute break every hour, during which I stretch and exercise my eyes. If the weather permits, I work in my organic garden. I also visit the health suite at the leisure centre to enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. Water aerobics are beneficial, but I’m not keen on the loud modern music played to encourage the participants to keep up the pace.
I don’t want to be a writer in a garret but sometimes I wish I lived in an ivory tower with nothing to distract me from my imaginary companions. However, the daily chores, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping etc., keep my feet on the ground, so does time with family and friends.




Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

Alcoholic Liquor in Queen Anne Stuart’s Reign 1702 – 1714

About Rosemary Morris
I live in Hertfordshire, near inspirational countryside within easy access of London, which is useful when I want to visit places of historical interest in the capital city.
My historical romances, rich in facts, are written in my office, aka the former spare bedroom, furnished with a large waxed oak desk and an 8ft by 6 ft bookcase which contains my historical non-fiction for research, some of the classics, favourite novels and books of poetry.
To enhance my novels, I enjoy researching food and costume, politics and economics, social history, religion and other topics.
Although, as the saying goes, they did things differently in the past, emotions have not changed, but the characters in my novels are of their time, not 21st century people dressed in costume. Before I begin a new book, I name my main characters and fill in detailed character profiles. By the time I write the first sentence, I can visualise them and know the hero and heroine almost as well as I know my friends.

Alcoholic Liquor in Queen Anne Stuart’s Reign 1702 – 1714

The upper classes considered beer consumed by the middle and poor classes an inferior liquor. The price varied according to quality. A nipperkin of molasses ale cost a penny, and a pint of superior ale cost fivepence.
Beer was brewed in London and elsewhere. Bottles of north country pale ale sold for four shillings a dozen. Merchants exported ale and stout to the West Indies and imported spruce beer. Then as now, duty was paid on beer, vinegar, cider strong waters, mead (wine made by fermenting a solution with honey often with spices) and metheglin (spiced or medicated mead). The sum ranged from 6 shillings a barrel to 1d per gallon for metheglin.
Well-to-do people, who preferred wine, had a wide choice. In that hard drinking, patriotic age, one gentleman drank three bottles of French claret every night because it brought a great Custom to the Crown, but it should be noted that the bottles were smaller than they are today.
Despite the war with France that made imports of wine scarce the number. the cargo from enemies’ captured ships and smugglers supplied the country.
However, some customers thought it unpatriotic to drink French wine, so port became popular. A treaty was signed with Portugal agreeing that the Portuguese would import British cloth and the duty on Portuguese wine would be one third less than that on French wines.
There were numerous French wines from different parts of France, some of which are not known today. Prices varied. Ordinary claret from the barrel sold for between 4 and 6 shillings a gallon, good quality claret cost between 3 or 4 shillings and 10 shillings a bottle. Baskets or hampers of champagne contained between 10 dozen and 200 bottles which retailed at about 8 shillings each. A bottle of superior burgundy cost 7 shillings.
From Portugal came Red Viana was often substituted for port, and there was White Viana, Lisbon, Carcavella and other wines from Portugal. Amongst others Spain supplied Sherry, Malaga, Barcelona, Spanish and Portuguese wine were strengthened with stum (partly fermented wine) which made a person get drunk with Stum’d wine.
Muscadine. From Florence came rush covered flasks with oil in the necks - Chianti, Multapulchana and Canary, and Tockay was imported from Hungary as well as wines from Cyprus.
Not every foreign wine found favour. In Tunbridge Wells the following remark was made about Rhenish wine: Dam Rotgut Rhenish.
Retailers had to apply for a licence to sell wines. Brooks and Hellier, wine merchants, had branches in different parts of London and in one year paid 25,000 pounds customs duty.
This was an era during which ladies continued to make liqueurs and cordials in the still room. Scandal whispered that the gentler sex sampled their concoctions. After tasting them and drinking tea, by afternoon their eyes shone more brightly than their jewellery, and for fear of fainting they kept a bottle of brandy under their beds at night.
In the stillroom housewives made Ratafia of Apricots, Millefleurs, Orangiat, Bergamot, citron and citron water. Elderflower and other homemade wines were appreciated.
Cider, much stronger than most bottles sound in modern day supermarkets, was drunk. So was punch which gradually became popular.
Major Birds’ recipe for punch has survived.1 quart of brandy, or 2 quarts if you want it to be very strong, 2 quarts and a pint of spring water, 6 or 8 Lisbon lemons, half a pound of fine loaf sugar. (If I were tempted to try this drink I would substitute unwaxed lemons.)
The major wrote. Then you will find it to have a curious fine scent and flavour, and Drink and Taste as clean as Burgundy wine.
Another intoxicating liquor was Brunswick Mum. The name of this compound is supposed to be derived from its power of making men speechlessly drunk.

The clamorous crowd is hushed with mugs of mum,
Till all turn’d equal, send a general hum.
Anonymous.

I am not surprised that, in an age when intoxicants flowed in rivulets down throats, an antidote was needed. It was found in, the Essence of Prunes, Chymically prepar’d by a son of Monsieur Rochefort, a sworn Chymist of France. It gives English Spirits the smell and taste of Nantz Brandy; it prevents any liquor from intoxicating the brain.

Extract from Tangled Love
A tale of riches to rags to riches

“Lord above, my wits have gone begging? I’ve forgotten to say a visitor awaits you,” said Elsie, Richelda’s only servant who had served her mother.
Richelda wiped her face on her coarse apron. “Visitor?” She forced herself to her feet.
“Yes, a fine gentleman, Viscount Chesney by name, is waiting for you in the parlour.”
Heavens above, he must be the man whose identity she mistook for Lord Greaves when she pretended to be her maidservant.
A long male shadow fell across the dark oak floor before the parlour door closed. She caught her breath. Either Elsie had left the door ajar by mistake or her uninvited guest had opened it and eavesdropped.
After washing and changing, Richelda went down the broad flight of oak stairs. Looking at Elsie, she raised her eyebrows.
Elsie nodded her approval and pointed at the parlour door. “He’s still in there. I’ll fetch some elderflower wine.”
“No, come with me—” she began, but Elsie, with speed surprising in one of her size, bustled into a passage which led to the kitchen.
He will not recognise me, Richelda reassured herself. She mimicked her late mother’s graceful walk, entered the room, and coughed to attract attention.
Viscount Chesney turned away from the window. He focused on her intently. “Lady Richelda?”
She curtsied, wishing she also wore exquisitely cut black velvet and silk instead of a threadbare gown fashioned from one of her mother’s old ones. He bowed and extended a perfectly manicured hand.
Ashamed of her rough hands, she permitted him to draw her to her full height. “You have the advantage of knowing my name.” She looked into grey eyes reminiscent of still water on an overcast day.
“Lord Chesney at your service, my lady.”
“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord. Please take a seat.”
He laughed. “Lady Richelda, although I did not introduce myself to you earlier, I hoped you would say you are pleased to renew your acquaintance with me.”
She tilted her chin. “You mistake me for someone else.”
“I do not. Your eyes and voice are unforgettable.”
“What can you mean?”
“Why are you pretending to misunderstand me?” he drawled. “Shall we sit? No, do not look at me so distrustfully. In my coach I did not avail myself of the opportunity to manhandle you earlier today. Word of a gentleman, there is no need to fear me either now or in future.”
Somewhat nervous despite his assurance, she sat opposite him. While she regained her composure, she put her feet side by side on a footstool.
“If you confess, I will not tell your aunt.”
“My aunt?”
“Yes, she wishes me to make your acquaintance.”
Her mother’s family shunned her. They feared being tainted by her late father’s politics. The viscount must have referred to Father’s only close relative, his sister, Lady Isobel.
“Aunt?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, suspicious because she knew her mother, born into a family with slightly puritanical inclinations, despised Aunt Isobel’s frivolity.
He nodded.
“But my aunt—”
Burdened by a tray, Elsie entered the room. She put it down and served them with elderflower wine before she withdrew.
Chesney eyed his glass of wine with obvious mistrust. “Why did you sigh, Lady Richelda?”
She refrained from explaining she longed to eat something other than her daily fare of boiled puddings, flavoured with herbs, mixed with vegetables, and served with or without game birds or rabbits, which Elsie sometimes snared.
Bowstring taut, Richelda drank some pale wine. She looked at the viscount, whose posture depicted a man at ease. “Please taste this wine, my lord, although you might not be accustomed to home-brewed beverages, I think you will enjoy it.”
He sipped some. “An excellent tribute to Elsie’s skill. She made it, did she not?”
Richelda nodded.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels:
Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels
False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child.
Mediaeval Novel
Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

The Arc of the Story..."Where the River Narrows"

Billie Burke as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North

“It’s always best to start at the beginning.” Wise words from the Good Witch of the North in one of my all-time favorite movies, The Wizard of Oz.

Then again, I doubt old Glinda ever wrote a novel or she probably would have come up something a bit less confusing. Unlike Dorothy, I would have asked, “What is the beginning?”

Okay, in the context of the movie, this is pretty much self-explanatory: If you’re heading from Munchkin Land to the Emerald City, you start out on the Yellow Brick Road and keep going until you reach the big gate with the broken door bell. But with a novel, it ain’t that easy. You can start in media res (in the middle of the action) or at square one, as in Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding, with the lead character as a baby. You can start at the end and work backwards, or with a prologue…. The possibilities are nearly endless.

Today’s readers are not so forgiving as Mr. Fielding’s in the middle of the 18^th century, or Charles Dickens’s in the 19^th  or even Margaret Mitchell’s in the early 20^th century. They want something more fast-paced. They want to jump into a book without the long preambles and slow development our pre-multimedia-consuming ancestors found so appealing. Gone are the days of the family sitting around the fire, by candle- or lamplight after supper on a long winter night, reading aloud as the sole form of entertainment.

The fact that I write historicals places certain restrictions on how I approach the arc of a book. The characters are vital to the plot, and the setting has nearly equal weight when planning how the book will be structured. I like the deep third person point of view that allows the reader to see through the eyes of more than one character, and I try to include just enough details of time and place without them being overwhelming.

In Where the River Narrows (with fellow BWL author Ron Ady Crouch, to be published

cover photo © Janice Lang

         cover photo © Janice Lang

by in July 2018), I’ve chosen to begin the book at a what I consider to be a logical start-off point. The Exposition introduces the characters (Elisabeth Van Alen, her family, servants and neighbors, and Gerrit Bosch, the groom-to-be in this “Brides” story) without a lot of preamble. The goal is to show them going about their normal lives while painting in the features and subtleties of the era as a natural offshoot of their daily activities. But to simply present a bunch of people running around in costumes performing out-dated tasks would be boring without a hint of something about to happen. Something is brewing that will upset this idyllic scene and have far-reaching consequences.

Before the proverbial cart is overturned, relationships between the characters are established, the groundwork laid for the “bride” aspect of the book, and the external conflicts put in place that are responsible not only for capsizing the wagon but for trampling its contents under foot.

Following the “Exposition,” we move on to the “Rising Action.” After the inciting incident (the event that sets the wheels turning), the story takes on an entirely different feel. What had been normal and comfortable no longer is so. War does this, and war, in the form of the American Revolution, has dire consequences for Elisabeth and Gerrit. There are losses and separations. Loved ones die, confidences are betrayed, and the survivors are forced to carry on amid harsh and forbidding circumstances. In this part of the book, Elisabeth and the remnants of her family and servants make a perilous trek to Canada where they hope to seek asylum among the British troops and loyalists to wait out the conclusion of the war. On the way, they meet up with an assortment of colorful characters based on historical accounts from a variety of sources. Once they arrive in Quebec Province, they need to survive further hardship and privation.

The Climax, Falling Action, and Denouement haven’t been written yet. (Neither, for that matter, has much of the Rising Action). But the arc of this story plays out nightly in my mind before I fall asleep. Even though I do not “plot” per se, this book is already as indelible as it could be. There is room for change…but not much. That depends on the research materials I continue to pore over. As anyone who’s ever written a historical novel will tell you, there are gold nuggets waiting to be mined from some dusty old tome that can put a new spin on even those story elements that today seem untouchable.

We shall see….

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad,  an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her BWL Author page for more information and links to order, or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book from a variey of online retailers, and in paperback.