Be Warned: These are the scribblings of a writer unruly, unsupervised, and largely unrepentant

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Character Showcase - Kitty Waddenhoe

In THE PECULIAR FOLLY OF LONG LEGGED MEG our heroine is befriended by a colorful - and sometimes criminal - character who calls herself "Lady" Kitty Waddenhoe. Kitty lives her life on the road, traveling from town to town, charming gentlemen out of their breeches and their silver snuff-boxes whenever possible. She has tried her devious hands at many skills, but likes to call herself an actress. On the Georgian stage she has "whittled herself a profitable career with very little actual talent, a great deal of enthusiasm, a fine bosom, and an ability to spot a lonely gentleman with plump pockets from fifty paces. "

Kitty teaches Meg some valuable survival skills, as well as some useful tips for feminine grooming in the late 18th century.
"Pleasantly scented breath, Meg, is more valuable to a woman than a gold ring on her finger. A woman needs her smile and her bite, so take care of your teeth."
But despite her practical advice, Kitty has a sadly romantic soul, which means she must constantly be falling in love. It is her one weakness. As soon as one man loses his fresh appeal - which always happens before too long - she is anxious to be rid of him, and this often requires the speedy wielding of a chamber pot to the back of his head. Kitty has never learned the art of letting a man down gently.

There are few problems Kitty has never been unable to flirt her way out of and the wisdom she imparts to young Meg will stay with our heroine for years to come. With Kitty's encouragement she learns to walk with pride and purpose, to take up room without apologizing for it. Most of all, Kitty teaches Meg to hold onto her secrets, because, if she sets her mind to it, she can be whatever she wants to become.

"There are some things a lady should never tell, Meg. Her true age, what she will spend for a fine pair of shoes, what she is truly thinking, and where the bodies are buried."

Want to read more? Check out THE PECULIAR FOLLY OF LONG LEGGED MEG on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and all good booksellers.

copyright Jayne Fresina 2017
For more news about me and my work, you can find me on FACEBOOK , Bookbub, and Goodreads
(image above "The Love Letter" by Jean Honere Fragonard)

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Character Showcase - Lady Flora Hartnell and Lord Francis Chelmsworth

In The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg the heroine has a number of good friends with whom she keeps merry society at the dower house. Among them is her very best friend for eight years, Lady Flora Hartnell - now also widowed, like Persey - and Lord Francis Chelmsworth, Flora's younger brother.

Francis is one of the young men in whom Persey hopes her stepdaughter might take a romantic interest. She believes Francis is highly suitable marriage material for Honoria, as he is the right age, handsome, good fun, chivalrous, kind and well set in life. Unfortunately, Lady Honoria is not in the mood to look at him currently, because she has her eye on an utterly unsuitable gardener hired by her brother to "improve" the grounds of his estate.

And Francis thinks he's in love with Persey, who does her best not to notice so she doesn't have to hurt his feelings.

Lady Flora and Persey have much in common. They are both the young widows of older men and they both enjoy life's little luxuries - good champagne, a boat ride on the lake, soft pillows and marzipan comfits for example. They can also both appreciate a well-made man, although only Flora is likely to confess it aloud. She is boldly unapologetic in her pursuit of fun and frolics and, like Persey, she cannot abide affected manners and pomposity. Flora has suffered her great-aunt's nagging for some years, because she adamantly refuses to stop running about the countryside enjoying her freedom and resists all efforts to get her respectably married again.


            For the first time in several days, Persey was not hidden behind a hedge with her old opera glasses to see what the gardener was up to; she had decided, instead, to save her skirts from thorny branches and enjoy the company of Francis, Lord Chelmsworth and his widowed elder sister, Lady Flora Hartnell, her dearest friend for the last eight years. Together the two ladies had shared misadventures that had made her former husband laugh— and caused poor Albert to roll his eyes. The current marchioness made no secret of her disdain for Lady Flora, but this, naturally, did not curtail the friendship at all and such a visit could always be counted upon to bring Persey out of a glum mood, taking her mind off the latest battle with her daughter-in-law.

            "We heard about Minty's plans for the estate," Flora had exclaimed, dashing into her parlor that afternoon and embracing her as if they came to rescue their friend from imprisonment in the Tower of London. "I immediately knew you'd be in distress and I said to Francis, we must go to her at once!"

            "That was very good of you, Flora."

            But her brother had interrupted. "Don't believe a word from my sister's lips. She only wants to purloin a glimpse of the infamous Radcliffe."

            Although Flora fiercely denied this, as soon as they were on the lake and her brother pointed out the distant figure at work in the reeds, she craned her head about desperately to get a better look and finally insisted he turn the boat around before they could drift too far away. "That's him, isn't it? Is it? Is it Radcliffe? Oh, it must be for there, beside him, I see Lady Honoria. I heard he takes the job into his own hands and wields his own tools, but I hadn't realized he was so very... capable. Nor his tools quite so large."

            Persey groaned. "Why is it that everybody has heard of this wretched man but me?"

            "Because you do not follow fashion and keep to your own little society. You ought to get out more. Now you are no longer in mourning, there is no excuse."

            "I don't agree," Francis exclaimed. "I believe Persey's little society is the best there is and she needs nobody else. Particularly since her small, exclusive circle includes us. Obviously she is a woman of discerning tastes." He smiled at her, as he pulled back on the oars and the unaccustomed exercise caused a gleam of perspiration across his brow. "Why should she follow fashion when she can lead instead?"

            "Oh, do be quiet, Francis," his sister replied. "Persey and I are far more interested in the delightfully capable Radcliffe than we are in your opinions."

            "I can assure you I have no interest in that man, Flora. Why should I?"

            "Because you're not dead."

            "But I am old enough to have perfect control over my sensibilities. And he is more years my junior than I care to think about."

            But Flora, deaf to this protest, nudged Persey's arm, "Is it true that he works outdoors sometimes in a state of undress? I hear the Bainbridge maids swooned with clockwork regularity, while he was there, and the housekeeper could get nothing done because they were all creeping off to watch him work every day. Hiding behind hedges and such."

            Persey felt her cheeks glowing and ducked her chin, tucking her face further out of sight under the frayed, moth-bitten brim of her bonnet. "I really wouldn't know about that."

            "Do you pretend that you're not in the least curious?" Flora persisted.

            "Exactly so. Why should I be?"

            "Why should you not? What's the matter with you? You're not succumbing to a fever, are you?"

             Leaning away from her friend's questing hand as it reached for her forehead, Persey laughed. "I am not sixteen, Flora, and neither are you. Men are no mystery to me, and they all have the same parts, dressed or undressed."

            Francis muttered apologetically from the other end of the boat, "Of course you are much wiser, Persey, and would not have your head turned by every handsome scoundrel, as my sister does."

            "Nonsense, brother! Our dear friend Persey merely pretends she is above appreciating such a man's attributes, and you hold her in such high esteem that she can do no wrong in your eyes. To you, Persey is an angel, unsullied by the sin of lust. But I know her better. For one thing, I'm a woman and I know how devious our minds can be. Oh, don't blush, brother, you know I say these things to you, because I am your sister and entitled."

            Soon after this, Francis's efforts became even more of a struggle when, in a flustered temper, he broke an oar. It snapped in two as he attempted to free it from some stubborn weeds, and the little rowboat was reduced to turning in circles, the second oar gradually weighed down with thick green weeds in much the same way as the first. The two women did their best to advise him, but their attempts to help row with bonnets and hands only made the situation worse. When the second oar escaped his grip and sank somewhere amid the weeds, Persey could do nothing but laugh at Francis's aghast expression, and his sister joined in.

            "Glad I am you find this amusing," poor Chelmsworth exclaimed, looking down at his drenched thighs. "Now we're stuck. Ha ha! Yes, isn't it delightful? Jolly good fun." He tore off his gloves to show what he insisted were the beginnings of two blisters on his palms.

            But the angle of his sad, perplexed eyebrows only made Persey laugh harder. There was something about dear Francis's eyebrows that sent her into peals of tender laughter. Of course, she always had a soft spot for a gentleman in need. She only wished Honoria would take note of Lord Chelmsworth's fine features and feel a desire to look after him, but despite Persey's subtle attempts to recommend the fellow to her stepdaughter, so far the girl had shown no particular interest.

            When Francis reminded the two ladies that their predicament would not be quite so funny once they had run out of champagne— a tragedy likely soon to befall— Flora began shouting for help at once, waving to the people on the lake side.

Copyright Jayne Fresina 2017
(illustration used above is from a painting of Lady Emma Hamilton by George Romney c. 1782)

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Character Showcase - Albert, Marquess of Holbrooke, and his wife Araminta, the Marchioness

In The Peculiar Folly of Long-Legged Meg, the heroine is twice widowed Persephone (Persey), Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke. She lives in the dower house of her former husband's estate and likes to think she has a purpose there, taking care of the grounds and looking after her stepchildren, Lady Honoria Foyle and Albert, the current Marquess.

Unfortunately Albert has married  a lady whose personality chafes constantly with that of the easy-going, fun-loving Persey. The new marchioness, trying to exert her own influence over Albert and the estate, finds her mother-in-law to be an irritating obstacle. While Persey finds Araminta to be a thorn in her side and suspects her daughter-in-law would be happiest if she was removed from the estate entirely. Their quarrels often put Albert in the middle, although he does his best to ignore them both - at least, for as long as he can.
Albert, despite being Persey's stepson, is a year older than she. He is somber, dutiful and still utterly mystified by the young woman his father took for a second wife eight years ago. Holbrooke is his life and he believes firmly that everything he does is for the good of the estate. And for his peace of mind.

For Albert it would be best if the dowager simply kept herself busy with her charity missions - the county hospital and the local village school she founded - but she insists on meddling in what he sees as "matters of the estate." These include the future marriage prospects of his little sister Honoria. The latest bone of contention between himself and Persey is how to find a husband for Honoria. Albert, in his usual organized fashion, has chosen two suitable, thoroughly-vetted prospects and expects his sister to select one of them. Persey thinks her stepdaughter should be able to choose her own husband from a wider pool than only two, hand-picked by Albert. After all, as she points out, Albert's matrimonial choices are not necessarily wise.

Araminta, Lady Holbrooke, has been married to Albert for three years. For two of those years she has been the Marchioness of Holbrooke, but to her intense frustration everybody - even her own husband at times - seems to prefer the "old" Lady Holbrooke. A few of the household servants have left the great house to serve Persey at the "lodge" instead, and to Araminta this is a betrayal. To make it worse, Lady Honoria Foyle clearly prefers the dowager's company and listens to her advice above that of anybody else. Especially Araminta's.

But she gets her vengeance in any way that she can, desperate to make a place for herself and let everybody know that she is now the mistress of the estate. In her eyes, her mother-in-law is in interfering busybody of whom Albert is far too tolerant. Well, she'll put a stop to that. Albert's stepmother can call her "Minty" as often as she likes - knowing how Araminta despises the sobriquet - but the new Marchioness of Holbrooke has finally found a way to really get under the skin of her nemesis. She's persuaded Albert to hire a talented, highly-fashionable young garden designer to improve the estate grounds and dig up the rose gardens that her mother-in-law loves so much.

As she gleefully tells Persey "Out with the old, in with the new."


Grim-faced, the target of her entreaty sat like a tall, stout, silent tree trunk at the end of that long table, his eyes two round, dark, gloomy hollows, exposing a slowly decaying heartwood within the bark. Apparently he could not enjoy his boiled egg with any relish until she stopped talking, so his spoon remained poised in mid-air, the first crack yet to be administered with his usual firm swing. And she, suspecting he might agree with her reasoning, merely to be rid of her and get on with his egg, made the most of this chance.

            "Before he died," she continued, "your father said to me: Persephone, I ask of you only one thing. To guard and guide Honoria in any way that you can. And I swore, there and then, while that dear man lay upon his deathbed, that I would uphold his wishes."

            Albert lowered his arm slowly to the table, the spoon's purpose postponed further.

            "I took this vow to mean in matters of the heart, as well as any other," she added. "I, after all, have some experience of these torments, having lost two husbands I adored."

            The only response to this impassioned plea was a frigid sigh, little more than a breath one might exhale upon pinching one's finger in a well-sprung gate hinge. But Persephone waited patiently, familiar with her stepson's lack of animation and the slow, unenthused tempo with which he digested anything she ever said. As if he might have some reason to be suspicious of her motives and think her a woman of wicked cunning. Which she most certainly was not. Three quarters of the time.

            He studied the spoon in his hand, and then the boiled egg nestled in its little silver cup. One by one, the items on the table before him received a thoughtful scrutiny, while the dowager marchioness waited, somehow restraining herself from beating him about the head with her leather gardening gauntlets, trying desperately to remember her place. She might be his father's widow, and thus entitled to a degree of respect from the very proper marquess, but she was, in fact a year younger than he, and that always caused a certain friction in their debates.

            When he finally struck the shell of his boiled egg, it was with just a little too much force, and the yolk spurted out onto the cuff of his coat. Much to his stepmother's amusement, a change was finally wrought to Albert's physiognomy, as he gazed at the new, brilliant gold trimming to his coat sleeve.

            It was quite beyond her to resist a jaunty, "Oops. That's sure to stain."

            At this point, Albert's wife decided to assert herself shrilly into the conversation without having listened to most of it. With her plate filled from the chafing dishes on the sideboard, she lowered herself grandly to a chair across the table and exclaimed, "Of course my husband wants the best for Lady Honoria. That is without question. So is the fact that, as her elder brother, it is his place to decide what constitutes a good match."

            "That's what I am afraid of," Persephone muttered into her coffee cup.

            The younger woman bristled. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" 

            "Like most things I say, it is nothing of any import to you, I'm sure, Minty dear."

            "I have asked you before, many times, not to call me by that dreadful sobriquet! My name is Araminta. It is disrespectful to shorten it in such a fashion. Minty, indeed! Albert, I wish you would tell her."

            The dowager marchioness set down her cup and looked innocently at her daughter-in-law. "But we are family, my dear." She stirred more sugar into her coffee. "Folk call me Persey all the time. It is a term of affection and if it puts people at their ease in my presence I do not object to it."

            "But Persey does not have the connotation of a humbug!"

            Persephone quickly looked down at her lap, clutching a napkin to her lips, for fear of exploding with laughter.

            "My stepmama," Albert finally intoned with grave formality, "has a distressingly informal manner, applied to everything she does. It amused my father greatly and so it was never discouraged, but rather the opposite."

            "And now we reap the consequences by having so much grievous laxity about the place," his wife exclaimed, adding smugly, "But that will change now."

            Albert inclined his head a half inch. "Since I inherited the marquessate I have done what I can to steer the place with a firmer hand— something that my lord father relinquished in his latterly years, when self-indulgent pleasures often overcame his duty to efficiency and responsibility."

            "As one of those decadent pleasures, I suppose you'd be rid of me if you could, Albert dear," his stepmother remarked, not entirely in jest. "Pension me off somewhere, even farther away than the lodge. Erase all sign of my short reign at your father's side altogether."

            He gave a pained sigh. "My lord father found good in you, Persephone, and I know you are a woman of mostly decent intentions." Here his wife exhaled a skeptical snort of great dimension, but he did not look at her and continued addressing his stepmother. "Your efforts on behalf of the parish sick are much to be commended. And I must admit that, despite the difference in your ages and my own doubts when he first brought you here, you made my lord father's last six years enjoyable. I make no argument with that. I simply wish you would now take your new place as his widow, satisfy your need to meddle with those worthy missions you have taken on about the village, and leave me to manage my sister and other matters of the estate."

            "But that is just it, Albert. Honoria is not a matter of the estate! She is not an overgrown yew tree hedge, a crumbling wall, or a portrait in need of restoration. She is your sister, a young woman with a beating heart and deep feelings. She is desirous to marry for love."

            Unlike you, she might have added, but thought better of it. Her daughter-in-law watched and listened at that moment with the sharpened senses of one determined to find fault, and Minty had a habit of contriving sly, effective ways to get her vengeance if she thought herself slighted. "My sister knows she has a duty to marry well, and I'm sure she wishes to please me," Albert replied, pushing his disappointing egg aside. "There are two suitors I have deemed acceptable. I cannot see why she needs a greater choice than two. Indeed, she is fortunate to have the indulgence of a choice at all. When a young girl is given too much variety in life, the likelihood of making a dire mistake is increased."

            "But I'm afraid Honoria has considered both those gentlemen that you were so kind as to offer her— has considered them at length— and she cares for neither enough to marry."

            "And why, pray tell, does she not come to me herself with this news?"

            "Because she adores you, Albert, and does not want to let you down. She dreads your disapproval."

             He rolled his eyes toward her as if they were heavy in their sockets. "So she thought you would serve as a better, more agreeable messenger of this news?"

            Persey chuckled softly. "Your sister knows I am already dented and bruised. She bears me before her like a shield that has withstood too many blows. One more can hardly damage me."

            There was, very nearly, a smile from the marquess. Or perhaps it was simply another swallowed belch. Whatever it might have been, the expression was aborted in the next moment when Araminta scraped her fork tines across her plate and her voice across their nerves at the same pitch.

            "Your sister is an ungrateful chit who cannot be satisfied, Albert. She will never be content in life, because nothing pleases her. She is a sulky, selfish girl, unappreciative of our efforts on her behalf."

            Persey held her temper as tightly as she clutched a crumpled napkin in her hand. "I believe she appreciates everything her brother does for her, and very much so."

            "Humph!" Araminta stabbed her herring and then dropped her fork, as if the effort of eating was all too much for her after all.

            "Albert," Persey turned to implore her stepson again, "please try to understand that your sister's heart must be won before she can agree to marry. I know it sometimes happens that love comes after the wedding, growing gradually over the years and with tender familiarity. But often times it does not and in such cases there is only misery for both parties. Your sister does not want that risk for herself, or for her future husband. And since she need be in no haste, surely—"

            "The girl has never been sensible, and you fill her head with more romantic nonsense," the woman across the table muttered.

            "Think of passion, Albert," Persey persisted. "The inexplicable connection between a man and a woman that cannot be bought or arranged or negotiated. Think of the quickening pulse, of the shortened breath, the longing and gladness one feels in one's heart, the exquisite yearning heat that comes with — "

            He held up his hand for silence, his creaking trunk pressed slightly backwards as if by a stiff gale. "That's quite enough, Persephone. I do not care for that sort of talk in any guise, but especially not at breakfast. Particularly when discussing my virtuous, little sister. The less she feels of that the better for all." A quick, uncomfortable glance at his wife followed this remark, but Minty was busy admiring herself in the silver creamer, momentarily distracted again. He continued addressing his stepmother. "I believe you know my opinion on the dangers of getting oneself overheated, madam. I understand some folk have less capability of maintaining self-control, but only you appear to think such failure worthy of celebration rather than censure."

            "One cannot control one's heart, Albert. It is not an egg to be boiled and served on command."

            "That may be true for a weaker person with little else to consume their thoughts. One who thinks of mischief at all hours of the day and night. A person, for instance—" he turned his sad eyes to her "—who has a very comfortable existence and wants for nothing, might spend far too much time on the contemplation of romance, and when they are beyond it themselves, they might begin to assign their own passions and ideas to the minds of young girls who are easily bent to their will and lured from the path of duty. It is all too common for one who feels her own better days might be behind her, to seek a life vicariously through someone younger."

            Well, that was wholly unfair, she thought, tossing yet more lumps of sugar into her coffee. He was very fortunate that she happened to be fond of trees and couldn't hold the occasional snagged skirt or sleeve against them. The one thing she must always remember about Albert was that he rarely felt an insult himself and therefore was surprised when anybody else did.

            "But you want your sister to be happy, do you not?  Your father did not interfere in your match."

            "Of course my father did not interfere," he said crisply. "He knew that I would not make my choice with a head clouded by love and romance. None of that was imperative to me when I chose my future companion. I looked specifically for a woman who would not arouse those kind of disturbances as you describe in my pulse and my heart— an organ, incidentally, that must continue to function steadily, without interruption, in order to keep me alive and of use to this estate. I looked for a woman of everything plain."

            During this speech, his wife had put down the silver creamer and begun to listen again as Albert talked proudly of the lack of passion in his married life. Persey felt her daughter-in-law's eyes, like wasps, darting about, looking for somebody to sting. Oh, this would not be good for her at all.


(copyright Jayne Fresina 2017)

Illustrations above: Painting of James Erskine, Lord Alva by Allan Ramsay (1713-1784) and portrait of Elizabeth, Countess of Sutherland by George Romney 1782.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Exclusive Excerpt from The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

For your reading pleasure, a teaser from my newest release. Enjoy!

* * * *

            With no warning before they collided, and both moving at a fair pace until the moment of impact, they were caught in a vortex, his strong grip closed tightly around her. It was almost like being spun in a dance— a very rowdy May day dance where everybody had too much cider.

            Persey could have sworn her heartbeat stopped completely for those few seconds as she swung through the air with the stranger's arms around her.

            "Pardon me, ma'am," he wheezed, setting her down again on the grass.

             Thick, muscular and browned by frequent exposure to sun, his limbs had taken possession of her for those few, startled seconds, and she was not at all sure whether it was the force of the strike, the sudden sensation of being airborne and flung about, or the powerful grip of one arm— which remained around her waist for several pulse beats longer than its partner— that caused her to stumble a second time.

            Their equilibrium regained, he took a step back, finally releasing her.

            Persey sheltered her eyes from the sun with one hand to get a better look at her assailant. His hands were well-used, the fingernails dark with grime. A black marking circled his wrist as if it were drawn upon the skin with ink. His chest and shoulders were broad, barely contained by a sweat-dampened, linen shirt and a simple flannel waistcoat. Above that came a thick neck and a face unshaven, but young. Dark hair, tied back in a simple tail. Brown eyes with a touch of reserved caution in the way they assessed her.

            Persey prided herself on knowing the name of every worker on the estate, and always took time to learn about their families, maintaining a lively interest in births, weddings, and courtships. And she had certainly never laid eyes on this one before. But he must be a laborer who had worked long hours in the outdoors.  In the next moment, it occurred to her that since his face was unfamiliar, he must be one of the new men brought in by that over-paid, pretentious idiot who fancied himself a "garden designer". Albert had mentioned she might see some of his workers about the place.

            "Pardon me, ma'am," he said again, this time with a quick bow.

            "You should look where you go, young man," she chided, quickly checking that she had lost no flowers from her trug. A few were crushed, but most had survived. Like her.

            "Well, so should you, I reckon." He smiled. "I'd say it was your fault as much as mine, wouldn't you?"

            She stared up at him. Apparently he didn't know who she was. But then, she reasoned, how could he? She wore no jewelry, just a simple, midnight blue muslin gown with a stained pinafore over it — her usual attire when working in the garden. Perhaps it was a good thing if he mistook her for one of the household staff. This could be her chance to find out a little more about her new enemy by way of interrogating one of his minions.

            So rather than make comment on his impudent remark, she swung her flower-filled trug against her hip, blinked her lashes and said, "Where might you be going in such haste?"

            His eyes looked confused for a moment as he tilted his head to one side, studying her face, and then he gave a bit of a smile as he scratched one shoulder, before resting his knuckles on his hips. "To find the secret garden hidden yonder beyond all these hedges. I hear its well-tended." He glanced at her worn leather gauntlets. "Would you be one of the maids responsible?"

            "I... do tend the garden, sir."

            "Perhaps you'd be good enough to show me to it then? Since you know your way around the maze."

            "You have an interest in gardens?"

            With one hand he brought the loose end of his neck-cloth to his brow and mopped up the sweat that glistened there. "Aye. I have an interest." A slow grin bent his lips, a little apprehensively, she thought. "Especially if you show me. I wouldn't want to get lost, would I?"

             Biting her lip, she considered. "I suppose I might spare a minute or two."

            "Or half an hour." His gaze swept her with more heat than the sun, but then he quickly looked away, as if he felt burned. "I don't like to rush my way around a garden. I prefer to take my time. Don't like to miss anything."

            She raised a hand to her neck, where a lock of loose hair stuck to her perspiring skin. "I have my duties to tend for the mistress."

            His eyes returned for a longer look, their curiosity following the trail of her fingers. "I promise I won't keep you too long." Then he smiled. It began cautiously, unassuming, even a little quizzical, but once that smile reached full strength, it felt as if the sun dazzled her. Although his voice was calm and steady, his body rippled and pulsed with dangerous vitality beneath that shirt and waistcoat. And as he stood before her with his feet apart, head cocked, the sun shining on his hair, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke was suddenly aware of a long dormant, now reawakened ... feistiness.

            Persey hadn't blushed in front of a man since she was eighteen. She had forgotten what that felt like, until now. Tread with caution, she warned herself. "You're a new face."

            "Just arrived." He reached over their heads, his fingers toying with a leaf from the arbor, very casual, as if he thought she would be accustomed to so much masculinity in a state of bold undress. Close enough to touch. The proximity raised her temperature another ten degrees, but he didn't seem bothered by it.

            "You must work for that fancy garden designer." She took a step back.

            His lip quirked. "Fancy?" He stepped toward her again. "What does that mean?"

            "I hear he plans to dig the place up and ruin everything that generations have built, change the place so it doesn't look like itself anymore, and all in the interests of vanity and fashion."

            A soft laugh tumbled out of his mouth, and surprise lifted his brows. "Word gets about. I just saw a stable lad who said, more or less, the same."

            "'Tis true, is it not?"

            "Who told you that? The meddlesome old goat from the dower house?"

            Persey caught her breath and looked down at her trug again while she composed her face. "Don't fret that I'll tell. A stable lad already informed me of the rumors she's planting about my... " He paused and when she looked up he scratched irritably at the side of his neck. "...My master. And we were warned by the marquess." He shrugged his wide shoulders. "Old folk just don't like change. But Radcliffe will manage her. He doesn't stand for nonsense when it gets in the way of his vision."

            "How will he do that then?" she enquired nonchalantly. "How will he manage her?"

            "You'll see." He gestured with his hand for her to lead on. "Aren't you going to show me this hidden garden? We'd best get on if you can't spare me much of your time."

            So she turned and walked ahead of him, crossing to the gravel path, glad of the chance to hide her expression. Meddlesome old goat, indeed!


* * * *


            Well, this was a delightful surprise, he thought, watching the enticing sway of her walk as she led him under the bowers of greenery and through a sun-dappled tunnel. He hadn't been thinking about women at all. Working too hard, building his name and his future, Joss rarely had a chance to let his mind stray in that direction.

            But there she was, popping up in his path like the first spring snowdrop, gladdening his sight after a long winter. One look at her, one hand against her back, one breath of her scent, had reminded him that this was the time to come out of hibernation. It was the time for skipping lambs, wildly frolicking rabbits in the meadows, and birds frantically gathering sticks for their nests. He began to feel a little of that urgent spirit himself. Perhaps it had something to do with the delightful press of her body forced against his when he put his arms around her. He'd have to be a dead man not to appreciate those warm curves, not to feel a quickening.

            "What's your name?" he called to her, lengthening his stride to catch up. She was a fast walker, or else she had long legs under that gown

            "Why do you want to know? You won't be here long enough to get much use out of it, young fellow. Not if the dowager marchioness gets her way."

            He chuckled softly. "Planning on being rid of us, is she? Inciting the staff to rebellion against the newcomers already? She must distrust every man before she's even met him."

            "Her ladyship, my mistress, cares greatly for the grounds of the estate and won't see them brought to ruin. She will defend Holbrooke with everything she has."

            He could have told her that he was that "fancy" garden designer her mistress so despised, but then, in fear of upsetting the old lady, she would run off and leave him there. Joss really wanted to find this secret garden. And he wanted her to show him through the maze. Those well-worn leather gauntlets, the grass and mud-stained, torn pinafore, and the much-abused hat all told of a woman who spent much of her time in the garden— that she was comfortable there and knew her way around. He recognized a fellow enthusiast when he saw one.

            But if she knew who he was, she would probably get him lost in the maze deliberately, for there was a hot spark of mischief in her gaze and those lips had a habit of turning up at one corner in a semi-smirk that suggested a reluctance to smile and an impatience to bite.

            "Tradition is important in a place like Holbrooke," she added. "My mistress keeps the grounds as her husband liked them and as his father and grandfather had them before that."

            "The old lady can stop gnashing her teeth," he exclaimed. "Radcliffe has no evil intentions toward the place. Sounds to me as if the lady likes to make a storm in a tea cup. Perhaps she does not have enough to do with her time. In which case, we'll have to find something to keep her busy and out of Radcliffe's way."

            She looked askance. "Such as?"

            "Embroidery? Jam-making? What do old ladies like to do, when they're not poking their nose into other folk's business? If she plans to make trouble for Radcliffe, she'll soon find he can make just as much for her."

            "I wouldn't advise anybody to cross her ladyship, young man."

            "Yes, I suppose she's a formidable old crone, but Radcliffe can be equally difficult."

            "I do not know that anybody would describe the dowager marchioness as a crone."

            "Not to her face, I'm sure. But since I set foot on the estate everybody has warned me about her. It's clear she's a wretched old curmudgeon and they all know it."

            "You're awfully free with your words and opinions, young man. I might tell her what you just said."

            "Don't care if you do. She's a spent force. What can she do to me? I'm no wide-eyed stable lad to be frightened with tales of corpses in the rose garden. Neither is Radcliffe."

             The woman quickened her pace between the hedges, and he hurried after her again. Perhaps he'd gone too far in the things he said of the old dowager, but he never could abide an interfering woman— of any age— and if her words had already set this interesting creature against him, then he truly had cause to be angry.

            Eventually she said, "How long will you be here then? It can't take too much time to dig a few holes, throw some muck about and make a general mess of the view. Moles manage it well enough and they're blind."

            "My master takes great care with his projects. I could be here for months." He snatched some lilac from her basket and sniffed it. "So there, you see. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other. I'd like to call you by your name. If you'd permit it, of course."

            She pursed her lips and stared straight ahead, her profile defiant.

            "Otherwise I'll have to make up some other name to call you, shan't I?" he teased. "Sweet Lips or Blue Eyes or Buttercup." As he reached for another bloom, she moved her basket aside, tidying the contents as if they were in some special order he'd disturbed.

            "Call me whatever you like. I shan't have to answer to it, shall I?"  She walked on.

            He leapt around in front of her and gave a little bow, one hand to his heart. "Well, my name is Joss, and I will always answer to your call. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. See? If I can do it, you can."

            She licked her bee-stung lips and surveyed him haughtily for a moment. Her long lashes wafted down and then up, languid as if they were heavy. Her eyes, like windows through which he could see an even more glorious spring sky, remained cool.

            "Oh, for pity's sake! Folk call me Persey." And as she gave a grandly mocking curtsey, he was suddenly rendered breathless by a teasing glimpse of rounded bosom, nestled within her muslin bodice and caressed by a transparent white fichu. Again he thought of sporting rabbits, their fluffy, bobbing tails, wide eyes, twitching noses on high alert, ears...pricked. The long, dew-speckled grass, glittering as they dashed through it, leaving a darker trail in their wake.

            "Have you worked for your master long?" she asked, setting off again at her brisk pace.

            "Many—" he caught a breath, as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low arch of a rose arbor, "many hard years."

            "Not that many surely. You're too young."

            He laughed. "I am eight and twenty."

            The light dimmed a little under her lashes as she shot him a sideways glance. "Then you are young. I thought so." She shook her head and recounted her flowers.

            "I'm old enough."

            "Old enough for what?" She laughed lightly, dismissively. "Solid foods?"

            Joss stopped her path again, squared his shoulders and rested his knuckles on both hips. "I'll have you know, Persey, I've been in gardens for ten years." That was what he preferred to call it: Being in gardens. Some used the term "landscaping", but he did not care for it. Sounded too grand, when it was really a case of helping nature do her work.

            "An entire ten years," she muttered, sounding amused. "A man of eighteen is barely out of the cradle." There went the lop-sided bend of her lips again.

            And suddenly, there, in the dancing jade shadows of the labyrinth, he knew he would kiss that smirk right off those skeptical lips. Soon. Yes, he was definitely feeling the warmth of Spring in his parts. It happened rarely that a woman caught his notice and never had one captured it quite so zealously.

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copyright Jayne Fresina 2017
(image above - Lady in a Garden by Frederic Leighton)
Want to read more?

Monday, June 19, 2017

Where do I get my wretched ideas? And why can't I be stopped?

The Peculiar Folly of Long-Legged Meg-

Persephone "Persey" Foyle, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke, leads a happy, busy existence, tending her garden, overseeing her charitable missions, feuding with her stepson's wife and vetting potential suitors for her stepdaughter. As far as this lively widow is concerned her life lacks nothing.

But when a young, famously-talented designer is hired to "improve" the grounds of Holbrooke estate— a task she has managed for eight years— Persey's comfortable world is threatened. It doesn't help that he's hired by her nemesis, the new marchioness, or that his talents are all the mode among England's Georgian aristocracy. He has no chance of impressing Persey. No chance at all.

Josias Radcliffe has worked hard for his success, and although he's been warned about the dowager, no "meddlesome old crone" will stand in the way of his latest triumph. Until he runs into a pretty maid on his first day and talks her into showing him through the Holbrooke maze. Soon his course is altered, his plans changed forever.

Because the dowager has secrets and Joss is the one person who could expose her as a fraud. He knew her when she was Long-Legged Meg— a scullery maid who spun tall tales, and, so it is rumored, used her knowledge of herbs and plants to dispatch her enemies. Folk say she used those long legs to carry her away from the gallows.

But have they carried her far enough?

(copyright J. Fresina 2017)

* * * *

My inspiration for this story began with one picture (right) - by Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot (circa 1850-1855).

People often ask where I get my ideas. Well, they often spring from just one picture, or a dream I had, or something I watched. This intently reading young girl immediately conjured, for me, the story of Meg, a soul who wants something more for herself than the life others believe she's entitled to have. Her skies are grey, but there is a light on her face that suggests she might soon emerge into sun. And I think she has stolen a moment away from her work to sit outdoors and read her book - possibly a forbidden pleasure, definitely something her employer would never encourage if they caught her at it. Her expression is quietly absorbed, but I can't help feeling there is much going on inside her mind - a great deal of story plotting, perhaps?

In the second picture, I see another Meg quite grown up and with a bit more "spit and polish".  Would you still recognize her? She hopes not.

You can find out more about Long-Legged Meg on June 28th. Happy reading!


(Painting on the left is of Emma, Lady Hamilton by George Romney 1782)

Thursday, June 1, 2017

On Sale!

For this weekend only you can grab a copy of LAST RAKE STANDING for only 99cents!

This was one of the very first novellas I wrote when I decided to try my hand at romance and novellas in one strike. If you're looking for a quickie read this weekend, here is your chance to pick up a bargain.

LAST RAKE STANDING (But for how long?)

In Victorian London, Emma Hale leads two lives. As Le Petite Oiseau, in corset and pink feathers, she's the reigning queen of the music hall; offstage she's a meek theatre seamstress. For years these two women have shared one body out of necessity; now they share something else—forbidden love for a man who could end their masquerade for good.

William Craven, Duke of Penhale, wants Le Petite Oiseau as his mistress, but he's also sworn to hunt down and revenge himself on the hazel-eyed girl who once shot at him with a dueling pistol. He's about to be surprised when he crosses paths with both women on the same night. And suddenly he faces a dilemma.

So which woman does Will want? The fiery, passionate actress or the quiet "mouse" hiding in her shadow?

Perhaps this notorious rake wants them both. 


Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Character Showcase - Prospero "Smokey" Piper

Prospero "Smokey" Piper is a self-made man who rose from poverty by way of a bourbon distillery and he is now a very wealthy businessman, a widower with three grown daughters to manage. His main hope for them is that they will make good marriages and provide him with grandchildren of whom he can be proud. He also wants them to be happy in life and has raised them to have confidence in themselves - to know that Pipers never give up.

As he tells Epiphany, his middle daughter, "There's always another way to conquer the mountain, girl. If someone gets in our way, we go around them and over them, and we don't pay them no more mind. We're adventurers and speculators by nature."

He fears - rightly so, as it turns out - that he might have been a little lax in his daughters' upbringing after their mother died. This is never more evident than when Epiphany ("Pip") causes a scandal that rocks Boston society and makes it necessary to pack her and her sisters off into exile abroad until the furor blows over. Not knowing what else to do, he hands the girls over to his sister Queenie to chaperone in England, then sits back and hopes for the best. Perhaps they'll find titled husbands to help raise his own status in America and stop certain "high and mighty types" from looking down their noses at him.

But like all the best laid plans this one will soon run into problems.

His eldest daughter is soon engaged to the son of a viscount and Prospero is so delighted and relieved that he proceeds with the arrangements immediately, on the urging of his sister and his daughter. He's not a man who knows much about etiquette and has a warm trust in his sister's ability to spot an opportunity. As Queenie often says, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

When a series of unfortunate events (no spoilers here!) leave his daughters stranded and unchaperoned in England, Pip, his wayward middle daughter, suddenly finds herself having to step up and assume the responsibilities she always thought she wanted and could manage. Meanwhile, many thousands of miles away Prospero realizes that this plan to launch his daughters into London society was, perhaps, not his wisest idea ever. But it's not the first time he's made an error or missed his aim. He has lost and won back a fortune several times over and life is, as he knows only too well, nothing if not unpredictable. Without taking a little risk once in a while, a man may as well be dead. Without rolling the dice, no game would ever be won.

Now, with all fingers crossed, he must hope that his daughter stays strong under pressure. Fortunately , he knows she's no fading lily and can protect herself.

"Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, of Louisiana and various other parts unknown and best unmentioned— a man who believed that when one ran out of opportunities one simply made more— was the first ambitious and wealthy American businessman to think of this idea, not that any history book or self-professed "expert" will tell you that, because...well, just like that first attempt at building a still behind his family's outhouse as a young boy, this plan didn't exactly turn out the way he expected either.

And although explosions were inevitable, it was not his grandmother's drawers in danger this time."

Copyright Jayne Fresina 2017

Want to read more? Get DAMON UNDONE here!

Happy Reading!

 (Picture of Washington's Still)