My Poetry Moment by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://books2read.com/The-Travelling-Detective-Boxed-Set

https://bwlpublishing.ca/donaldson-yarmey-joan/

 

My Poetry Moment

     Over my writing career I have had articles, short stories, travel books, and mystery, young adult, and science fiction novels published. And one poem. When that one poem was accepted for publication, I felt I had taken my writing to another level. I decided, though, that my contribution was going to be different, that I was going to take the poetry community by storm. I wanted to make my mark, to stand out in the poetry world. And to do that I came up with a new poetry sub-genre that I called Script Poetry. Just like a movie script I set up the scene and the tone for the poem and give some background of the story in the poem by using a script layout. It made the whole poem more visual and that way I could get right to the meat of what I wanted to say.

     I enthusiastically sent out my script poems and waited for the accolades to come in.

     Surprisingly, the publishers were not as galvanized about this new style of poetry as I was. No one accepted them for publication.

     But never underestimate the power of a script poet scorned. At the same time as I was planning my burst onto the poetry stage, I was writing my mystery novel "The Only Shadow In The House," the second book of The Travelling Detective Series. I gave one of my characters the career of a poet and her specialty was Script Poetry. Needless to say the publishers and critics in my fictional world were highly impressed with the poems. The poetry was very popular with the reading public and the poetress won many awards.

     To quote from my book: One critic wrote that her poems have an innovative, revolutionary style that is shaking the foundations of the conventionally staid poetry community, while another critic called them insightful and powerful.

     I have taken one of the script poems from that novel for you to judge for yourself.

 

Fade In

Act One

Exterior-Farm House-Night.

There is snow on the ground. Stars twinkle in the clear, night sky. A vehicle pulls into the yard and a woman climbs out. She stares at the house then takes a deep breath. She releases it in a vapour. With slow tread she climbs up the steps and enters the darkened house. Inside, she stops and listens.

 

There is no noise in my house, it is dark and silent.

Today, I buried you. Is this what it is like in your grave,

total quiet, total darkness?

I flip on the light and wander the house

looking at the possessions that

represented a life that never existed,

except in my own mind.

This has been our home for nineteen years

but it now feels alien to me.

Because from now on I know that mine

will be the only shadow in the house.

I must leave here soon.

 

End Act One

Fade Out

 

Fade In

Act Two

Interior-Farm House- Night.

All the lights are on in the house. The woman is in the kitchen. She pushes over the shelving holding plant seedlings and pots. She heads to the dining room and goes to a china cabinet with no doors. All the shelves hold figurines and dishes and knick knacks. They crash to the floor with a sweep of her hand. The ones that don’t break, disintegrate under her foot.

 

“Damn you, Ben. Damned you to hell!” I yell.

I want you to hear. I want you to know

the sorrow and the pain you have brought me.

I go from room to room, expunging.

I spray your shaving cream on the walls.

I dump your aftershave in the tub.

I grab a knife and shred your clothes.

Finally, there is nothing of yours left.

I feel some satisfaction.

You destroyed my life and now I have

destroyed everything that represented yours.

“There you bastard,” I say. “Rot in hell.”

 

Fade Out

End Act Two

 

Fade In

Act Three

Interior-Farm House- Night

The woman is standing in front of a picture on the living room wall. The furniture and floor are littered with debris. She takes the picture off the hook and stares at it a long time.

 

I find our wedding photograph on the wall.

I’d had it enlarged for our tenth anniversary

as my loving gift to you.

Were you as pleased as you said you were

or was that just a sham?

I smash the glass against the corner of the table.

I cut my finger removing the shards.

I look at you smiling back at me.

Were you an impostor in our marriage?

For now I wonder how many other

women did you see over our nineteen years.

I slash the picture with the knife. How symbolic.

 

End Act Three

Fade Out

An excerpt Those Regency Belles, Book 1, Hester Dymock by Victoria Chatham

 

 Hester Dymock

Those Regency Belles Book 1

Victoria Chatham

 

EXCERPT

Chapter One

 

April 1818

 

Hester Dymock stepped outside her family’s apothecary shop and took a deep breath of fresh April air. It still carried the dampness of overnight rain, which made her wrinkle her nostrils as she inhaled.

Washed clean of dust and debris, the cobblestones on Fulhampton’s High Street shimmered with moisture. Today being market day, it would soon be strewn once again with bits of hay and straw, manure, and goodness knows what else. Horse-drawn carts and handbarrows pushed by various vendors already rumbled towards the marketplace. People walked along the street and the pavement, all headed in the same direction.

Ahead of her, two men stood head and shoulders above the crowd.

Hester would recognize the taller of the two gentlemen anywhere. A sigh formed on her lips.

There was no mistaking Lord Gabriel Ravenshall’s muscular build.

Or the way his dark blue jacket moulded itself to his broad shoulders.

When he doffed his tall beaver hat to a woman who stopped and spoke to him, he revealed black hair gleaming like glossy raven’s feathers.

What if she had been beside him? Would he have raised his hat to her? And what might she say to make him laugh as this woman did? Hester wished his courtesy and good humour were for her. A prickly little knot of envy formed in her stomach as she watched them.

Her head might reach the top of his chest if she stood on tiptoe, and she could easily imagine herself secure in his arms. She caught herself with a sharp intake of breath and steeled herself to ignore her shockingly inappropriate thoughts. She shook her head at her foolishness. Girlish dreams were all very well, but at four-and-twenty, she was no longer a girl.

The other gentleman was not as tall but slim and bare headed. Something in the conversation made him laugh out loud, a joyful, carefree sound that made people turn his way to see what amused him. His blonde hair caught the sunlight as he crossed the street.

Intent on watching the unfolding scene before her, Hester nearly walked past the butcher’s shop but checked herself in time and quickly stepped inside. Mr. Barnfield, wielding a wicked-looking meat cleaver, looked up from the ham hock on his cutting block and smiled a greeting.

“Morning, Miss Dymock. And what can I get for you today?”

“Three good chump chops, if you please, and Mama said—”

“More meat than fat,” Mr. Barnfield finished for her. “I know your mama too well to offer you anything else. Otherwise, I’d have her in here chewing my ear off and that I don’t want. Can I get you some pork sausages as well? Fresh made this morning.”

“Thank you, but no.”

The sound of a crash and shouting in the street drew their attention. Hester dropped her basket and rushed outside with Mr. Barnfield close behind her.

Cattle in the holding pens opposite his shop began to bellow. Sheep in the adjacent pen bleated and pressed their fleecy bodies together in a panic.

“What is it?” Hester asked.

Mr. Barnfield’s height gave him the advantage of seeing what was happening. “Looks like a phaeton has knocked into old Grimes’ vegetable stall at the corner of the market.”

As he spoke, Hester heard another crash. She stood on her tiptoes to make herself as tall as possible. Now she could clearly see the scene at the end of the street.

The phaeton’s rear right wheel had caught on the edge of the stall. The young woman handling the ribbons tried to make her horse back up. Hester heard its whinny of distress, saw its bright chestnut neck as it plunged frantically between the shafts. The stall collapsed, sending cabbages, carrots, potatoes, and more vegetables cascading onto the street. Scruffy urchins appeared as if from nowhere, instantly gathering what they could of the unexpected bounty.

The farmer shouted and cursed, still shaking his fist at the driver. The horse charged forwards, the now white-faced young woman sawing desperately at its mouth to halt it. Marketgoers cleared the street, leaping out of the path of the runaway vehicle.

“Stay where you are!” Lord Ravenshall shouted the warning as his friend stepped to the curb.

And then Hester noticed the child.

A small girl held a potato in one hand and scrubbed tears away from her eyes with the other. She seemed oblivious to the danger bearing down on her. There was no way she could escape the horse’s flailing hooves.

Hester’s heart fell like a lead weight as she covered her mouth. She could not breathe, unable to bear what must be about to happen.

A speeding blue form flashed before her eyes.

Her whimper of alarm erupted into a terrified cry as Lord Ravenshall dashed into the street.

He bent low and caught up the girl in his arms. Hester thought him safe but, in one shattering moment, saw the toe of his boot catch on the side of a still-damp cobblestone. He pitched forward.

“Ash! Catch her,” he yelled, throwing the child at his friend as he fell.

Hester barely followed the trajectory of the grubby bundle. The blond-haired man caught it in his outstretched arms. He staggered back under the weight and crashed into the sheep pen, further agitating the frantic animals.

And then the vehicle was upon Lord Ravenshall.

The horse leapt over him, the phaeton lurching behind it, almost pitching the driver from the box. Open-mouthed, Hester watched it charge on down the street, scattering everything in its path. Then the damaged wheel parted from the axle, bringing everything to a halt. One man ran up to help the sobbing woman out of the wreckage while two others cut the harness away from the quivering horse and led it away.

Hester tore her gaze from the disaster and sped to Lord Ravenshall’s inert body, sinking onto her knees beside him. His eyes were closed, his face pale. Blood seeped from a wound on his head, staining the cobblestones, but it only took one glance for her to know his legs were in far worse shape.

The young man whom Lord Ravenshall had called Ash rushed to her side. White-faced, he stared down at his friend, and then his knees buckled like a broken marionette.

“What can I do?” he whispered.

The helplessness in his tone made Hester glance up at him. “We need to get him to my brother’s office immediately.”

“Why should we take him to your brother?” Ash’s dark frown indicated his doubt.

“Jonathan is a doctor.” Hoping no one would notice how badly she shook, Hester used her handkerchief to dab blood from Lord Ravenshall’s face. Who could have imagined that an accident would bring them so close? A shadow fell across her, and she looked up into the anxious face of a burly dark-skinned man.

He crouched down beside her. “What has happened to his lordship?”

Before Hester could answer, Ash spoke up. “Ah, Robert. Good that you are here. Can you lift him?”

“No.” Hester held up her hand to stop him. “That would be the worst thing possible if his leg is as badly damaged as I suspect.” She looked around, then indicated one of the sheep pens. “That wattle hurdle will do. We must roll him onto it.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Robert’s deep, baritone voice rumbled in his chest.

“Yes,” Hester said. “Ash, tell the shepherd whatever you must to get him to give up that hurdle. He must find another way to contain his sheep.”

Ash quickly made his way towards the shepherd. Hester watched as a lively exchange of words ensued. Money changed hands, and when Ash returned with the make-shift stretcher, she instructed him to lay it on the ground beside Lord Ravenshall.

“I am going to turn his body towards me,” she explained. “As soon as you can, push the hurdle firmly beneath him. Are you ready?”

Hester caught the fallen man’s shoulder and hip and rolled him towards her. Instructing Ash to wedge the hurdle firmly against his lordship’s back, she then carefully settled him onto it. He groaned in pain, making her wince, but he did not regain consciousness.

She took his hands and folded them across his chest. He almost looked peaceful, as he might in death, but she shook that image away. Her only intention now was to prevent his hands from dragging on the ground, adding grazed knuckles to his list of injuries. When she was sure he was secure, she looked around for more help.

Hovering uncertainly on the pavement with his delivery boy beside him, Mr. Barnfield watched her, all the while casting anxious glances towards his shop entrance.

“I’d help,” he offered, “but I don’t want any of those little beggars running off with my goods like they did old Grimes’.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Barnfield, I understand, but could you send your boy along to Mama to have all the doors opened for us?”

Mr. Barnfield agreed to that. With a nod of his head, he sent the boy off. Hester turned to the two men with her. “Robert, please lift at his lordship’s head, and you, Ash, take his feet. The doctor’s surgery is not far away. When I say lift, please do so as steadily as you can.”

Both men readied themselves and, as soon as Hester gave the word, hoisted their charge smoothly.

“This way, gentlemen,” Hester said. “It is but a few doors along the street beneath the sign of the pestle and mortar.”

She hurried ahead of them and found the doors already opened as she had asked. Her mother looked on, concern written all over her face.

Panting from her exertions, Hester rushed past the counter and into the surgery behind the shop.

“Jonathan, thank goodness you are here.” She gulped as she looked at the remains of her brother’s breakfast and several books cluttering the table. “We must clear this mess now.”

“Catch your breath and tell me what has happened.” Her brother guided her to a chair and made her sit.

“It is Lord Ravenshall. I believe he has a broken leg.” Hester steadied her breathing and began to rise as Ash and Robert maneuvered their burden through the doorway.

“Stay where you are, Hester.” Jonathan gently pushed her back into her seat. “Calm yourself, for I am certain to need your help.” He quickly cleared the table as he glanced over the unconscious man. “This way, gentlemen, lift everything onto the table.” He watched as they followed his instructions. “Carefully now. Yes, that’s right. Put him down gently, and please stand back.”

The two men did as he instructed with Robert sturdy and calm, Ash pale and visibly trembling.

“You’d better sit down.” Hester kindly vacated her chair for him.

“Tell me what happened.” Jonathan bent to examine his patient.

Hester quickly described the summary of events for her brother while he continued his examination.

“The head wound is of little consequence, I think,” he finally announced. “He may have a slight concussion, but his right leg is a worry. Hester, remove his shoe. You may have to cut off his stocking as well.”

Hester slipped off the sturdy black leather shoe with its bold silver buckle and handed it to Ash. She hesitated before loosening the knee band of his lordship’s breeches but resolutely caught the top of the stocking and began to roll it down.

Lord Ravenshall shifted his head and moaned. Robert immediately stepped forward and placed his hands on his lordship’s shoulders, holding him steady.

“Well done.” Jonathan shot him a glance. “You have experienced something like this before?”

“A few times.” Robert’s dark face was devoid of expression, but his tone implied much more.

“Are you in Lord Ravenshall’s employ?”

“Groom and second coachman,” Robert replied.

Hester took all this in as she continued to roll the stocking over his lordship’s finely muscled calf, then reached for the scissors her brother held out to her.

“It will go much more quickly if you use these. I’m sure Ravenshall will not begrudge the cost of a pair of stockings if necessary.”

Starting at the toe, Hester snipped at the finely woven woollen fabric and folded it back from the leg it covered. She gasped when she saw the full extent of the damage. The shin was already swollen and flushed a torturous shade of red. Jonathan felt along the length of the leg, nodding to himself as he manipulated the limb.

“Did you hear that grating sound, Hester? A bad but clean break, I think. At least it’s not crushed, which I would have expected in the circumstances.” He palpated the leg, which brought a groan from the unconscious man. “Hm, I suspect the fibula broke as well. At least neither bone has ruptured the skin. Dealing with an open wound would be far worse. Let’s take a look at his right leg.”

Hester repeated the process of cutting the stocking away, shocked that her fingers tingled every time they touched Lord Gabriel Ravenshall’s bare skin. How she wished she could smooth away his pain.

After another inspection, Jonathan reported that the right leg was badly bruised but not broken.

“Thank God for that,” Ash muttered.

“Not necessarily,” Jonathan warned him. “Bruising will pool blood in the soft tissues and can be as painful as a break, but I will apply leeches to prevent the worst of it.”

Ash turned even paler and quickly left the room.

“By the looks of it, it’s left to us to set this bone,” Jonathan mused.

Gabriel Ravenshall groaned again, and his eyes fluttered open.

“What the devil is going on?” he rasped. “Why are you holding me down, Robert? And why are my legs so damned cold?”

He tried to sit up but fell back with a cry.

“Don’t move, sir.” Robert continued to grip his lordship’s shoulders. “You have a broken leg, and the doctor is about to set it.”

“Wonderful.” Gabriel hissed. “I’ll be bound that will hurt.”

“More than I like to say,” Jonathan agreed readily. “But I have some excellent brandy to help dull your senses beforehand, and a good strip of leather for you to bite down on.”

“Where’s Ash?” Gabriel asked.

“Had to excuse himself.” Jonathan grinned. “I’m not sure that he quite has the stomach for what we are about to do. Drink this.”

Gabriel took the proffered brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. “I think I need another of those.”

“Happy to oblige.” Jonathan poured a second glass and watched Ravenshall toss it back. “We’ll leave you to settle for a few minutes and see how you’re feeling. I’d like you quite drunk before we begin, but not so much that you are likely to cast up your accounts.”

Jonathan busied himself preparing splints and bandages, placing everything within easy reach. Twenty minutes later, he administered another glass of brandy, to which he added a few drops of laudanum. When Gabriel’s eyes began to close, Jonathan turned to Hester and Robert.

“As soon as the laudanum takes its full effect, we will get to work. Robert, please stand at his lordship’s head. Put your arms under his and clasp your hands firmly in front of his chest. You will have to hold him very still.”

“I can do that,” Robert said.

“Can you please find Sir Ashleigh?” Jonathan asked him. “If at all possible, I want him here to be ready to place this strap between his lordship’s teeth. If he can’t deal with that, then Mama will have to close the shop for a short while.”

Robert left the room, and Hester’s eyes widened in dismay as she looked at her brother.

“Sir Ashleigh?” she questioned. “Oh, dear. And I have been calling him Ash as if he were known to me. What will he think of me?”

“As things are right now, I don’t think anyone will care,” Jonathan told her.

Robert returned with Sir Ashleigh, who looked only marginally recovered and not at all happy to be there.

Jonathan ordered everyone to their places and moved around the table to where it was easy for him to hold Lord Ravenshall’s thigh.

“I say,” Sir Ashleigh began, his voice wavering. “Beg pardon, but isn’t that the wrong place for you to try and set the bone?”

“Between us, we have to keep him as still as possible,” Jonathan explained. “Robert will hold his torso, and I will hold his leg.”

“Then, who is going to set it?” Sir Ashleigh asked.

“That would be me.” Hester stepped to the end of the table. “Do not worry, Sir Ashleigh, I know what I am doing. Have his lordship bite down on that strap now. Are we ready?”

At a nod from Jonathan, she took Gabriel’s naked foot in her hand, alarmed at how cold it was. She grasped his toes in one hand, the heel of his foot in the other. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the anxious faces around her.

“Now,” she instructed and pulled.

The howl of agony that escaped the prison of Lord Gabriel Ravenshall’s clenched teeth rang in her ears. She glanced up and saw that he had passed out, his head slumped against Robert’s arm.

Robert and Jonathan held tight.

Sir Ashleigh crumpled into the corner.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

“Robert, Hester, hold firm and fast,” Jonathan ordered as he reached for a roll of bandage. “Hester, lift now and hold steady while I wrap his leg.”

They both followed his instructions, watching Jonathan’s flying fingers as he passed the bandage under and over at almost dizzying speed. Even though he was unconscious, Gabriel continued to gasp and moan with pain. Hester gritted her teeth. She still held fast on his heel and toes, but each time he cried out, her flesh crawled.

“Can you still hold the leg firm?” Jonathan reached for the wooden slats to splint the leg and another roll of bandage.

She nodded and watched him place the splints on either side of the injured leg and begin bandaging again.

“Darn Ash,” he muttered. “I could do with another pair of hands.”

He used his shoulder to wipe beads of sweat off his face and then shouted for Mrs. Dymock. She came bustling in, assessing the situation in one glance.

“Hold these in place, if you please, Mama,” Jonathan grunted.

Without uttering a word, Mrs. Dymock took the splints and watched Jonathan wrap them firmly into place. When he finished, she hurried into the small parlour where she made up a trundle bed.

Robert and Jonathan moved Gabriel from the surgery onto the bed while he was still unconscious.

When had she begun to think of him as Gabriel? Hester reminded herself that he was Lord Gabriel Ravenshall, and she should think of him as such. She stopped wool-gathering and helped Jonathan prepare a frame for the injured leg, first laying a large piece of leather along the slats and covering that with a folded towel.

“What is that for?” Robert asked as they worked.

“It’s a cradle to keep the leg immobile,” Jonathan explained as he and Hester placed the injured leg in it. Taking a strip of linen, he passed it from side to side along the top of the frame, efficiently securing the limb in place.

“Will he have to be kept in it for long?”

“That remains to be seen.” Jonathan checked the slip knots in the bandages to make sure they were secure. “I need to keep him quiet and still, and that will mean using more laudanum than I normally would.”

“When will we be able to take him home?”

Jonathan looked up into Robert’s anxious face. “Not for two to three weeks, I think. Besides, it’s over three miles to Ravenshall Court over a rough road, and I do not want to risk undue damage if he is to walk properly again.”

“But who will look after him?” Robert continued to look anxious. “It cannot be Miss Dymock or your mother. It would not be seemly.”

Jonathan placed a friendly hand on Robert’s arm. “Thank you for being so considerate of my family. I would think it best if his valet came here. Do you think you could arrange that?”

“I’ll see to it right away, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Robert. Where did you learn your skills?”

Robert looked down at his feet, but not before Hester saw a flicker of hesitation on his face. When he finally looked up, his dark brown eyes held a troubled expression. “I saw a lot of things when I was a slave. Most of the time, we only had the women to look after injuries, but I helped where I could and learnt a lot from them. His lordship’s father freed me, and when I asked if he had another position for me, he brought me from Horsley Grange, their plantation in Jamaica. Lord Ravenshall was a good man, as is his son. I will be forever grateful to them.”

“That is a generous endorsement, Robert. Thank you,” Jonathan said. “Now off you go and collect Lord Ravenshall’s valet. Have him bring whatever he thinks necessary for his lordship’s comfort. Being confined to his bed, for now, I would suggest no more than soft clothing, nightshirts, and such. By the way, do you know where Sir Ashleigh is?”

Robert offered up a wry smile. “Probably commandeering a room at the Crown. I believe he intends to visit his lordship daily for as long as necessary.”

Hester smiled at the thought. “Poor Sir Ashleigh,” she said. “He is most embarrassed at what he sees as a weakness, but the sick room is not for everyone.”

“No, it is not,” Robert agreed.

When he left on his mission to collect the valet, Hester turned to her brother. “I cannot imagine what good Sir Ashleigh can do.”

“Oh, I expect he will become something of a verbal sparring partner if I know anything of their friendship.”

“And just what do you know of that?” Hester demanded. “I was never more mortified in my life than when you called him Sir Ashleigh.”

“I know of him more by reputation than anything else,” Jonathan admitted. “He and Gabriel are both four years younger than Gabriel’s brother and me. We only saw them in the summer when Nathan and I were down from Oxford. We did not have a great deal to do with them as they were mere children to us grown men.”

He spoke mockingly and made Hester laugh, but she was distracted when Gabriel coughed and gasped for breath.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he groaned, his voice harsh in his throat. “And what is my leg doing in this wretched contraption?”

“I think you should leave the room, Hester,” Jonathan warned. “When I explain the full extent of his predicament, I suspect his lordship will respond with some rather profane language.”

Hester chuckled and went through to the shop where she found her mother extolling hair powder’s virtues rather than pomade to a gentleman farmer. While Mrs. Dymock wrapped the farmer’s purchase, Hester took a feather duster to the gallipots.

Some were plain, undecorated porcelain. Others were glazed white, decorated with blue floral patterns. She dusted them all and then moved on to the glass medicine and perfume bottles arranged like ranks of soldiers on the shelves. Finishing that task, she picked up a broom and swept the floor, the stiff bristles rasping across the bare planks. She never minded doing small things and preferred doing them before being asked.

“How is Lord Ravenshall?” Mrs. Dymock asked when the farmer left the shop.

“Can’t you tell?” Hester returned mischievously as loud complaints burst from within the parlour. “There appears to be nothing wrong with his vocal cords, but I’m afraid he is going to be with us for a while.”

“And is he going to pay for room and board?” her mother wanted to know.

“I am sure Jonathan will charge a fee suitable to cover everything, Mama.” Hester put the broom back in its place and wiped her hands on her apron. “Now, if you have nothing else for me to do, I’m going to collect some comfrey and prepare a poultice. It’s not called knit bone for nothing, and Jonathan has prescribed its use twice throughout the day and last thing at night.”

“Then you’d better get on with it.”

Her mother shooed her out of the shop. Hester went through into the surgery, which had once been their dining room. Jonathan’s books and crockery now cluttered the dresser’s surface. He could re-shelve the books himself, but she took the dishes through to the kitchen behind the surgery and left them in the stone sink. Collecting her basket and sickle-shaped gleaning knife, she let herself out of the back door into the physic garden.

It drowsed in the afternoon sun like a lazy cat. Warmth held within its stone walls heightened the heady scents of rosemary and thyme, mint, and chamomile. Her skirts brushed against sorrel and sage, feverfew and valerian, garlic, and basil. She headed towards a great clump of comfrey at the end of the path close to the elderberry trees.

Bees tumbled lazily through the lavender and lilac. Large whites and peacock butterflies fluttered from one flower head to another. The chickens in the coop at the end of the garden clucked and crooned as they scratched at grain that she threw in for them earlier that day. There was peace here, as well as the healing properties to be gained from every plant.

When her basket was full, she returned to the kitchen and set the kettle upon the hob. While it boiled, she shredded the leaves into a large earthenware bowl placed on the table. She hummed as she worked, happy because, despite the reason for it, the man of her heart was so close.

She knew hers was an impossible dream, knew that her tenuous connection to Lord Ravenshall could never have an outcome. Mama and Jonathan did not—could not—know of her attraction. She hesitated to call it love. How could it be? She had never spoken a word to him, not even today, when she laid her hands on his prone form. The few occasions when she had seen him in Fulhampton were precious memories that she returned to over and over again.

How could one not be drawn to him? It was not just his looks and stature, but the kindness he showed to everyone, even old Bessy Harding, to whom he gave his arm to help her across the street. He teased and laughed with the street urchins and gave them pennies or bought apples for them.

And he saved that little girl’s life.

A thought drifted into her mind, but before it became fully formed, she was distracted by the sound of the kettle whistling. She took it off the hob and poured the boiling water over the leaves in the bowl. While they steeped, she prepared several cloths, shaking them out to make sure they were large enough for her requirements. Voices in the shop drew her attention, and she went to see if her mother required any help.

Robert had returned, accompanied by a neat, trim gentleman slightly above average height with narrow, intelligent features. The style and set of his clothes marked him as a gentleman’s gentleman. Hester smiled at him as he doffed his beaver hat, revealing a domed, balding head.

“Mr. Jeffries?” She cocked her head to one side as she surveyed him.

“The very one, Miss Dymock.” He inclined his head in greeting.

“I am so pleased to meet you.” Hester immediately liked the man’s manner. “Has Robert explained all that has happened?”

“Indeed, he has. Where is his lordship now?”

“Through here.” Hester led the way and opened the door into the parlour. “I won’t accompany you. My brother warned me the language in here might be somewhat warm at present.”

Mr. Jeffries chuckled as he paused in the doorway. “His lordship has an extensive vocabulary, some of which has been a revelation to me as he can be most inventive.”

Hester returned to the kitchen to find Robert sitting at the table. Her mother had refilled the kettle and set it back on the hob. While it boiled, she took the teapot and cups from a cupboard. Hester removed the cover from the bowl of leaves she had left on the table and tested the temperature.

“This is just right. If you will excuse me, Mama, I will go and apply the first poultice.”

Mrs. Dymock gently shooed her away. Hester picked up the bowl and linen cloths and headed for the parlour. There was no easy way for her to complete her task, but at least Jonathan and Mr. Jeffries would be on hand to assist her.

She entered the parlour, her stomach in turmoil, her heart hammering. Could anyone hear it? Or was it only loud enough for her ears? She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and advanced towards the figure lying on the bed. There was only one thing of which she was quite sure.

Lord Gabriel Ravenshall was well and truly drunk.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

Gabriel awoke with a start, his heart pounding, sweat pouring from his brow. He steadied his breathing and wiped the sleeve of his nightshirt across his face.

Would this nightmare ever end?

He struggled to sit up, trying as he did so to stack the pillows at his back, but then Jeffries was at his side doing it for him.

“I can manage,” he snapped.

“I’m sure you can, my lord, but why waste your energy when it is far easier for me to do this for you?”

The pillows plumped, and in place, Gabriel sagged back against them, closing his eyes again. There was no arguing with his loyal valet, and, in truth, he had not the strength for it. He laid his arm across his eyes, his lungs sawing with the effort of steadying his breath.

“The nightmare again?” Jeffries’ soft tone was full of concern.

“Yes,” Gabriel admitted. He began massaging his temples.

The vivid dream careered across the insides of his eyelids as if pressed there—the horse with blood-flecked foam curling around its mouth, its flanks streaked with sweat. Behind it, the woman on the box hanging onto the reins, her face white, her expression one of sheer terror.

But what else was he to do other than save that little ragamuffin? He remembered streaking into the road without a thought for his safety, only that of the child. He grabbed her up into his arms and then tripped, tossing her to Ash as he fell. As his shoulder hit the cobblestones, he saw the glint of the horse’s steel-shod hooves, its underbelly, and the harness. Then excruciating pain darted through his head, and he knew no more.

Jeffries handed him a glass of barley water. “You know you could have a measure of laudanum before you settle down to sleep.”

“I know, but I prefer that good brandy which our precious Dr. Dymock now denies me, him and that odious sister of his.”

“Miss Dymock is not so bad, my lord.” Jeffries’ lips twitched into a small smile as he opened the drapes, allowing the morning sunshine to brighten the room. “Her poultices have drawn out most of the bruising from your right leg, and Dr. Dymock is pleased with the way your broken leg is healing.”

Gabriel pulled a face and grunted an uncomplimentary response. Jeffries stifled a grin as he quietly went about preparing the shaving equipment. He laid out brush and paste, razor and strop, and the cooling cologne to soothe the freshly shaved skin.

“I suppose,” Gabriel began, “that you think her something of a saint for achieving that much.”

“Maybe not a saint,” Jeffries paused by the washstand, where he was about to pour water into the basin. “But a young woman of uncommonly sound sense and not unattractive. ‘Tis a wonder she is still unwed.”

Gabriel made no response.

Put quite simply, Hester Dymock confused him. Other young ladies of his acquaintance comported themselves coquettishly, trained by their Mamas to flutter their eyelashes and brandish their fans. He should know, having endured their simpering wiles for the last ten Seasons. He did not trust a single one of them, fearing that once the ring was on their finger, they would turn from sweet and compliant to cold and distant as he knew his mother had done.

That was not what he wanted for himself. Did his mother simply not enjoy the intimacies of marriage? He frowned as he tried to recall any time when she was happy but could not. His attendance at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, route parties, balls, and soirees during the Season was infrequent. His presence at each event only lasted long enough to be polite. Lady Ravenshall, whom he now rarely saw, hoped for an announcement every year, and roundly admonished him with lengthy letters when there was none.

A grim smile crossed his features as he tried to imagine Hester being coquettish. She would not, he was sure, know where to begin. Carrying out her brother’s instructions in a steady, matter-of-fact way, she brooked no resistance from him in the form of his care, either silencing him with a sharp retort or a quelling glance.

Neither of these tactics lasted any time at all or appeared to upset her usual sunny good nature. She smiled and laughed as quickly as she silenced him. She had opinions and voiced them but never intruded on him unless it was time for a treatment with one of her blasted poultices, or one of the herbal concoctions she insisted he drink.

Gabriel frowned as he tried to identify what else it was about Hester that unsettled him. She was not fashionably pretty. As far as he could tell she wore no powder or rouge. Her skin, sun-kissed to gold with a wash of peach-pink over the apples of her cheeks, was clear, her countenance calm. Her eyes were a luminous dark chocolate brown and gleamed alternately with good humour and intelligence. Her dark brown hair was always neat and tidy and twisted into a knot at the nape of her slender neck. Quite a pretty nape it was, too. He saw it every time she bent over to unwrap or rewrap his leg.

And then there were her long, slim fingers tipped with pale, oval nails that skimmed across his skin, sending minute tremors along his nerves. He liked those fingers. Those moments when Hester tended him left him calm and relaxed. Her touch was gentle or, if she thought she might hurt him, she gave a fair warning. Regardless of how she spoke to him, the looks she favoured him with gave him the impression that she cared. Or was that all in his imagination?

“My lord?”

Momentarily startled by his valet, Gabriel looked up. If anyone ever knew where his thoughts wandered, they might think him fond of the girl.

“What?”

“Are you ready to be shaved, my lord?”

Gabriel’s dispirited sigh escaped from his lips like a waning breeze. This part of the day, when Jeffries lifted and dressed him, he least liked. It was as if he was a child again. But it had to be done. Jeffries brought a small table and set it by the bed. On this, he placed the bowl of water he had just poured, then put a towel under Gabriel’s chin.

“And so, it begins,” Gabriel drawled, tipping his head back as Jeffries set a warm, damp cloth over his face.

“Yes, my lord,” Jeffries responded in a dry tone. “You may, if you wish, attempt it for yourself, but I fear for your hide if you do.”

Gabriel would have grinned if not for the copious amount of shaving paste foaming about his mouth. He closed his eyes and gave in to his valet’s ministrations. He would at least be presentable when he saw Miss Dymock this morning. The thought made him frown. When had he begun to care for her opinion? His musings drew a warning from Jeffries to stop fidgeting, and he settled his features into complacency.

At last, he was clean and freshly dressed and, much to his consternation, looking forward to his first encounter of the day with Miss Dymock. What would she subject him to this morning?

“And which cologne would you prefer today, sir?”

Jeffries’ steady, well-modulated tones broke into Gabriel’s thoughts. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me, my lord, but we are low on Trufitt’s Spanish Leather. Maybe an application of the Mayfair?”

Gabriel passed a hand over his eyes. Heaven forbid his only decision today must be with which cologne he was to finish his toilette.

“Surprise me.” But there was no surprise when Gabriel detected the subtle fragrances of bergamot and orange, patchouli and amber. The Spanish Leather cologne was by far Jeffries’ favourite, one he deemed suitable for any occasion. “How much longer am I to stay here?”

“That, my lord, is up to your doctor,” Jeffries replied as he began to put away the tools of his trade in a leather travelling case.

“Damn his eyes,” Gabriel growled, but he looked up expectantly as a knock sounded on the door.

His fears that it was Jonathan vied with his hopes that it was Hester. Ash walked in, dashing both emotions.

“Good Lord, Ash,” he stuttered. “What brings you here so early?”

“Early?” Ash raised an eyebrow. “It is nigh on noon, and I cannot waste any more of my day. I came to ask if I could fetch anything for you before I venture forth on my quest.”

“Quest for what?”

“The young lady who ran you down.”

“Are you mad?” Gabriel asked. “Why would you want to do that?”

Ash flicked up the tails of his riding coat and sat on the chair Jeffries pulled forward for him. “Because I would like to know if the young lady has recovered and if she will sell me her horse.”

Gabriel winced as he sat up straighter in bed. “You are mad,” he announced. “What on earth would you do with that fractious beast?”

“First, turn it out to grass and let it rest.” Ash’s face brightened as it always did when discussing his favourite topic. “And then introduce it to some slow work to assess what I can do with it. I doubt it’s a lady’s horse, but it might suit some single gentleman for a curricle. It was a remarkably good-looking animal, don’t you think?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Gabriel drawled. “I was beneath the damned beast at the time, as you may recall.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ash blustered at his friend’s dry admonishment. “Well, I’ll leave you for now but will come later, if I may, and let you know what I discover.”

“Oh, by all means, do.” Gabriel waved a dismissive hand.

“He means well,” Jeffries said after Ash let himself out.

“I know he does,” Gabriel agreed. “But I am bored to death of this bed and having people come to me rather than me going to them.”

“And that is no reason to be at outs with those who only wish you well,” Jeffries gently rebuked him.

Another knock sounded on the door, and this time Hester entered. Gabriel wasn’t quite sure that his heart didn’t give an extra beat when he saw her. He didn’t, however, imagine the hitch in his breath when she smiled at him.

“You look so much better today,” she said. “Or is that simply the results of Mr. Jeffries’ ministrations?”

“The results of everyone’s ministrations,” Gabriel returned gallantly, earning himself an approving nod from Jeffries. “But with what are you going to try my patience today?”

Hester lowered her gaze at his gentle teasing, but he didn’t miss the way the corners of her mouth turned up. “Only your poultice, my lord.”

“Is it vital?”

She looked up at that. Her smile vanished, and a frown formed in the vee between the beautiful curve of her birds-wing shaped eyebrows. “Yes, it is,” she said, “unless you want to lay abed for far longer than is necessary. Your break will mend much more quickly with the application of my poultice than it will without it, I can assure you.”

Gabriel leaned back and rested his arm across his eyes. “Get on with it then.”

Hester moved beside the bed and began to loosen the ties holding the top part of the cradle together. She eased the bandages holding the splints in place and then those around his leg. He almost sighed as cool air flowed over his bare skin. A moment later, he slowly inhaled a deep, steadying breath as her fingers grazed against him.

“Did that hurt?” she asked.

Gabriel swallowed. He couldn’t tell her that no, it didn’t hurt at all or that he craved her touch. He simply shook his head. Hester laid a warm, damp towel across his shin and began to cover it with the crushed dark green leaves.

“What is this mush, anyway?”

“Leaves of the comfrey plant, otherwise known as knit bone,” she told him.

She softly hummed a pleasant melody as she worked. Was that to aid her concentration or to calm him? He was not sure.

“There, I’m finished for now.” She mopped up the moisture that dripped down either side of his leg and then laid another towel over the top of it before tightening the cradle. “We’ll keep this in place for the afternoon, and then I’ll apply another one later this evening after Jonathan examines you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

There were several things that Gabriel thought she could do for him. She might soothe his brow or run her fingers over his lips. He would like her to pull up his shirt and place her hand on his chest over his heart, but none of this could or would ever happen. He swallowed again.

“No, thank you,” he croaked.

“Then I shall leave you for now. Have Mr. Jeffries call me if you do want me.”

Yes, I do want you.

The words roared through his mind, but all he could do was purse his lips and blow out a breath as Hester left the room, leaving him alone. How on earth had this come about? She was pretty, wholesome, and could be charming. Was he simply attracted to her because of the way she looked after him? That must be it. He could not remember a time when any female had cared for him so tenderly. To think anything else would be foolish.

The poultice on his leg was warm and surprisingly comfortable. He began to relax and fell into a light doze and then a deeper sleep. Therefore, he was unaware of first Jeffries checking on him and then Hester, who tiptoed to his bedside and looked down into his now peaceful face. He couldn’t know how she longed to smooth his brow and cup his cheek, or that her conscience would not allow her to take advantage of the situation. After a moment more, she tiptoed away.

A knock on the door interrupted a vivid dream; this a pleasant one rather than the nightmares Gabriel had endured. He rubbed his eyes as Ash stepped in, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“Mission accomplished?” Gabriel stretched and yawned.

“Oh, famously so.” Ash pulled up the chair and sat down beside the bed as he had done earlier. “Mr. Barnfield—”

“Who is Mr. Barnfield?”

“The butcher,” Ash explained.

“What has he got to do with anything?”

“He hasn’t—”

“Then why mention him?”

“Will you just be quiet and listen?” Ash huffed. “I went to see Mr. Barnfield because he witnessed the whole incident, and I thought he might know the young lady’s name, and I was right.”

“Oh, good.” Gabriel tried to relax, knowing that Ash’s explanation might take some time in the telling.

“She is Miss Virginia Stephens, and her father has some prime young stock. He was quite willing to sell me that chestnut. If you don’t mind, I’ll stable it at your place for now. I think Mr. Stephens was quite pleased to get rid of it. Miss Stephens, it would appear, is as much of a handful as the horse. She harnessed it herself that market day and took off without a bye-the-bye to anyone.”

“And consequently, we all came to grief. What did Miss Stephens think she was doing?”

Ash’s face creased into a frown. “I think trying to prove her capabilities to her father, and the horse suffered because of it.”

“Never mind the horse,” Gabriel blustered. “What about me? I’m the injured party here.”

“Well, she never intended that to happen.” Ash flushed. “Indeed, she is very sorry about it.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “I think this young woman has quite taken your fancy.”

Ash pressed his lips together before releasing a sigh. “She has many good qualities, not unlike Miss Dymock.”

“Do not change the subject.” Gabriel shot his friend a warning glance. “Miss Dymock did not run me down. On the contrary, she has done all in her power to put me on the road to recovery. But what about the child, Ash? What happened to her? You caught her, did you not?”

“I did indeed,” Ash said. “I nearly took a tumble into the sheep pen under the weight of that little baggage. But here’s the thing, I didn’t even think of her after I saw you lying in the road. She probably scrambled away unhurt.”

“Probably,” Gabriel agreed. “But I would like to know, all the same. Perhaps your fountain of local knowledge might know who she is.”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Barnfield.” Ash chuckled. “I could ask him.”

“Please do. Now. Before the day gets any later. I would like to know that I did not suffer in vain.”

As Ash stood up, Gabriel looked up at him. “Perhaps take Miss Dymock with you. I wouldn’t want the child alarmed by an unknown gentleman arriving on her doorstep.”

“Ah, yes,” Ash responded. “A female would be a less daunting prospect, I agree.”

Ash left, and Gabriel quietly fumed.

Devil take it.

If anyone were to accompany Miss Dymock anywhere, it should be him.

 

For purchase information please visit my BWL Author page:

 

https://bookswelove.net/chatham-victoria/

 

"Have you ever been thrown out of a National Park?"

 While researching the Black Hills for "Western Justice" I visited several National Parks, National Monuments, and National Historic sites. Driving, touring, and walking the trails offered great insight into the area and provided a lot of food for thought about "Western Justice" and future books set in western South Dakota and eastern Wyoming.

I visited the "information" desks at numerous parks and met wonderfully informative rangers who showed me maps and discussed their fun, funny, and scary experiences with visitors and nature. At a minuteman missile site, I met two law enforcement rangers. When I asked if anything exciting ever happened, they told me about their involvement in the capture of a robber fleeing the local police after a holdup in Rapid City. That was clearly the "moments of terror" part of an otherwise monotonous job with "hours of boredom."

I have been warned NOT to approach rangers, as I did in Tuzigoot National Monument, with the opening question, "Where would you dump a dead body?" While the young ranger there had obviously never had that question before, after introducing myself and explaining the question, he was happy to show me the dead-end trail where a body might not be found for weeks. My cop consultant has warned me that other rangers may be less amused by that question, and I might find myself being escorted from the park (or arrested).

I've changed my approach. I now give the rangers one of my business cards, explain that I'm doing research for future books, then ask them about possible murder plots and locations. All of the rangers have been wonderfully interested and forthcoming with background. Right up to the point where I hit the wall in a Black Hills National Park, which will remain unnamed. 

Two enthusiastic young rangers were taking notes on where my other Fletcher mysteries had been set, when I asked the question, "Have there been any interesting events in this park that would make a great mystery?" That question landed like a bomb. The rangers looked at each other, then at me. "I don't think we can tell you about 'the event.'" With my interest piqued, I assured them that whatever they told me would be changed enough to make the location and actual event invisible to the reader. I always stir interesting items with other locations and characters, resulting in a fictional book with bits of reality. 

Pressing on playfully, they continued to refuse to divulge the mysterious event. One of them excused herself, returning with a middle-aged ranger who was carrying my card. "Sir, I have to ask you to direct your questions to the Park Service Public Information Officer, in Washington DC." Pointing out that I was asking for information, while standing at the "information desk", only inflamed the situation. He took my phone number and said he'd have the PIO call me. (I haven't received that call.)

While I wasn't "thrown out of" the park, the ranger made it clear that the rangers were not going to answer any additional questions, and my continued presence at the information desk was no longer welcome. That was the chilliest reception I've ever received and was akin to being "thrown out". 

I later learned, from law enforcement rangers at a different park, that human remains had been found at the park in question. Although it was apparent that the person had died over 100 years ago, the rangers had been advised not to share that information until the discovery could be documented and announced as an archaeological find. 

Even omitting that incident, I met dozens of friendly, helpful rangers and volunteers who provided dozens of future mystery locations and potential plots. Like "Western Justice", there will be several future Doug Fletcher, US Park Service mysteries set in the Black Hills. Each will be filled with juicy and fun tidbits gleaned from our visit.

Hovey, Dean - BWL Publishing Inc. (bookswelove.net)

Thank Goodness for Spring, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Visit my Author Page to purchase my books: click HERE

Today, thinking about the warmth of spring, and how much I miss it, I thought I'd look into the history of the season. I hope you enjoy the brief - I promise - explanation of the rite of Spring.

Being a California gal, I never went through harsh winters. 50 degrees was chilly for us. If we wanted to frolic in the snow, we drove up into the mountains.

Now that I'm married and have traveled all over with my navy husband, we live on the east coast, where temps can dip far below zero. Each winter I wait for spring.

Spring was the beginning of a new year, the celebration of fertility and the abundance of nature. In the fourteenth century, the period known as Lent, where people deprived themselves of certain things, when it ended it started to be known as "springing time". This was because plants and other greenery started springing back up from the ground.

And people before electric lights could actually spend longer hours outside and plant their fields, so they had food before another winter came. The circle of life.

In California it meant no more sweaters, fog and rain. We had it so easy.

Now, for me, spring is the longer days, the warmth of the sun, and if I was a billionaire I'd return to California. But I would miss my granddaughters, so I'll stay here.

More on the history of spring. The pagans, not understanding the rotation of the earth in relation to the sun, had a god or goddess for everything to explain the changes in seasons. 

Ostara was the pagan goddess of fertility and spring.

Sometimes her name was known as Eastre or Eostre. From this came the word Easter. The goddess of fertility had the animal symbol of the bunny. That's probably why rabbits are associated with Easter. Plus rabbits are known for their procreation abilities.

The poor chicken got left behind.

As for eggs, they represented new life and rebirth. In the medieval period, during Lent eating eggs was forbidden. So by Easter Sunday, eating an egg was a treat. 

Decorating the eggs started from a Persian custom adopted by the early Christians of Mesopotamia. They stained the eggs with red coloring to represent the blood Christ shed at his crucifixion.

For me spring is being able to go out on my front porch and not shiver. Also, sitting in the sun and reading a good book is my treat.

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

The book I still haven't written...by Sheila Claydon

Find my books here

I got the idea for my book Remembering Rose from two old photographs in my mother-in-law's family album. I thoroughly enjoyed researching the history that would enable Rachel, the heroine, to travel back in time, and it eventually turned out to be the first book of my Mapleby Memories trilogy. What's more, although the story is entirely fictional, there are snippets of her family history hidden in it, things that mean long dead family members are not forgotten. 

There is, however, another book that I really should write but somehow don't seem able to start, and that's the story of my own grandfather. When he died, aged 72, in 1910, he must have felt sure that the truth of his birth would never be discovered. 
 
According to family legend, his parents were scions of English nobility whose love affair had been thwarted, it was assumed by their parents. He had thus been born in secrecy, fostered until he was old enough to be educated, and later apprenticed in a trade that would ensure he had a well remunerated life. So far, so fairy-tale ending! But who were his parents? By the time I was intrigued enough to want to know, all the next generation were dead and there was no one to ask any more.  
 
Looking at his photo, I still wondered. Long face, high smooth forehead, amazing cheekbones, a luxuriant moustache; definitely a  Lord of the Manor lookalike. So for years I dined out on possibly being the granddaughter of a baronet, duke or earl…I didn’t go quite as far as prince. Then the Internet arrived and I realised I could track him down.
 
But where to start? A birth certificate, except I didn’t know where he was born, so a wedding certificate. My grandmother’s name would prove I had found the correct William. Determined, I contacted the General Register Office and…wow! He and my grandmother, Elizabeth, were married in St Margaret’s Church, Westminster in May 1884. Built next to Westminster Abbey, it has a long and imposing history as well as being the parish church of the House of Commons. Samuel Pepys was married there, and the poet John Milton. Winston Churchill was too. 
 
I discovered that Elizabeth lived in Kent so, instead of marrying locally, a wedding in  Westminster must have been a deliberate choice. Was it because her father was a Professor of Music who had previously been a Band Master in The Royal Hussars and had influence, or was it something more mundane?
 
The certificate also said William had a father, George! George (deceased) was a builder. What? There was something mysterious hidden amongst those statements and signatures. 
 
Fired up, I sent for birth certificates. Elizabeth’s was exemplary but William’s told a whole new story. I found him in Norfolk, born to Sarah. No father. I started trawling the censuses and there he was, in 1861, aged 3, LIVING WITH HIS GRANDPARENTS and, shock on shock, his older brother Joseph, also illegitimate. William was still there in 1871, aged 13. His grandfather was a bricklayer who owned a brickyard. Sarah lived and worked away as a maid. Also living there was his Uncle George, a builder. George never married and remained in the family home until his early death.
 
I’ve been to Norfolk now and seen where they all lived; the corner house with a yard behind it, the big double gates wide enough for a cart full of bricks to be pulled through by a horse. His grandfather, my great-grandfather, was always employed and apparently earning enough to keep both  his illegitimate grandsons in education until the school leaving age of 14, not very common in those long-ago days. He probably paid for their apprenticeships too.
 
I don’t know if the family tales of William having to sleep under the counter during his apprenticeship as a draper are true or just another embellishment to make his life seem more exciting. 
 
I learned nothing more about him until I found him, at the age of 22, living and working in Knightsbridge, where St Margaret’s Westminster would have been his parish church, so getting married there wasn't special after all.
 
How he met Elizabeth is also a mystery because everything I’ve learned about her family indicates that she moved in much more rarefied circles than a Draper from Norfolk. Surely they didn’t bond over a bolt of cloth while she was choosing material for a dress! 
 
However, by the time William and Elizabeth married, the stars were aligned. His mother, both his grandparents and his uncle George were all dead, so who was going to find him out if he sanitised his past by claiming George as his father?  In 1884 the Internet wasn’t even a concept. 
 
Was he a young man ashamed of his birth or a young man who saw an opportunity to better himself? Or did he lie to persuade Elizabeth's parents that he was worthy of their daughter?While I’ll never know the answer, I do wish my father and his brothers and sisters had known about their grandparents. Known, too, that they had cousins and aunts and uncles in Norfolk.  Was he ashamed of them? Did he disown his brother too? Did he lose his Norfolk accent? I certainly never heard that he had one. In fact nobody ever mentioned Norfolk at all, so I guess they all bought the nobility story. Nor do I know when the story of his supposedly noble illegitimacy became part of family legend and he ditched his uncle George. After his in-laws died I would imagine!

I have never been able to track down his father either, so Sarah’s secret will remain with her. William, however, has been well and truly found out! 
 
Am I shocked by his lies and subterfuge? Not really because I’ll never know what drove him to behave as he did, and when I look at that photo I have to admit that he still looks distinguished, a proper Victorian gentleman, so maybe he achieved his ambition to better himself. I don’t think I’m imagining the hint of a knowing smile beneath that luxuriant moustache either, so maybe it was worth it.