A Writer’s Retreat

A Writer’s Retreat

Trying to write in the middle of a busy household with a couple of Labradors and an over-developed sense of responsibility, I’ve often dreamed of going on a Writer’s Retreat. I’m sure many of my fellow writers feel the same way. After yet another week where writing plans have sunk without trace in a round of supermarket shopping, dealing with elderly relatives, proofreading essays and cleaning the dogs’ ears, I love the idea of a few days of peace and quiet in lovely surroundings with nothing to do but write. I’ve never done it though.

I’ve come close a few times. I used to volunteer to cat-sit for my sister, who lives in a very beautiful place, and I certainly took the opportunity to catch up on work while I was there. Somehow though, it was still never the haven I dreamed about. I’ve taken off on research trips on my own many times, but those tend to be a frantic round of getting to the places I wanted, taking photographs and making notes. It would almost have felt too self-indulgent to spend the day sitting doing nothing but writing.

Organised writers’ retreats look very appealing, but many of them seem very expensive. Besides which, they generally include other writers. I know myself too well, and the opportunity to sit and talk writing, history and general nonsense with a group of like-minded people would be irresistible. They’d be a lot of fun, but I’d get nothing done.

The second half of 2021 was hard for me. It is well recorded elsewhere on this blog that I didn’t do well with lockdown and restrictions, and although I would have loved to book a research trip somewhere in Europe, I didn’t trust that these wouldn’t be reinstated at a moment’s notice. Richard managed a couple of cycling trips to the UK, and we had some friends to stay the moment restrictions lifted enough, but I was miserable. The only trips I made to the UK were necessary family visits and none of them were particularly restful. We had been having a lot of problems with my elderly in-laws who had recently moved to the island and I felt as though my life had become one long round of hospital visits and troubleshooting phone calls.

2021 was also the first year since I began publishing that I didn’t manage to get a book out. Back in October, it seemed as though I wasn’t even going to get close to it. I knew what I needed to do, and the book was going well, but I couldn’t get enough time to work on it. I was frazzled and seriously burned out and I needed a break, but I had no idea where I wanted to go or what was practical in the post-Covid world.

Burnout is one thing, but the annual Halloween short story was due, and I had an idea for a story set during Captain Hugh Kelly’s younger days, when he was newly promoted to captain of a frigate. My research so far has all been based around the 74-gun Iris, but I wanted information about one of the smaller, faster ships which made stars of the navy captains. A quick spell of internet research introduced me to HMS Trincomalee, the oldest warship still afloat in Europe.

The Trincomalee looked gorgeous and was located in the Museum of the Royal Navy in Hartlepool, something I didn’t even know existed. I did a bit of research and decided that I absolutely wanted to go there, and sooner rather than later. I was actually very excited. It’s been two years since there was a very real prospect of me travelling anywhere to do something just for myself, and the sheer joy I felt, made me realise how badly I needed a break. I checked dates with Richard then went searching for accommodation.

I was determined not to stay with family or friends. This time I wanted to be completely on my own agenda. I didn’t want to stay in Hartlepool, but somewhere pretty, within easy driving distance. North Yorkshire looked good, and I love that area. No self-catering. I do enough cooking at home. I typed in my requirements, to be listed by cost for a week, lowest first.

The first thing that popped up was a room at the Duke of Wellington Inn, in Danby. I swear to God, people, I’d booked it within ten minutes. Sometimes it’s obviously a sign.

The Duke of Wellington Inn is an ivy-clad traditional eighteenth century inn located in the tiny village of Danby in the North York Moors, about fifteen miles inland from Whitby. Until I found the place, I hadn’t decided that my trip was going to be my very own personalised writer’s retreat, but a bit of research made me realise it was perfect. Danby really is small, although very pretty. The Moors National Park Centre is just at the edge of the village, and there’s a tiny bakery with a café just behind the Duke of Wellington. Other than that, there’s not even a shop in the village. For somebody wanting uninterrupted writing time, it couldn’t have been better.

I checked with the owner whether there was a suitable table in my room for working. The single rooms were fairly small, but he assured me there was a guests’ sitting room with a desk in it and I’d be very welcome to work there as it was seldom used. When I arrived and saw it, I couldn’t quite believe my luck. For a week, I effectively had my own personal study. It was completely lovely.

The Duke of Wellington Inn was built in 1732 and was originally known as the Red Briar. It was used as a recruiting post during the Napoleonic Wars and was apparently known as either the Wellington Arms or the Lord Wellington during this period. I haven’t yet been able to find out when the name was changed to the Duke of Wellington – my first thought was that it must have been after 1815 to commemorate the victory at Waterloo, but I discovered that when Canon Atkinson arrived in 1847 to take up his post as Vicar of Danby, the inn was still called the Wellington Arms so the transition must have come later. At that point, the inn was kept by two sisters known as Martha and Mary.

A cast iron plaque of the Duke was unearthed during restoration work and can be seen on the wall as you go up the stairs. The inn is not large and is very obviously old – floors are uneven and the furniture is very traditional. Impressively, though, all the essential things for a comfortable stay work really well – the bed was comfortable, the bathroom modern and heating and hot water were spot on. I’d booked bed and breakfast, but after a look at the dinner menu, decided I’d eat there in the evening as well. It was standard pub food, but well-cooked and sensibly priced, and I never object to sitting by an open fire in a traditional country pub to eat. In addition, the staff were absolutely amazing. Nothing was too much trouble and they treated my invasion of the guest sitting room as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Thank you so much guys.

I’m pleased to say I stood by my resolution to treat this week as a writer’s retreat. Apart from my one excursion to Hartlepool, I remained in and around the village. The weather was beautiful, crisp and cold but with only one rainy day. I ordered breakfast early then went for a walk every morning before sitting down to work. Lunch was soup and sandwiches from the Stonehouse Bakery, with some excellent cake for afternoon tea, and then I’d go for another walk before dinner. It was often almost dark by the time I got back, and the sunsets were gorgeous.

During the day I took over the desk and worked solidly on book seven, An Indomitable Brigade. I found, to my joy, that I’d been right about the book. There was nothing wrong with either plotting or the research I’d done. I just needed time, and peace and quiet to get on with it. I kept in touch with my family during the evening, but firmly refused to take calls during the day. I was helped by the fact that the wi-fi was variable. It worked very well in my room, and down in the bar areas but in the study it was patchy, which removed the temptation to chat on Twitter or Facebook. After the first day, I was completely absorbed in the world of the 110th and the battle of Vitoria.

I enjoyed my day out at the National Museum of the Royal Navy in Hartlepool, and the Trincomalee was everything I hoped for and more. The museum is set up around a historic quayside restored to look like an eighteenth century seaport and its beautiful waterside setting. The various buildings are set up to show tradesmen like tailors, printers and instrument makers with stories about the Royal Navy and the men and women associated with it. It’s a great place for kids, with an adventure play ship and loads of activities, and because I was there during half term, there were demonstrations of gunnery and swordsmanship and various talks scheduled through the day. I went to everything, even though most of this wasn’t new to me. It was a great atmosphere, and I thoroughly enjoyed the interactive Fighting Sail exhibition, though the kids commentary around me probably entertained me as much as the displays.

The Trincomalee was perfect, one of two surviving British frigates of her era. The other, HMS Unicorn is a museum ship in Dundee and I’m going to get there when I can. The Trincomalee was commissioned in 1812 to be built in India using teak, due to the shortage of oak in Britain after the intensive shipbuilding of the Napoleonic wars. Work did not begin until 1816 so by the time the ship was finished the following year, the wars were over and Trincomalee was put to other uses.

On the advice of one of the guides, I waited until the kids were completely absorbed in learning how to form a boarding party on the quayside using foam swords and cutlasses before boarding the ship. It was completely empty and I was able to take photographs, absorb the atmosphere and write stories in my head to my hearts content. The Trincomalee quickly morphed into the fictional Herne in my imagination, Hugh Kelly’s first post-command, and the story was finished. I’ll definitely come back to it though, I’d like to write a lot more of Hugh’s earlier adventures in the navy.

Rush hour in Danby

Back at my borrowed desk, I had a blissful few days of writing, walking on the moors and falling in love both with Yorkshire and with my fictional world all over again. By the time I set off for the ferry at the end of the week, the book was back on track, and I was fairly sure I’d have it written, even if not edited and published, before the end of the year. I had also forgiven myself for my inability to work as well as usual during the past two years. There are probably writers out there who made the most of the restrictions of lockdown and emerged ahead of the game. I suffered, and emotionally it was hard to put myself into the heads of my characters when my own head was so full of confusion. I think on those long, winter walks over the moors I’ve worked out how to be kinder to myself and how to keep a distance when the world feels an alien and unfamiliar place.

I’ve concluded that a writer’s retreat means different things to different people. For some, it’s about learning, and they’re looking for lectures and workshops and the ability to try something new. For others, it’s about connecting with other writers to share ideas and stories and to feel part of a community for a while, in this very solitary job that we do. For me, it’s definitely a retreat, a place of quiet and solitude and some beauty, where I can throw myself back into what I do best without any nagging sense of all the other things on my to do list.

Of course, it also helps to have an eighteenth century Napoleonic recruiting inn and an early nineteenth century frigate thrown in for good measure.

 

Salts Mill and Saltaire

Salt Mill

I’d never been to Salts Mill and Saltaire, the Victorian model village in Shipley, Bradford, until a recent visit with friends, and it turns out that I’ve been missing out. There is enough history there to satisfy a geek like me, with the added bonus of specialist shops, a gallery and two cafes to keep the rest of the party entertained.

 

Saltaire was built in 1851 by Sir Titus Salt, a leading industrialist in the Yorkshire woollen industry. Salt was a cloth manufacturer who took over his father’s textile business in 1833 and expanded it over a period of twenty years to be the largest employer in Bradford. He was an alderman and then mayor of Bradford, and was elected to Parliament in 1848. Salt’s business was spread between five different mills, and with business booming, he decided to build a new mill, consolidating his operations into one place.

 

 

Salt, a deeply religious man, and a known philanthropist, was concerned about the over-crowded conditions in Bradford so bought land in Shipley, just outside Bradford, beside the River Aire, the Midland Railway and the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.  Building began in 1851 and Saltaire Mills opened in 1853. To accommodate his workers, Salt then commissioned housing close to the mill. A model village grew up, which included well-built houses, a hospital, bathhouses, almshouses and churches.  The Congregational church, now known as Saltaire United Reformed Church, was built at Salt’s own expense and he donated the land upon which the Wesleyan Chapel was built. With the moral improvement  and probably the work performance of his workforce in mind, he forbade public houses or beer shops from the village. The village had a public institute which included a library, a reading room, a concert hall, billiard room, science laboratory and a gym. There was also a village school, a park, allotments and a boathouse.

Salt wrote little about his motive for building Saltaire, but it was probably a combination of Christian charity and economic good sense. The village provided a well-housed, local workforce which was very good for business. At the same time, it is clear that Salt sincerely believed that he was doing God’s work in creating a clean, healthy environment for his people, which contrasted with the appalling conditions in the slums of Bradford.

Sir Titus Salt died in 1876, leaving the business to his son. Saltaire was then taken over by a partnership led by Sir James Roberts. Salts Mill finally closed as a textile mill in 1986. Today it has been renovated and houses an eclectic mix of commercial, leisure and residential spaces. The mill is enormous, a monument to Victorian industrialism, with the village neatly laid out beside the canal.

Inside the main mill building is the 1853 art gallery which is devoted to the works of Bradford born artist David Hockney. There are two good cafes, a book shop and a gallery shop which sells prints, cards and art supplies. I love gallery shops and have a tendency to spend more money than I should on beautiful notebooks and pretty cards. I keep a notebook for each new book I write, and they are never ever a plain A4 pad.

I was not tempted by The Home which sells designer furniture and other homeware at eye-watering prices. I’m genuinely fascinated trying to guess who would spend £2500 on what looks like a very ordinary plastic chair to me, but I’m happy to acknowledge my ignorance of modern interior design and save my pennies for books and gorgeous stationery.

My favourite part of Saltaire, though, was not the shops, the gallery or the cafes, although all are lovely. It wasn’t even the museum area, which shows a film telling the history of the village and some memorabilia associated with Sir Titus Salt and Saltaire, although I do recommend that, to get an overview of how this project came about. The real joy of Saltaire is in the narrow streets of the village itself, which give a real sense of a bygone era. I had a weird sense of familiarity walking through those streets, some of which probably came from my memories of similar workers cottages which still existed in London’s East End during my childhood, although I did discover afterwards that Saltaire is used as a location for filming Peaky Blinders, and I’m a big fan.

A surprising number of the original buildings survive, including the Institute which is now known as Victoria Hall, and the beautiful United Reformed Church. The houses are lived in and clearly much loved. Modern shops have moved in, and I was particularly entertained by a rather nice looking bar and restaurant, imaginatively called “Don’t Tell Titus” in reference to the founder’s refusal to allow alcohol to be sold anywhere in the village.

United Reformed Church

From the village streets, I walked down to the church and then across the bridge to the canal towpath. On a sunny February afternoon, the canal was beautiful, with the towpath clearly very popular with local families. There is an attractive park alongside, and beyond that, the River Aire. The park was originally known as Saltaire Park, and is now known as Roberts Park, and it was laid out for the recreational use of the inhabitants of Salt’s model village.

I’m not a huge fan of Victorian paternalism, and it’s easy to see the economic advantages to a man like Titus Salt in creating a model village for his workforce. Nevertheless, there is still something admirable about Salt’s genuine interest in the welfare of the people who lived in Saltaire and worked at the mill. Salt Mill and the village of Saltaire are a fascinating piece of nineteenth century Victorian history and a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Also, the cake in the tea shop was really, really good…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snow in Yorkshire, January 1808 – Excerpt from An Unconventional Officer

Snow in Yorkshire
An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s army
Book 1 in the Peninsular War Saga

As we’ve a rare snowy day on the Isle of Man, I thought I’d share a wintery excerpt from An Unconventional Officer although snow in Yorkshire is a bit more common…

Major Paul van Daan of the 110th infantry is in temporary charge of the 115th Yorkshire foot, a regiment in chaos. His attempts to impose some discipline haven’t been popular resulting in one of the men throwing a rock at his head and causing him to be thrown in a blizzard. In addition, he hasn’t had any breakfast…

He arrived in barracks over an hour later, having given Rufus an easy ride, careful of his legs in the snow. The horse was surprisingly well for his night’s ordeal, and acting on instinct Paul followed his hoof prints in the snow to find out where he had been. The results were interesting. He rode into the stable and dismounted, handing the reins to a groom with a pleasant nod. There was no sign of life out on the pure white snow of the parade ground. Paul walked over and tested the depth. It was a pleasing eight or nine inches with an underlying layer of ice.
He walked over to the stores, nodded to the elderly sergeant who acted as store master, and walked through to the back. He was aware of the old man’s puzzled regard as he lifted a rifle down from the rack, and checked it, then collected some ammunition. Standing in the doorway he loaded swiftly, observing the surprised expression on the store master’s face at the speed. Carter or any one of his rifles would have considered it slow, but for an officer who did not practice regularly it was impressive. Nodding again, he walked out of the store and across to the mess. It was warm inside. Paul leaned the rifle up against the inside of the door and surveyed his officers benignly.
There were seven of them. Lieutenant Carlyon was not present, presumably at home still suffering from the after effects of having a tooth drawn. Paul was glad, as it absolved him of any possible hint of favouritism. Captain Moore was lounging closest to the fire, with his boots on the fender. Beside him sat Lieutenants Bagnall, Walsh and Hendry. A pack of cards was strewn across the table before them. The three young ensigns were sitting further away from the fire. As Paul entered, all heads turned.
“Don’t get up,” he said gently, and every man scrambled reluctantly to his feet, Moore taking the longest. Paul waved them to their seats. Ensign Franklin’s eyes widened. “What happened to your head, sir?” he asked.
“An accident on my way here yesterday.”
“Were you caught in that storm?” Moore said casually.
“In a manner of speaking. Somebody threw a rock at my head on my way here and I ended up decorating the road with a twisted knee and no horse. I rather imagined that Rufus would have made his way back here, but I’m guessing not. Or you’d have sent somebody out to look for me.”
Walsh looked at the others. “No, sir. Was he…did you get him back?”
“Oh yes. He must have been running loose all night in that storm, and then made his way back to find me. Fortunately I found a shepherd’s hut to spend the night in, because I couldn’t have walked that far in that weather.”
“Thank God for that, sir,” Bagnall said heartily. Paul looked around at the seven men, noticing the obvious discomfort of the three ensigns.
“No drill this morning?” Paul asked, still pleasantly.
“No, sir. Parade ground snowed under.”
“Ah, yes. Never mind.” Paul allowed his eyes to wander from one face to another. Ensign Franklin, who seemed to be the most perceptive, was looking terrified. “I expect it won’t take too long to clear.”
They stared at him owlishly, and Paul smiled. He picked up the rifle.
“Anyone load one of these?” he enquired.
“I know how, sir,” Hendry said. “Not often had to do it.”
“I’ve found it useful to learn. Keeps the men on their toes. I’ve half a dozen riflemen in the light company, and they’d laugh themselves silly at how slow I am. Nevertheless, I think I can probably engage to reload fast enough to put a ball through every one of you fucking liars before any of you could get out of the room. Who wants to go first?”
He lifted the rifle and aimed it squarely at Walsh’s knee. Walsh gave a nervous laugh.
“Shouldn’t wave that thing around in here, sir. I mean I know it’s not loaded, but…”
Paul lowered the rifle slightly and fired. The shot hit the floor between Walsh’s feet and the man yelled and leaped backwards, almost stumbling into the fire in his haste. Paul reloaded. Nobody else moved.
“Rufus’ saddle and tack were bone dry this morning when he turned up looking for me,” he said quietly. “So I followed his tracks. Of course the ones he made yesterday would have been covered up. But this morning they led all the way from his stable. He turned up here yesterday, just as I thought, and you all decided to have a jolly good laugh about me getting thrown on the road, and stuck out in that storm. And if I’d frozen to death in a ditch, you’d have shaken your heads and silently thanked God that there was nobody here to kick your lazy, useless arses into action any further! And you know what? That is not what has pissed me off! What has really made me fucking angry is that this morning you saddled my horse and sent him off on his own to God knows where, in weather likely to cause him to break his legs just so that I wouldn’t be able to work out what you’d done! You are so bloody lucky that he’s got more brain than you have and managed to get to me in one piece, because if I’d had to shoot him with a broken leg, I’d have shot you as well! You take it out on me and I can hit back and we’re even! But when you turn on my animals, I am going to make your lives a bloody misery from now until they either post me somewhere else or you sell out!”
He turned, opened the door, and roared:
“Sergeant!”
There was a scramble in the nearest barracks and Sergeant Holland appeared, stuffing his feet into his boots and pulling up his trousers. “Sir?” he said, sounding incredulous.
“Battalion on the parade ground, Sergeant. Now!”
The sergeant stared out at the pure white expanse. “But sir…”
“Ten minutes, Sergeant! And you ought to be able to do it in five! You’re a bloody disgrace!”
Holland saluted. “Yes, sir.”
He jogged off. Paul turned to find a private standing before him, obviously dressed for sentry duty. He saluted and handed Paul a letter. “This just came for you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Paul gave a brief smile, and opened the letter. He scanned it and gave an appreciative grin. It was a very civil note from Lady Howard, thanking him for his assistance in getting her step-daughter to shelter during the storm and inviting him to dine before the ball on Thursday.
He looked up. “Will you wait a moment, Private? I’d like to reply immediately, and you can send one of the grooms with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul looked back at his officers. They were still frozen to the spot, staring at him. “I want that parade ground cleared,” he said. “From barracks wall to barracks wall. And when you get to the bottom of the snow, I want the ice chipped away as well. It will be fit for use by tomorrow, I imagine, and you’ll all be nice and warm by then.”
“Sir?” Bagnall stammered.
“Yes, Lieutenant. You. Each and every one of you. Set your men a good example for once in your lives, go and get a spade each and get digging alongside them. And if I see you stop for anything longer than a piss, I’m going to shoot you for mutiny. And before you open your mouth, Walsh, I know your father is high up at Horse Guards, and if he turns up here whining about it, I’ll shoot him as well! Don’t worry, I can make it look like a training accident. I’ve done it before!” He surveyed the seven men with merciless blue eyes. “The reason you’ve got four companies of lazy useless gobshites is because they’re led by lazy useless gobshites! I intend to amend that, starting from now. Get moving!”

(From an Unconventional Officer by Lynn Bryant)

Regency Romance – A Regrettable Reputation – an excerpt

A Regrettable Reputation (Book Two of the Light Division Romances)
A novel of Regency Yorkshire

A Regrettable Reputation is a love story, set in Yorkshire in the year after the Battle of Waterloo.  The Duke of Wellington is still in France with the Army of Occupation, and at home it is a time of change, of the Industrial Revolution and of social upheaval, especially in the textile towns of the north which are rapidly growing into cities.

Nicholas Witham is a former officer of light infantry, seriously wounded at Waterloo, who has found employment as a land agent managing the Yorkshire estate of Lord Ashberry.  Into his peaceful, well-ordered life comes Camilla Dorne, a woebegone heiress whose elopement ended in disaster and disgrace and who has been sent away from London with her reputation in tatters.  Before long the very respectable Mr Witham realises that Camilla is not at all what he might have expected, while Camilla begins to realise that the loss of her reputation might not be the disaster she had thought.

A Regrettable Reputation is the first of the Light Division romances, a series which follows the fortunes of some of the officers and men of the Light Division beyond Waterloo.  It features several characters from the Peninsular War Saga.  The second book in the series, The Reluctant Debutante, is also available on Amazon in kindle and paperback.

The hiring fair and market took place on a the Horse Fair which was a large field just to the east of the market square. There was a full market in the town as local farmers and traders took advantage of the increased business, and it spread along the high street and spilled out onto the field. The town was packed with people from all walks of life and Nicholas wondered for a moment if he had been wise to bring the girl. He drove down to the Red Lion and handed over his curricle to the grooms, glancing at her face. She was looking around, bright eyed and interested and he remembered that she had spent much of her life in the crowds and noise of London and was unlikely to be overawed by a country fair.
He helped her down and turned to Taggart to give him his instructions then offered his arm to the girl. They strolled into the throng, pausing occasionally to look at a stall.
“We’ll walk down to Mr Arnold’s place of business, if you don’t mind. I shouldn’t be with him longer than half an hour, his maid can give you tea while you wait,” Nicholas said. “After that we can go over to the hiring fair and see what we can find and then we can do our shopping. Is there anything you particularly need?”
She shook her head, smiling. “No indeed. It’s just such a joy to be out in the world again. Thank you for this, Mr Witham, I had not realised how much I had missed it.”
Nicholas smiled. “You’re too young to be a hermit,” he said. “We should, however, be prepared for a little curiosity. Should we meet an acquaintance I propose to introduce you as a guest staying at the hall. Nobody will ask more than that, no matter how curious they are.”
“Don’t you mind?”
Nicholas laughed. “Curiosity? Not really. I spent so long in the army which is a surprisingly closed community, especially in the Peninsula. We all knew far too much of each others business, it was impossible not to. Sometimes it could be exasperating, but it certainly inures one to gossip and busybodies.”
“I am not sure I am ever going to become accustomed to being the object of that kind of attention,” Camilla said. “But I should not complain; I did it to myself.”
Nicholas glanced sideways at her. She seemed perfectly composed but he could sense the unhappiness behind her calm exterior. “It isn’t my place to say so, Miss Dorne. I know so little of the circumstances and it is not my business. But if something of the kind happened to one of my sisters I would be asking a lot of questions about my mother’s chaperonage of them. You may have made a mistake but at your age that is to be expected. There are several other people who should share in the blame.”
Camilla looked up at him quickly, a blush staining her cheek. “Thank you. You are so kind to me.”
“It isn’t difficult. Here we are.”
The lawyer’s office was situated in a tall Georgian building with long windows and colonnades outside. A maid admitted them and led them upstairs where Mr Arnold himself came to greet them. He was a bewhiskered gentleman in his fifties with a friendly smile and he shook Nicholas’ hand and regarded Camilla with polite surprise.
“Mr Arnold, may I introduce you to Miss Dorne? She is a guest at the hall, recovering from an indisposition with the help of good country air and Yorkshire food. She has accompanied me today as she is in need of a new abigail. I was wondering if your housekeeper could give her some tea while we conduct our business.”
“Indeed she shall. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dorne. I am sorry to hear that you have been unwell, but a stay in the country is just the thing, you’ll be feeling yourself in no time. I shall ring for Mrs Cobb. Will you be at Ashberry long?”
“I am unsure,” Camilla said. “Thank you, you are very good.”
“No trouble at all for such a pretty young lady. Are you fit for company yet? You must tell me you are, I insist upon it. We’ve a small party planned for Tuesday next, nothing formal, just a few friends. I’ve a daughter you know, recently married, can’t be much older than you. I was going to invite Mr Witham here, but we should be very happy if you would join us.”
Camilla coloured. “That is so kind, sir, but I should not wish to trouble you. As yet I have no duenna with me since I have not been going into company…”
“Nonsense!” Mr Arnold said robustly. “That sort of stuff may be important in London but we aren’t so formal here. My wife will happily act as chaperone for the evening, and Witham here can bring you in the carriage with your maid. There now, it’s all settled.”
Seated in Mr Arnold’s office, Nicholas moved quickly on to business and the lawyer did not object. The matters were not complex and did not take long. When they were concluded, Arnold rose and went to pour sherry.
“It’s going well up there,” he said, handing Nicholas a glass. “I wonder if Lord Ashberry has any idea how much money you’re saving him since you took over. You’re a good manager, lad.”
Nicholas smiled and raised his glass. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps it’s due to living on an officers pay for so long.”
Arnold laughed. “Well I hope he realises what a good bargain he made, taking you on. And now he’s got you nursemaiding a young lady of doubtful virtue.”
Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “You know?”
“Aye. His lordship wrote to me. Thought I should be aware.”
“Then I’m surprised you issued that invitation, sir. I won’t have her embarrassed.”
“Don’t you know me better than that, lad? It’s a disgrace, sending a chit of that age to live alone. Good idea, the story about an illness? Yours?”
“Yes. I had to come up with something. And she wasn’t well when she got here so it’s partly true.”
“Well people are going to gossip, lad. But it will be worse if she hides herself away. I’ve no objection to meeting the girl. Everyone deserves a second chance. And somebody will give her one; there’s a tidy portion when she’s twenty five and a nice little estate in Surrey, I’m told.”
“You seem to know more about it than I do, sir.”
“She might suit you.”
Nicholas felt himself flush. “Is that what you think of me, sir? That I’d take advantage of a vulnerable girl in her position for money?”
“No, lad. But Sir Edward Penrose is lucky you’re not. Like I said, it’s a disgrace, sending that child here alone. He knows nothing about you, could have been another ne’er -do-well like Seymour.”
“Is that what he was?”
“So I’m told. Militia officer, no money, some minor branch of an old Wiltshire family. You know the full story?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. Do I want to?”
“Perhaps you should and the girl can’t tell you. He’d been after her for months but rumour has it she wasn’t as easy as he thought. In the end he approached her stepfather and got the flea in his ear that he deserved. He’d got a reputation, not the first heiress he’d dangled after.”
“I imagine not. I doubt that his first choice would have been to wait seven years for her to come into her fortune.”
“No. Although I think once she’s married the Trustees have some freedom to grant an allowance, perhaps even the right to live at her house. Not sure about the arrangements. Anyhow, once Penrose had forbidden him to speak to her at all it must have got easier to persuade her I suppose. She agreed to an elopement. They set off for the border. Penrose followed them.”
“And caught up with them. Fortunate, I suppose.”
“Wasn’t it? Except that luck wasn’t involved. That bastard Seymour had sent a message telling him where to find them. Penrose arrived to find him in bed with her. Walked in on them in an inn bedroom.”
“Oh no,” Nicholas said softly.
“Aye. Poor lass. It was staged, of course, to push up the price. He wanted money to go away and leave her alone. Couldn’t wait for the trust to be up, he’d debts. Penrose didn’t want to pay. They negotiated and eventually came to a price. He bought Seymour a decent commission in a cavalry regiment and paid his debts, gave him a bit extra. Seymour took the lot and then spread the story all round London, including details of how they’d been discovered. Sheer spite because he didn’t get what he’d asked for.”
“Dear God. And then he sent her up here without even an abigail to keep her company? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“A fair few things, I’m told. Penrose has two daughters he’s keen to establish well, and if rumour is true he’s got his eye on a pretty little widow of his own with a nice fortune. He inherited from his second wife but not as much as he’d hoped, most of it is in trust for the girl. I suppose he wanted to disassociate himself and his girls as quickly as possible.”
“Yes. Well if I were his pretty widow it would make me take a very long hard look at how he treats a vulnerable woman. Useful information in making her choice, I’d say.”
Arnold laughed and refilled the two glasses. “You’ve taken a liking to her, haven’t you, lad?”
“I suppose I have,” Nicholas admitted. “I hardly know the girl but I like what I’ve seen of her. She’s coped very well, considering. Seems willing to make the best of a bad situation. She’s started working with Taggart on some of our promising youngsters, she’s a capital horsewoman and has excellent hands. And she doesn’t mope or complain although I think she has a right to. I think a girl with her attitude deserves something better.”
“You think Penrose should have paid him what he asked? Is that what you’d have done?”
Nicholas shook his head. “No. I’d have beaten the living shit out of him for daring to put his hands on my daughter and made sure he knew I’d do it again if he opened his mouth about it. But don’t ask me, sir, I’m an army man, we always resort to violence.”
Arnold laughed aloud. “Might have been better for the girl. It’s odd. I look at you and I see a well brought up lad with good manners and a nice attitude and I can’t for the life of me imagine you killing anybody.”
“Can’t you?” Nicholas drained his glass and got up. “Well I have, sir. Hope never to have to do it again, but I’m not sure I’d see the likes of Seymour as a great loss to the world. It’s a shame he’s in the dragoons. I’d like to see him serving under my old commander for a week or two.”
“No longer?”
“Oh he wouldn’t last any longer, the general would have killed him. Thank you for this. Are you sure I’m all right to bring her next week?”
“Of course you are. Get her a respectable abigail. And I’ll give some thought to how we manage to make it look as though she has a duenna. Good thing you’re at the Dower House but it’s still not ideal. Go and find her and take her shopping.”
Nicholas found Camilla in conversation with Mrs Cobb, the housekeeper. He had noticed before that she had very easy manners with the servants and with the exception of Mrs Hogan, the staff at Ashberry Hall had taken her to their hearts. Even the grooms had nothing but good to say about Miss Dorne. Nicholas offered her his arm with a smile.
“Come along, let’s walk down to the fair.”
The hiring fair was new to Camilla. She had heard about them, but growing up in London was more accustomed to staff arriving through the employment agencies which were springing up around the city. She looked around with interest at the different groups of people, men and women, who had come looking for work. The various types of labourers and servants stood together, wearing or carrying some item which would indicate their particular trade or skill. Shepherds used bunches of wool, housemaids a sprig of broom, milkmaids carried a milking stool.
“What are the ones wearing the ribbons on their coats?” she asked.
“They’ve already been hired. Come on, I said I’d meet Taggart over by the western bridge.”

(From A Regrettable Reputation by Lynn Bryant)

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New Regency Romance A Regrettable Reputation Out Today

New Regency Romance A Regrettable Reputation is out today on Amazon kindle.

In 1816 war is over, Napoleon in exile and Regency England is at peace.

Mr Nicholas Witham, land agent at the Yorkshire estate of Lord Ashberry has found a haven of quiet, far from the bloodshed of war and the horror of Waterloo.  With poachers and lost sheep his most pressing concerns, Nicholas is not seeking anything more exciting than the occasional trip to York and a game of cards with friends.

The tranquillity of Ashberry is about to be disrupted by the arrival of Miss Camilla Dorne, a young woman of doubtful reputation, sent away from London by her guardian to avoid the consequences of a disastrous and very public love affair with a disreputable officer which has broken her heart.

An army officer, past or present, is the last man Camilla wishes to spend time with.  But she discovers that a lost reputation can bring unexpected freedom and possibly a second chance at happiness.

With the shadow of war firmly behind him, Nicholas is ready to move on but poverty and rising prices bring rumblings of discontent and rumours of Luddite activity in the industrial towns, and as violence erupts, the land agent of Ashberry finds himself swept up in a new conflict where the enemy is hard to identify.  Faced with a stark choice between love and duty, Nicholas is beginning to realise that he may not have left the regiment behind at all…

This is my second Regency romance and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it.  I wanted to experiment with a slightly different kind of hero and heroine and I have got very attached to Nicholas and Camilla.  Set in Yorkshire at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution it tells of poverty and public unrest as well as a love story between two people recovering from very different scars who are thrown together by circumstances.  For Nicholas the damage done by Waterloo runs deeper than his physical injuries while Camilla has been badly hurt by an unscrupulous fortune hunter and an uncaring guardian.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

 

 

 

A Regrettable Reputation

A Regrettable Reputation: Book 1 in the Light Division romances by Lynn Bryant
A Regrettable Reputation by Lynn Bryant

A Regrettable Reputation takes us to Yorkshire in 1816 where the former Captain Nicholas Witham of the 110th Infantry is adjusting to civilian life as land agent on the Ashberry estate…

In the event it was several weeks before Miss Dorne made an appearance. It was a damp afternoon and Witham had spent the morning writing letters and doing accounts before joining the grooms as they exercised the racehorses. He rode back to the stables with the lads to find a post-chaise drawn up on the carriage drive with luggage strapped to the roof.
Witham sighed and waved for one of the grooms to come and take his horse. He had no desire to converse with a spoiled woman with a lost reputation, but common civility demanded that he at least introduce himself. Giving the lad some brief instructions about the horse, he walked up to the house as the driver was lowering the carriage steps and opening the door. Mrs Hogan, the housekeeper was standing stiffly at the front door.
The woman who climbed down from the coach was of medium height, clothed in a dark travelling dress with a dark green pelisse over it and a small bonnet trimmed with feathers. She paused for a moment, looking up at the red brick of the house which was to become her home for a while. Witham could see no sign of a maid although he could not believe she had been allowed to travel without one. The girl looked at Mrs Hogan and the woman bobbed a reluctant curtsey. “Miss Dorne. I am Mrs Hogan, the housekeeper.”
“How do you do?” the newcomer said quietly. “I’ll try not to be a trouble to you.”
“Not at all,” Mrs Hogan said. “In his letter, Lord Ashberry suggested I serve meals in the east parlour since you’ll hardly be wanting to use the big dining room on your own. Your room is ready, if you’ll follow me. Ah – Mr Witham. Miss Dorne, this is Lord Ashberry’s agent who runs the estate. He lives in the Dower House which you will have passed on the drive.”
Witham approached the two women. Miss Dorne turned. “How do you do?” she said again.
Witham held out his hand. “Welcome to Ashberry Hall, Miss Dorne. We’ll try to make your stay as comfortable as possible.”
“Thank you.”
Her youth startled him. He had been expecting an older woman given her unfortunate reputation but this girl could be no more than eighteen. She was slight and fair, with a pale oval face and expressive blue eyes. There were dark shadows under her eyes which looked like bruises. She looked painfully thin with a fragile delicacy which unexpectedly touched his heart. Whatever she had done wrong, somebody should be looking after this girl and she was here alone many miles from home and family.
He realised he was staring and that he had failed to release her hand. With a laugh he did so. “I’m sorry, Miss Dorne, you must think me a half-wit standing here staring. Mrs Hogan will show you your room and get you some tea.”
The well-shaped mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Don’t think of it, Mr Witham. Recently I have become very well accustomed to being stared at.”
There was bitterness in her tone. Nicholas smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it here, Miss Dorne, you’re in the middle of nowhere, you’ll find yourself an object of interest to the horses and sheep but not much else. You must be exhausted, so I’ll let you get within and rest and eat. When you’re ready in a few days, come to the stables and I’ll find you a horse to ride. The grooms are at your disposal.”
“I prefer to ride alone, but thank you.”
“Well take one with you at least until you’ve learned your way about,” Witham said. “Good day to you.”
She disappeared inside the house and Witham stood watching as the servants began to unload her luggage from the top of the carriage. There was a sense of immense loneliness about her. It was hard to imagine her laughing and flirting with her lover before disaster had overtaken them. She looked defeated.
Mrs Hogan reappeared at the door, watching the last of the boxes being carried inside. “A hussy if ever I saw one!” she said sharply.
“God save us, Mrs Hogan, she’s a child!” Witham said shortly.
“Not such a child that she couldn’t disgrace her poor family by behaving like a common whore! She says she needs little from me, which is just as well because it’s bad enough to have to have her in the house…”
“You’ll show her the courtesy that’s due a guest of Lord Ashberry’s, ma’am!” Witham cut in sharply. “And if you don’t, I’ll see to it that he finds another housekeeper who will!”
The woman took a deep indignant breath and opened her mouth. Witham held up a hand. “Enough! You’re a narrow minded woman, and that’s fine by me, but I’ll be watching you and if there’s a sign of rudeness to that young woman, you’re out!”
He watched, amused, as she stormed back into the house, and then turned and walked towards the Dower House wondering with some sympathy how Camilla Dorne would cope with the lonely isolation of Ashberry Hall.

In 1816 war is over, Napoleon in exile and Regency England is at peace.

Mr Nicholas Witham, land agent at the Yorkshire estate of Lord Ashberry has found a haven of quiet, far from the bloodshed of war and the horror of Waterloo.  With poachers and lost sheep his most pressing concerns, Nicholas is not seeking anything more exciting than the occasional trip to York  and a game of cards with friends.

The tranquillity of Ashberry is about to be disrupted by the arrival of Miss Camilla Dorne, a young woman of doubtful reputation, sent away from London by her guardian to avoid the consequences of a disastrous and very public love affair with a disreputable officer which has broken her heart.

An army officer, past or present, is the last man Camilla wishes to spend time with.  But she discovers that a lost reputation can bring unexpected freedom and possibly a second chance at happiness.

With the shadow of war firmly behind him, Nicholas is ready to move on, but poverty and rising prices bring rumblings of discontent and rumours of Luddite activity in the industrial towns, and as violence erupts, the land agent of Ashberry finds himself swept up in a new conflict where the enemy is hard to identify.  Faced with a stark choice between love and duty, Nicholas is beginning to realise that he may not have left the regiment behind at all…

A Regrettable Reputation, a Regency romance, is the first book in the Light Division Romances which follow the varying fortunes of the men of Wellington’s elite troops once war is over. Now available on Amazon kindle and in paperback at the Amazon store.