Brothers in Arms: the collected short stories of Lynn Bryant Volume 1

A little bit of news. Brothers in Arms: the collected short stories of Lynn Bryant Volume 1 – the War Stories will be published in July.
This is not exactly a new book, but it’s a new venture. As some of you know, for years I’ve been publishing free short stories on this website. I write these for fun, and release them for free as a bit of a thank you to my army of very loyal and hugely engaged readers. The stories cover a wide expanse of time and location and often fill in gaps in the story that I’ve not managed to cover in the books.
I’ve had a lot of requests over the years to publish these stories as a collection and with the help of my brilliant editor, Heather Paisley from Dieudonne Editorial Services, who has done most of the work for me, the first volume will be published on 18th June. That date will have meaning for a lot of you, as the 210th anniversary of the battle of Waterloo. Three of the stories in this first collection are connected to the battle.
I’ve decided to publish the stories so far in themes. The first of these are about war and will include not only the Waterloo stories, but tales of the combat on the Coa and the battle of Sorauren. The next volume will be Christmas stories, published in December.
A lot of my readers have already read all of these tales, and I want to be clear that all these stories remain free on my website. This is more of a collectors’ edition. However, for anybody who does decide to buy it or get it on kindle unlimited there is one new story which won’t appear anywhere else.
Brothers in Arms is a short story set during the storming of Ahmednaggur in India in 1803, when Paul van Daan was still a very junior officer, just deciding how much he really hates storming a fortress.
I’d like to thank the creativity of my wonderful husband Richard Dawson for the amazing cover.

Searching for the Last Anglo-Saxon King by Paula Lofting

Searching for the Last Anglo-Saxon King by Paula Lofting has the subtitle Harold Godwinson- England’s Golden Warrior. That probably gives a clue  as to Ms Lofting’s overall view of her subject, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t a well-researched historical biography which looks at Harold from all angles. It is. The author has managed to combine some impressive research with a well-told story about a somewhat neglected historical character.

 

 

Paula Lofting has previously been known as a novelist, having published two books in a series set in Anglo-Saxon England during the years leading up to the Battle of Hastings. Presumably this led to her first foray into historical biography. There is something of a novelist’s colloquial style in this book, which makes it entertaining and easy to read.

 

 

 

Ms Lofting handles her research very well, giving a straightforward account of the sources available for this period and the biases of the various chronicles. She presents the different arguments in an even-handed manner but isn’t afraid to give her own opinion about the most likely course of events while acknowledging the historical uncertainty.

The book is detailed, but broken down not only into chapters but also into sub headings. I found this surprising at first but it actually makes light work of some of the more dense chapters about Harold’s family background.

Above all, this is a fascinating and entertaining account of the last Anglo-Saxon king which presents him as a leader, a family man and a man of his time. I suspect Harold is one of those historical characters that many people have heard of but few know much about. Ms Lofting’s Harold Godwinson is so much more than the man who died at the Battle of Hastings and I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It may be her first journey into historical biography but I hope it is not her last.

The Weaver’s Son

Styal Mill

Welcome to the Weaver’s Son, my somewhat belated Valentine’s Day story for 2025. Many apologies that it’s taken me so long to get this story out. As many of you know, I’m recovering from a hip replacement. There has also been a lot going on at home and I just didn’t get my act together in time this year. Still, a love story is a love story and I’ve been looking forward to writing this one. As always it’s free, so share as much as you like. There’s also a pdf below.

As the Peninsular War Saga approaches the end of the war, I’m increasingly conscious of the dangers of spoilers in my short stories, so once again I’ve gone back in time. The Weaver’s Son is a straightforward romance. It’s also a story about family. It’s dedicated to my army of readers who are unfailingly supportive through all the ups and downs of bringing my favourite characters to life. Thank you all.

I’ve spent a lot of time reading letters and memoirs of men who lived around the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Sadly I’ve not been able to find much from the women. As we can presume that wives and sweethearts replied to their menfolk it seems that the issue is not with the writing of these letters but with their preservation. Still, from this admittedly one-sided perspective, it is very clear that in an age where arranged marriages were common, many couples still found love. From Captain Edward Codrington’s affectionate letters too his wife Jane, to General Robert Craufurd’s obvious adoration of his beloved Mary, such love stories are an inspiration to a novelist who loves a bit of romance.

Sometimes, romance occurs between unlikely people, in unexpected places. Welcome to The Weaver’s Son…

A Weaver’s Son pdf

The Weaver’s Son

An early January gale had taken off part of the roof of the west barn and, as the weather settled into steady rainfall, Mrs Harriet Faversham summoned her farm hands to move the hay into the smaller, but much drier east barn then sat down with her account books to work out if she could afford to call the roofer from Newark.

“We can probably patch it until the spring,” her estate manager had said, surveying the damage from the shelter of a partly ruined cow shed. “Wouldn’t do to put the hay back in there, mind. We might not be done with the worst of the weather yet.”

“We’ve patched it up twice already,” Harriet said gloomily. “We can manage for now, but we’ll need to get it done. Send the boy over with a note to Barrett from Newark, Tom. I’m not using Harrison again. His prices are ridiculous and when his work on Sir Henry Chisholm’s stables was unsatisfactory it took them almost a year to get him to come back and put it right. I won’t reward bad workmanship with my custom.”

“Right you are, ma’am. Oh, the groom picked up the post on the way back from the blacksmith’s. I told him to put it on your desk.”

There was a small pile of letters on the old mahogany desk which had belonged to Harriet’s father. It was tempting to open them immediately, but Harriet set them aside and concentrated on her estate ledgers and the contents of her bank box to see if she could manage the necessary repairs.

It would have to be done. The small estate she had inherited from her late husband provided a rather hand-to-mouth income but during the five years of her widowhood, Harriet had become an expert at juggling her accounts. She had a small income from government bonds left to her by her father, which enabled her to live very modestly. Any income from the home farm and three tenancies was ploughed back into the estate.

The house, which had originally been a Benedictine abbey, was damp and cold and in need of repair but Harriet was used to the inconvenience and, as she never entertained, she had no need to worry about anybody else. The land and her horses were what mattered to her and she continued to ignore the advice of various friends and relatives to sell up and buy herself a nice villa on the coast. Harriet refused, mostly politely. Westhorpe Abbey was her home and the only good thing to have come out of her short, miserable marriage.

“You should marry again,” Aunt Amabel told her every time Harriet arrived for a visit. “It’s ridiculous for a girl of your age to be struggling with debt and bills and holes in your stockings when you could have a perfectly nice life. How old are you now – twenty-seven? You could even have children.”

“I am twenty-nine, Aunt Amabel, and I’m perfectly happy. There are no debts. When Charles was killed I sold some land to pay them all off. I manage well enough; I have everything I need and…”

“You have no life,” her Aunt said in exasperation. “You spend your time mouldering away in that dreadful old place. You are still young and attractive but if you don’t do something about it soon, you really will grow old and then you’ll regret it.”

“I don’t want to be married again, Aunt. I wasn’t very good at it.”

“Utter nonsense. There was nothing wrong with you apart from the fact that you fell in love with a wastrel who spent your dowry, ruined his inheritance then broke his neck on the hunting field leaving you to clear up the debts and chaos he left behind him. I admire how well you manage, Harriet, but it is enough.”

“I’m happy, Aunt. Leave well alone.”

After reviewing her finances, Harriet decided that by postponing repairs to some of the home farm fencing and not replacing the broken shutters on several of the upper windows, she could manage the repairs to the barn. It would eat into her precious reserves a little but it would be worth it at harvest time. She wrote the necessary instructions to Tom Langham, who ran the home farm and acted as her informal estate manager and then set the depressing account book aside and reached for the post.

There were several matters of business and a bill from the coal merchant. The final letter was from Aunt Amabel. Harriet studied it dubiously before opening it. Her Aunt was not a frequent correspondent. She led a busy social life and seldom troubled Harriet, apart from her insistence on twice yearly visits. These took place at Christmas and during the summer. Harriet wondered what had happened and hoped it was not bad news.

She read the letter through quickly to reassure herself and then read it again to make sure she had not misunderstood. Eventually she put it down and sat back, staring out of the window at the rain.

Aunt Amabel had begun with her usual stream of news about family members. Uncle Edward was well, though more than usually irritating because of the poor weather. Both her sons were thriving, though Aunt Amabel gave it as her opinion that Bertie’s wife was spoiling her children horribly while Ned’s wife would never carry a child to term if she did not eat properly and rest during the first weeks. There was nothing to worry Harriet in any of this. Having disposed of immediate family gossip however, her Aunt moved on to the real purpose of the letter.

“I am writing to request a favour, my dear. You will remember your cousin Clara. At least she is not your first cousin, she is mine. We have not seen her for some time. She went into retirement several years ago after that unfortunate affair with the military gentleman who turned out to be a dreadful fortune hunter and dropped her when he realised she had no fortune to hunt. We all thought her a confirmed spinster, but it appears that some family friends have come up with a possible match for her.

“It is not a marriage I would wish for my own daughter as the man is decidedly not a gentleman, even though he received a knighthood last year. Rumour has it that he comes from very humble beginnings – the son of a common weaver, if you can believe it. He has made his fortune from some of those dreadful textile mills that are ruining the countryside in Yorkshire. He’s widowed with children, and I suppose he is looking for a wife of good breeding to teach them how to go on in polite society.

“Anyway, if Clara wants to spend the rest of her life teaching this man and his children not to eat with their hands it is her own business, but the matter is not settled yet. The Broughtons, who have that huge place outside York, have invited her to a house party where he will be a guest, and she will need a chaperone. It is ridiculous to ask you, because you are younger than she is, but of course you are a widow which makes it respectable. I cannot go myself, with Susan’s children running wild and Anthea likely to bring on another miscarriage if I don’t supervise her personally. I need you to be my deputy and help Clara bring this thing off.

“I realise you don’t generally go into society and may have nothing suitable to wear. I’m sure I can help you out. Both my daughters-in-law have trunks of clothing they can never hope to wear again. If you come to me a week or more before the visit, I can make sure you are respectably dressed and you can travel to Yorkshire with Clara in our carriage.

“You cannot have anything to arrange at Westhorpe, as I am sure you can leave everything for a few weeks in the hands of that capable man of yours. I will arrange for you to travel by post-chaise on the twentieth of January and then you can travel on from here a week later. Please write to confirm that you have understood the arrangements.”

Harriet put down the letter and walked across the room to the window. It looked out onto the garden but there was little to see at this time of year except sodden lawns, dripping branches and rain drops running in little rivulets down the mullioned glass. For a long moment Harriet thought about smashing the window. It would be a ridiculous thing to do and she could not afford the repair bill, but she was so furious she longed to break something.

It was not the first time that family members, usually led by Aunt Amabel, had casually demanded her time and effort without bothering to ask if it was convenient for her. As a woman living alone without husband or children, it was assumed that her time had no value and that she would make herself available at a moment’s notice if she was needed. Harriet was fond of her family and did not mind helping out occasionally when she was needed to help with a measles outbreak or the preparations for a wedding for instance, but being asked to make an extended visit to a house party with people she did not know, to further the matrimonial hopes of her second cousin Clara, was not reasonable. Harriet’s first instinct was to pick up her pen and paper and write a curt refusal. Age and experience had taught her that it was seldom a good idea to follow a first angry instinct however.

Instead she sent a message to the stables and went to change into her shabby riding habit. Horses were her love and riding was always her solace in difficult times. She did not mind the rain or the cold when she was mounted on Silver, her favourite grey gelding. The horse had been a wedding gift from Charles and her happiest memories of her marriage were from those early days when they had ridden and hunted and laughed together, before his drinking and gambling and infidelities had gradually chipped away at her patience, her respect and finally her love.

She still loved to ride Silver, cantering through muddy lanes, careless of how wet she was getting. Riding cleared her head and enabled her to think more clearly. It also soothed her anger. By the time she was back at the house, stripping off her wet clothing and allowing her maid to scold her as she rubbed Harriet’s long dark brown hair with a towel, she was calm again. She was even beginning to see the funny side.

Aunt Amabel was outrageous in her demands but she was also Harriet’s favourite relative. She had been an unwavering support during the appalling months after Charles was killed, as Harriet tried to find her way through the maze of his debts and obligations. She had been trying hard to take care of Harriet ever since and it was not her fault that Harriet had discovered a streak of obstinate independence within herself that she had never known she possessed.

There was such a thing as gratitude, however. When she was dry and warm, Harriet went back and read the letter again. This time, underneath Amabel’s acerbic commentary she read genuine concern for her sons, her daughters-in-law and for poor Cousin Clara who had almost left it too late to decide that she might after all wish to be married. Whether this self-made textile manufacturer from Yorkshire could bring her the status and security she craved, Harriet had no idea. Still, for Amabel’s sake she could take time away from her very mundane life to accompany Clara to a house party where the worst thing that could happen would be that she would get very bored.

She wrote an affectionate letter to her Aunt agreeing to her arrangements then went to study her wardrobe, wondering which of the elegant gowns she had not worn for five years could be altered to make them respectable enough for a chaperone at a provincial, winter house party.

***

Sir Matthew Howard had been to Broughton Hall before, but never for an occasion like this. He had met Lord Broughton at the York Races more than a year ago and had struck up a casual masculine friendship with him. They dined together from time to time when Howard had business in York and his Lordship had been grateful for occasional snippets of business advice that Howard had been able to give him. In return he had introduced him to several of his friends.

Howard appreciated the attempt to widen his social circle and did not tell Broughton that he was not really looking to ingratiate himself into the upper echelons of society. He was a businessman; a textile manufacturer who had inherited the bones of a business from his ambitious father and turned it into gold. These days he was known throughout Yorkshire as a man of substance. His knighthood had been the result of some very successful navy contracts. He had recently purchased a third mill from a cotton spinner who had recently gone bankrupt. The sheds were run down and the equipment hopelessly outdated but Howard was more than capable of bringing them up to scratch. He was a man on his way up, but his aspirations did not include presentations at court or aristocratic friends. He was a wealthy man and wanted to be more so.

Still, he liked Broughton and his cheerful, welcoming wife and had stayed with them at Broughton Hall several times. He had talked freely about the loss of his wife six years earlier in childbirth and the difficulties of raising four children through a series of nannies and governesses. He supposed that at some point he had mentioned that he thought he should probably marry again.

He had been somewhat startled when Broughton had come back with a possible solution. Miss Clara Danbury was a little over thirty, well-connected and of a quiet disposition. She had never married, due to a romantic disappointment in her youth, but her elder brother who was a friend of Broughton’s had intimated that she was beginning to reconsider the matter. She was pleasant and capable and had expressed an interest in meeting Sir Matthew Howard.

Howard rolled his eyes at his friends’ blatant matchmaking but found it hard to resent it. He had allowed them to arrange the meeting, in a deliberately informal setting and had found Miss Danbury all that they said. She was not unattractive; her manner was rather prim and if Howard had been looking for a new governess he would have employed her at once. He was not, however, so he remained cautious but agreed to further meetings.

They met at a reception held by one of the York guilds and then again at a late summer garden party. She allowed him to be her escort to a Christmas concert in the Minster. He dined at Broughton Hall and was introduced to her brother and his wife who were in Yorkshire for the New Year.

Howard was careful to keep a pleasant distance until he was more certain. He could see the advantages of the match. She came from good family and she apparently liked children. She seemed to have no interest in making a socially advantageous marriage, but he thought she might make a good housekeeper and a good stepmother. She had good manners and was quiet but not painfully shy in company. He thought she would probably be a good hostess and a sensible wife. It would be the kind of second marriage he had always intended to make at some point and if he was going to do it, he might as well do it now.

“What are you waiting for, man?” Broughton demanded, over a steak pie and some good red wine at the Star Inn in York. “She’s perfect for you. Speak to her.”

“I’ve not yet decided,” Howard said. “She’s a nice young woman but I don’t really know her that well. I’ve met her maybe a dozen times and we’ve talked about nothing more personal than the weather. I’ve no idea if we should suit.”

“Who ever knows that before they’re married?” Broughton said with a grimace. “I was bloody lucky with Mary, but I swear we’d spent most of our acquaintance on the dance floor before I proposed to her. She could have been a half-wit and I wouldn’t have known it. Look, we’re having some people to stay in January. A couple of relatives of Mary’s that we couldn’t manage to see over Christmas. Why don’t you join us for a week or two and I’ll invite Miss Danbury. She can get that dragon of an aunt to chaperone her. It will give you an opportunity to spend a little more time around her. By the end of it, you’ll either be ready to propose or you’ll have decided against it. You can’t keep going like this or you’ll be accused of raising expectations.”

“I don’t raise expectations without a carefully drawn up contract, Broughton,” Howard said. They both laughed, and Broughton summoned the waiter to bring a second bottle.

Howard thought his friend was probably right. If he continued in this half-hearted courtship, he was in danger of being pushed into a proposal by her anxious relatives. He knew that Broughton thought he was being unnecessarily cautious and he was probably right. His problem was that although Miss Clara Danbury seemed to tick every item on his list of requirements, he could not easily imagine himself married to her. Perhaps two weeks of proximity would either make the prospect more real, or show him that it was impossible.

Broughton Hall was an elegant mansion about six miles to the north of York. It was built in the time of Queen Anne and stood in beautifully landscaped gardens. Howard never visited it without being painfully aware of the difference between this graceful house which had been in the Broughton family for years, and the house his father had begun to build on a hillside overlooking the little market town of Thorndale.

John Howard had died before his Palladian mansion was completed and Matthew had moved in with his young wife and taken over the project. The house was finished at just about the time that Kitty died bearing their fourth child. She had disliked the house, finding it too austere and too grand. Kitty had been a doctor’s daughter and had never really become comfortable with their rapidly increasing wealth or the social expectations it placed upon her. Matthew, who had married very young, and for love, had tried hard to be patient with her but worried that he might not always have succeeded.

The house had felt empty without her and no amount of expensive furniture or elegant curtains had ever managed to turn it into a home. The children occupied an elaborate nursery suite with a selection of well-paid nurses and governesses to take care of them. Matthew rather liked his children but he saw far too little of them, being busy with work. He tried to imagine Clara Danbury stepping into that gap and failed.

She had already arrived when he joined the party in the drawing room before dinner. She was very correctly dressed in a modest gown of striped satin. He allowed Lady Broughton to make the introductions to the other guests then went to join Clara, raising her hand to his lips.

“Miss Danbury, it’s good to see you. How was your journey? I gather you’ve been staying with your Aunt in Nottingham.”

He realised as he said it that none of the strangers appeared to be Mrs Crookall. He glanced around, wondering if he had somehow missed the introduction.

“Yes, I was. She was unable to accompany me unfortunately. Mrs Susan Crookall is in a delicate condition and is a little unwell. I have been joined by my cousin, Mrs Faversham, though I do not know where she can be…”

She broke off as the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. She was dressed in a dark green robe which was slightly outdated but not really out of place for a country house party. She looked as though she was close in age to Miss Danbury, but her manner was very different. From the top of her charming arrangement of dark brown curls, to her neat satin slippers, she radiated confidence and vitality. Her skin was slightly tanned as though she spent a lot of time outdoors. Her eyes were an attractive colour somewhere between brown and green, with what looked like gold flecks. Her smile was broad and friendly.

“Sir Matthew this is my cousin, Mrs Faversham.”

Mrs Faversham offered him a gloved hand. “Sir Matthew, it is good to meet you. My Aunt has told me about you.”

Howard had never exchanged more than a dozen words with Clara’s formidable Aunt Amabel and he had a fairly good idea what she thought of him. He studied Mrs Faversham and decided that she knew as well.

“That was very kind of her, ma’am. I hope she gave me as good a character as I would undoubtedly give her.”

To his complete astonishment, the woman gave a peal of delighted laughter. “I will ask you for more details about that character at some point, Sir Matthew. I don’t think you’ve spent enough time around my aunt. I think you would get on. Clara, I’m so sorry I’m late down. I encountered a crisis on the nursery stairs and had to apply my medical expertise but all is well now.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lady Broughton said anxiously. “Is one of the children hurt?”

“Oh no, please don’t worry. I was joking. Little Cecilia apparently left her doll within reach of the new spaniel puppy and there was an accident to poor Molly’s leg. Fortunately I was able to apply a bandage to stop the sawdust escaping and have promised I’ll perform proper surgery tomorrow. I might have to borrow some linen to patch it. The wretched dog had almost torn it off, but I can mend it. All tears are dried and Cecilia is quite excited at the prospect of being my assistant. Mrs Arbuthnot, how nice to see you again. I had no idea you were to be a fellow guest. How is Sir Anthony; is he not with you?”

She moved away to talk to one of the other guests and Howard managed to close his mouth.

“Your cousin seems very at home here,” he said to Clara, rather faintly.

“Oh Harriet is at home everywhere,” Clara said with a little laugh. “I am sorry if you find her a little too much. She means very well.”

“Could her husband not accompany her this week?” Howard asked. “What does he do?”

He caught her frown and remembered that in polite circles it was not customary to ask what a man did. His ancestry was more important.

“Harriet is a widow. Some five years, I believe. She married one of the Favershams of Southwell, but he was sadly unsteady and died in a hunting accident leaving her with a half-ruined house, an impoverished estate and a pile of debts. She lives there on her own without even a female companion. I expect she was delighted at this opportunity for a few weeks in a civilised household. Tell me about your delightful children, Sir Matthew. I am wild to meet them.”

Howard thought about his children. George was fourteen and Arthur twelve. Both were studying mathematics and accounting at the local grammar school and manufacturing under his general manager at the woollen mill. Katherine was eight and practising to be a lady under the tuition of her strict governess, Miss Price. Then there was Anne. Anne was six and had never known her mother, who died giving birth to her. Howard did not know what Anne was doing or what she was learning and thought it best not to ask. He smiled pleasantly at Clara Danbury and tried to imagine introducing her to his youngest daughter.

He listened with half an ear as Miss Danbury told him about their journey, the difficulty of the coaching inns and the rudeness of one of the post boys. His eyes, he realised were constantly straying to the slender dark woman across the room who was carrying on an animated conversation with the Rector about his recently foaled mare. Briefly he tried to imagine introducing Mrs Faversham to his youngest daughter and realised to his horror that he would like to do so.

She was a widow. She understood children. She had a laugh that could charm birds from the trees.

Howard nodded and smiled at Miss Danbury. Inside, his brain was screaming.

No. Oh no. Oh for God’s sake no.

***

Sir Matthew Howard was not at all what Harriet had been expecting. She supposed she should have remembered Aunt Amabel’s tendency to exaggerate, particularly when she thought a member of her family was making a mistake. All the same, Harriet did not think she could ever have had a proper conversation with Sir Matthew, because she was sure that her aunt would have liked him.

Harriet liked him herself. He was a big, broad-shouldered man of around forty, with a Yorkshire accent and a dry sense of humour. His manner was direct and uncompromising and Harriet suspected that some of his blunt remarks would make him unpopular in rarefied circles, but in the Broughtons’ friendly, informal household nobody seemed to care. He had a ready smile and his manners were perfectly good, though Harriet had a sense that he might possibly be very rude indeed if he was angry.

He was very different to the men of her own family. She thought about Charles and his hunting friends, with their lordly manners and the cut-glass accents of privilege. They would have despised Matthew Howard and spent their time picking fault with him in loud whispers. Harriet wondered if he could be awkward in such company. There was certainly no sign of it here.

The one person he did appear somewhat awkward around was her cousin, Clara. Harriet watched the couple through the first two days of their visit and wondered if she was imagining things. Sir Matthew was suitably attentive to Clara. When the party went out, he rode or walked beside her. He was often her partner at dinner and listened attentively to whatever she had to say, but Harriet thought that he did not talk much in return. She wondered if beneath that assertive exterior, he was a little shy.

She had the opportunity to find out more about him when Lord Broughton proposed a walk to the nearby village of Selbury, which had a fine Norman church. It was a bright day, but very cold. Harriet had already agreed to join the party when she realised that her cousin had declined.

“I do not wish to put a damper on your outing, dear Lady Broughton, but I do not think I should make the attempt,” Clara said when her hostess expressed concern. “It is so cold, which often gives me the headache. I will remain here and be perfectly content.”

“I’ll stay with you, Clara,” Harriet said.

“There is no need.”

“Nonsense. I’d be a poor companion if I left you behind when you aren’t feeling quite the thing.”

Before Clara could respond, Mr Robinson, the Rector cleared his throat noisily. Harriet had noticed him doing it before. It seemed to be his way of announcing that he was about to speak. She wondered why he did not simply speak.

“Do not be concerned, dear Mrs Faversham. I myself do not intend to venture out in such weather. It is not good for my rheumatism. I will happily engage to bear your cousin company until you return.”

Harriet looked at him in surprise and hastily bit back what she had been about to say. Mr Robinson had been her companion at dinner the previous evening. He was a stocky gentleman, new to his parish, surely not more than thirty and did not look at all like a man who suffered from rheumatism or any other kind of illness. Harriet regarded him critically and decided that it was exercise rather than cold weather that Mr Robinson disliked. Since she wanted to go for a walk, she smiled brightly at him.

“Thank you, Mr Robinson. I’m certain my cousin could not be in better hands. Are you sure, Clara?”

Clara expressed herself perfectly satisfied with the arrangements and Harriet went to change her shoes with a faint sense of relief. She did not dislike her cousin but they had very little in common. She found Clara fussy and easily upset with very little conversation that did not revolve around domestic matters. She suspected that Clara found her too forward, with too much interest in matters not usually considered the province of females. Harriet was doing her best but it would be nice to spend a couple of hours in the fresh air talking about something other than fashion and the problems of finding reliable servants.

She was surprised to find that Sir Matthew Howard attached himself firmly to her side as soon as they set off along the path to the village. Since she had already decided she wanted to know more about her cousin’s prospective suitor, she was not displeased. He was wearing a well-cut dark greatcoat, good boots and a sensible hat. Harriet had strong views on the extremes of fashion and approved of the hat.

The path was muddy in places and one or two of the ladies had to be assisted over the worst parts. Sir Matthew offered his hand politely and Harriet took it, but did not flinch as mud splashed the hem of her shabby walking dress. As they resumed their walk, he said:

“I see you’re not bothered by a spot of mud, ma’am.”

Harriet laughed. “I run a country estate, sir. You should see the state of me during the lambing season. It isn’t pretty.”

He grinned. “I suspect it’s more attractive than you think actually. A lady in a ballgown is a pretty sight, but there’s something appealing about a woman who isn’t afraid of  a muddy hem. I don’t know, perhaps it’s just me. My late wife was a country girl and thought nothing of climbing stiles and splashing through puddles.”

Harriet thought about her cousin. She had never seen Clara appear anything other than immaculate and a spot on her lace collar was enough to send her to change her entire outfit. She wondered if Sir Matthew realised that.

“My husband was an enthusiastic member of the hunt. He used to come back covered in mud from head to foot.”

“I’ve never really seen the point of hunting, but that’s probably my upbringing. I like to ride, though I came late to it. I’m too heavy for a hunter anyway.”

Harriet shot him a glance. “You didn’t learn as a boy?”

“My father never rode in his life. It’s an upper-class pastime and I definitely wasn’t that.”

Harriet remembered her aunt’s remarks. She desperately wanted to ask more but she did not want to be rude. They negotiated a stile and pushed through an overgrown section of the path. She could hear Lord Broughton grumbling about speaking to the parish clerk to arrange to get the bushes cut back.

“You can ask me what you like,” Sir Matthew said abruptly.

Harriet looked at him in surprise. “Oh. I was…that is, I am curious. But I don’t want to be rude.”

“I’m sure you won’t be, ma’am. You have excellent address. Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but I’m in favour of plain speaking and I’ve a notion that you’re the same. It’s no secret that the Broughtons have been trying to make a match between your cousin and I. I’m sure your aunt is aware of it. It occurred to me that it might be your job to assess my suitability.”

Harriet froze. She realised that she had been very naïve. There were probably several other hapless family members who might have been sent to chaperone Clara. She was not the obvious choice.

“Of course it is,” she said bitterly. “Though I had not realised it. If my aunt had been born two hundred years earlier, they would have burned her as a witch. I’m sorry, Sir Matthew. I admit I’m interested. You come from a very different world to me. But I had no intention of acting as the family intelligence gatherer.”

He shot her a surprising grin. “I appreciate your honesty. Family must be difficult. I don’t have much left myself. My mother died when I was young and my father a few years ago. There are probably cousins out there somewhere, but I don’t know them. When he took the audacious step of setting himself up as a gentleman, my father left them behind. Ruthless but very much like him.”

Harriet had so many questions that she could not decide which to ask first. She wondered if he was serious in his invitation to ask whatever she liked. His expression was encouraging though, so she said:

“Were you close to him?”

“Is that another way of asking if I liked him?” Howard gave a crooked smile. “No, I didn’t. He didn’t require affection from his son, or even liking. Just respect and obedience.”

“That sounds hard.”

“It was simple. I didn’t know any different until I met Kitty. She was the local doctor’s daughter and a fair bit above me socially, but she was lovely. Very sweet and very kind. We’d begun to make money by then. I thought I’d done very well in getting her to marry me. My father was furious. He thought I should have waited until I could have asked a girl of better birth.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult.”

“He was barely civil to her, but she managed surprisingly well. It was after he died, when we moved to Helton Ridge…it was his house. He built it. I’ve added to it since. I wanted it to be a palace for her, but she was lost in it. She’d have been happier in that square, solid town house we first lived in. After she died, I wished we’d stayed in it. Sorry. I’m sounding maudlin.”

“No, I understand. I’ve had all kinds of regrets since I was widowed.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

Harriet looked up at him and decided to tell the truth. “Mostly that I married Charles in the first place. He was…I had a brother. Martin. He and Charles were schoolfriends and did everything together. I suspect everybody expected me to marry Charles since I was a child. And I wanted to. He was my hero.”

“What went wrong?”

“We were married in spring. Those early days were perfect. Summer, then autumn. The hunting season started. I grew up in Leicestershire. I knew what that meant. I didn’t see him for weeks at a time. It didn’t bother me. My father and brother were the same. It’s all I knew.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“Oh, exactly what one might have expected. He took a tumble jumping a fence and broke his neck. It was devastating. We buried him and we mourned. I thought it would bring Charles and I together but I was wrong. He was never the same again. He became distant. Drank too much, gambled too much…I don’t know. Perhaps it was because of Martin. Or perhaps he was just being the man he was always meant to become. Eventually he died in a very similar way. By then it was a relief. I’m sorry, I am sharing confidences that you cannot possibly want to hear.”

“I asked,” Howard said briefly. “I’m sorry, it sounds appalling. You’ve not remarried. I was wondering why, but it’s very clear. Does your cousin know any of this?”

“I don’t know. She must know a little, but we have not seen much of each other these past years. I’ve been struggling to run my estate and she has…she has lived retired.”

“She’s been living down an unfortunate disappointment with a fortune hunter,” Howard said briefly. Harriet glared at him and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, smiling. “Don’t eat me. You must have known I’d make enquiries. It doesn’t sound as though she was guilty of anything worse than poor judgement of a bad character. To be honest I don’t understand why she hid herself away.”

“Nor do I,” Harriet said frankly. “I’ve always thought it was odd. I’m very glad she is moving out into society again. And that…I mean that she may be considering…or you may be considering…”

She stopped, not knowing how to continue. To her surprise and relief, the brown eyes were dancing with amusement.

“Let’s assume that we’re all considering but that nobody has made up their mind. What else do you think your aunt wants to know?”

Harriet took a deep breath. “You spoke about your father’s origins, but he must have made a good deal of money. Do you mind me asking…?”

“Not at all, I’m proud of it. My father was a humble weaver’s son, born in a two-roomed cottage and taught to weave as soon as he was old enough. It was the family industry. By the time he was ten he’d decided he wanted more. He saved to buy a pack mule and started going further afield. Selling his family’s cloth but also buying cheaply from other cottages and selling for a profit. He worked hard, saved his brass and at twenty-five he bought a rundown water mill and set up his first factory. So yes, ma’am. In answer to your Aunt’s question, I am indeed a weaver’s brat.”

Harriet was shaken but rallied determinedly. “No wonder you’re so proud of it. I would be myself.”

He gave a chuckle and shook his head. “You have no idea, Mrs Faversham.”

Unexpectedly, Harriet was angry. “Neither have you, Sir Matthew. I’m sorry about any hardship you might have experienced in your youth, but I think if we compared our current circumstances, you’d find them very different. I spend my life juggling money to keep a roof over my head and to run my estate. My house is damp and cold and the kitchen range smokes so badly that I can’t keep a cook more than one winter. Every year we lose at least one sheep to the cold or the snow and that’s a man’s wages or my new winter cloak. There’s a reason this one is so badly patched. I can tell you the cost of a section of new roof tiles to the inch and I groom all my horses myself to save the cost of an extra man. I also light my own fires and my ladies maid is also my housemaid and my unofficial housekeeper. I don’t pay her enough. Every year I wonder if I’m going to make it through the next one. I admire how well you have pulled yourself out of your humble beginnings. I would ask you to show me the same respect.”

There was a long silence. Harriet stalked through the next puddle without pretending to need assistance and blinked back angry tears. She realised they had walked a long way ahead of the rest of the party but she did not slow down. She needed some time to compose herself.

“I’m sorry,” Sir Matthew said abruptly. “I’ve behaved like a boor. I don’t usually. I know all the rules and I’m good at following them but you…Christ, woman, you’ve ploughed through all my defences without raising your head. That was unforgiveable. I’m so sorry. Can we go back to where I’d not insulted you yet?”

Harriet was so surprised that she could not speak for a moment. She looked up at him cautiously. He looked very upset.

“Sir Matthew, I’m sorry too. I should never have said that.”

“Yes, you should. If we’re sharing confidences it should go both ways. Your husband was an arsehole. I’m sorry he left you in such difficult circumstances. I might be a weaver’s brat, but I’d no right to assume anything about you. You’re remarkable. It’s a privilege to have met you.”

Harriet was so surprised that she could think of nothing to say. They walked in silence for a while. His next remark was about the weather, and completely unexceptionable and she answered it in kind. Slowing their pace, they allowed the others to catch up with them. The conversation became general and on the return walk, Lady Broughton walked beside them and asked Sir Matthew about his children. Harriet found it very soothing.

***

Matthew did not often accept invitations to this kind of leisurely country house party. Largely it was because he was too busy. The mills consumed most of his time and he liked to spend what was left with his children. He firmly believed that success was achieved by hard work and did not understand those of his contemporaries who chose to leave the day to day running of their mills to their managers and overlookers. He kept an office at the largest of his premises and made a point of arriving at his desk every morning before his workforce began filing through the gates. He employed clerks and men of business as well as engineers, but he made sure that he understood enough about every aspect of his business to know if a man was stealing, shirking or trying to fob him off with excuses.

He was respected as a good businessman. In Thorndale that meant that he was shrewd, hard-headed and ruthless in matters of trade. He paid his bills on time, expected others to do the same and had no patience with a supplier or a tradesman who failed to do their job properly. He considered himself a fair employer, who paid good wages for a day’s work but was quick to dismiss the lazy and the feckless.

Sir Matthew Howard was proud of what he had built and had every intention of improving on it. A second marriage was the next logical step. He had four growing children, and although he had no concerns for the boys, his girls should have a mother. He had welcomed Broughton’s offer to introduce him to Clara Danbury and he had thought she might answer the purpose.

Meeting her cousin had thrown him into confusion. Harriet’s frank disclosures about her unhappy marriage and her current state of genteel poverty had surprised, but not shocked him. He admired her independence and her determination not to be a charge on any of her family. He also liked her courage. There was steel in Harriet Faversham’s character which touched an answering chord in him.

She was also attractive. Her cousin had a pale prettiness which he had found charming. Matthew was not looking for a wife to dazzle local society and he had told himself that at thirty-nine, he wanted companionship rather than excitement. He wondered now why it had never occurred to him to consider how he felt about going to bed with Clara. He was trying hard not to think about going to bed with Harriet. Nothing could be more unsuitable.

In this bewildered state of mind, he would have welcomed the distraction of work. Instead he was faced with long days of relative idleness. The Broughtons were easy-going hosts, who provided their guests with a choice of activities but did not mind at all if any of them elected not to join in. Breakfast was a casual meal, where dishes were set out on the sideboard and guests wandered in when they chose. Mrs Arbuthnot and Lady Stanhope, the two oldest ladies in the party preferred to take tea and toast in their rooms before dressing to face the day.

During the day, depending on the weather, the gentlemen could join the hunt or go shooting with their host. Matthew had not been born to such pursuits and had no interest in either. He liked to ride and had brought his own horse, so found himself much in demand as an escort to those ladies who wished to ride out but did not choose the rigours of the hunting field. Miss Danbury joined the riding party once but generally remained in the house, writing letters or reading. Mrs Faversham rode every day. Her riding habit was disgracefully shabby and very out of date. There was an excellent dressmaker in Thorndale and Matthew found himself wishing he could take her there and tell her to choose whatever she liked. It was a ridiculous idea and did not help his present predicament.

It was not the weather for such games as croquet or shuttlecock, but on wet afternoons Lady Broughton valiantly organised charades and word games. Dinner was a lengthy, formal affair and afterwards there were more cards, music or games. Matthew slipped away as often as he could to write long lists of instructions to his managers and overlookers. He also penned an affectionate note to his children, in which he recommended that his sons continue to attend to their studies, his elder daughter work hard at her needlework and watercolours and his youngest daughter refrain from bringing an injured fox into the schoolroom. The letter of complaint from the governess had been lengthy and detailed and Matthew sensed the threat of resignation behind every line.

He was concerned enough to mention it to his hostess at dinner. Lady Broughton listened with an expression of growing bewilderment which made Matthew think he had made a mistake. When he finished his story, there was a brief painful silence.

“We have trouble keeping a governess for long,” he said, somewhat feebly. “It isn’t so important for the boys. They had a tutor and now they go to school. But for the girls…”

“My goodness, how awkward for you, Sir Matthew,” her ladyship said warmly. “Those girls need a mother, of course.”

Matthew made a determined effort not to look over at Miss Danbury. He could not help himself however. He was relieved to find that she was definitely not looking at him.”

“In time, I hope so, ma’am. But at present…”

“At present they need a better governess,” Harriet Faversham said cheerfully. “What a fuss about an injured fox cub. I presume it was a cub? How old is your daughter?”

“She’s six,” Matthew said gratefully. “Though she often seems much older. I suppose she learns from the others. Though they never seemed to do the things she does.”

“I hope the poor animal was not thrown out into the cold?”

“No. Apparently Anne persuaded one of the grooms to find it a bed in the stables until its leg healed. Miss Price is very upset though. She is convinced it had fleas and…and I don’t think many governesses know what to do with an injured fox cub.”

“Your daughter requires discipline, sir,” the Rector said sternly. “A child of that age to be causing such disruption in the household! And a girl, at that!”

“A girl?” Harriet said dangerously. Matthew looked at her and realised miserably that this conversation was now completely out of his control. The servants arrived to remove the first course and there was a bustle of dishes being set down and wine being replenished. He hoped it would distract the company from his family difficulties but Mr Robinson clearly had a good memory.

“My dear Mrs Faversham, I understand your feelings,” he said indulgently, as the butler poured the final glass and set the bottle down within reach. “You have no children of your own, so it must be difficult for you to imagine…”

“Do you have children?” Harriet interrupted ruthlessly.

Robinson looked astonished. “I…no of course not. You must know I am unmarried.”

“I was just checking,” Harriet said inexcusably. There was a collective gasp around the table and young Mr Stansfield, who had drunk his wine rather too quickly, giggled.

The Rector chose to overlook Harriet’s rudeness. “I have no family of my own, although I would hope to one day. However, with my experience of ministering to many families, I believe that poor Sir Matthew has fallen into error. It is not his fault. He has no wife to help him and the youngest child never knew her mother. Naturally she has been indulged and become spoiled. A little discipline will soon set the problem right.”

“What kind of discipline do you recommend for a child who cares enough about an injured animal to risk the anger of her governess?” Harriet asked with apparent interest.

The butler cleared his throat noisily. “Will that be all, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you, Dransfield,” Lady Broughton said with alarming cheerfulness. “Well, I hope you manage to placate your governess, Sir Matthew. Try the duck. It is my cook’s own recipe and I think it is excellent.”

Matthew ate the duck gratefully, while his hostess skilfully steered the conversation into safer waters. He wondered if he was going to survive another week of this or if he could invent a fox-related crisis and go home early. He had never felt less inclined to propose to anybody in his life.

The following day was Sunday. It was bright and sunny, although cold, and Lady Broughton proposed a carriage expedition into York to attend service at the Minster. Matthew was not a regular churchgoer but as both Miss Danbury and Mrs Faversham chose to go, he decided that it would be good for his soul. With only a few more days of this interminable house party, he realised he was going to have to make up his mind. Either he would have to propose to Miss Danbury, or he should withdraw decidedly and make no attempt to see her again.

He did not think he would break her heart. This past week he had spent enough time around her to convince him that, whatever her view of his suit, her affections were not engaged. Like him, she had made up her mind to marry, and he was wealthy, available and not so far beneath her socially that she would be cut off from family and friends. In her younger days, she might have done better, but her unfortunate romance had closed many doors. Matthew did not think she pined after high society and thought they might do well enough together.

The sticking point was his children. One of the main reasons for marrying again was to provide a stepmother, particularly to his girls. He thought Katie might do well enough with Clara Danbury’s placid good nature but he could not imagine what might happen with Anne. He was not sure, having no real experience with small girls, but he suspected that Anne was difficult.

He was still mulling over the problem during the lengthy, but rather lovely, service at the Minster. Afterwards they went for sherry with one of the Deacons who was a friend of the Broughtons and then walked through the narrow streets of the city to the Star Inn where Lord Danbury had reserved a private parlour for a late breakfast or possibly early luncheon.

Matthew did not usually eat at this hour, but the food was good and the wine excellent. He ate and drank and listened to the Rector holding forth on church politics. It was not particularly interesting but it kept the company busy through the meal and Matthew was grateful.

Afterwards they strolled through the cobbled streets, went up to admire Clifford’s Tower and then strolled along the river. Matthew walked between Clara and Harriet and thought again, with a sinking heart, that he was running out of time. His hosts had invited him with the specific purpose of helping him decide whether he wanted to propose to Clara Danbury. If he did not, he needed to withdraw gracefully and swiftly, and leave the woman to search for a new husband. He was worried that he had already raised expectations and that he would leave her disappointed and floundering if he did not propose after all.

He wished he could have an honest conversation with Clara, to ask what she wanted. The fact that he could not, told him what he should already have known. It would be a marriage of convenience. Sometimes that worked very well but Matthew was not convinced that it would on this occasion.

Back at the house he went to his room and wrote letters. He wrote to his shed manager and his man of business and his estate manager. He wrote to three of his suppliers and a man in London who had promised to put him in touch with a gentleman with contacts in the army. He wrote to his children again.

Eventually he ran out of letters to write. It was close to the dinner hour so he summoned his valet, washed and changed, then went down to the drawing room. He was early and nobody else was present, so he went outside into the glowing red of a winter sunset and found Harriet Faversham on the terrace admiring the view.

“Sir Matthew. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes. I love a good sunset at this time of year. Summer is lovely of course, but you have to wait so long for it. On a fine winter’s day, you can have all the glory much earlier.”

She gave a delighted laugh. “That’s so true. Winter sunrise is the best. One has had enough sleep and suddenly there it is. Have you heard anything more from your grumpy governess? I have been thinking about your little girl. She sounds interesting.”

Matthew laughed. “Anne? Oh God. Anne is…yes, she’s interesting. I don’t know how to manage Anne. She’s so clever and so determined and I feel as though I need to make her my job, all of the time. But I can’t. I love her. But she drives me mad.”

“She needs a stepmother,” Harriet said gently.

“I know. It’s why I’ve considered marrying your cousin.”

“Clara is very kind.”

Unexpectedly, Matthew felt his reserve drain away. “I know she is. But she’s not…she has no idea. She’s so sure how things ought to be. But I’m not sure she has much idea about how things really are. I think she might be miserable as my wife. And I think I might be miserable as her husband.”

There was a long silence. Then Harriet said:

“Then you should not marry her.”

Matthew was silent for a while. Eventually he said:

“Do you think you’ll ever marry again?”

“No. I wasn’t happy as a wife.”

“Don’t you think that might have had something to do with your husband?”

“Perhaps. But a man needs a woman he can rely upon.”

“A woman needs a man she can rely upon. I’m considered fairly reliable.”

He could not believe he had said it. The silence grew. Finally Harriet looked up.

“We couldn’t,” she said simply.

Matthew felt his heart leap at her immediate understanding. He had been telling himself that this was all his imagination and that his fierce attraction and strong bond with this woman was entirely one-sided. She had swept aside that notion with a sentence. She had still said no.

“Oh Christ, Harriet. How can I marry her now that I’ve met you?”

“Matthew, I’ve not agreed to marry you. Or anybody. I’m serious about that. Marriage was a burden to me. I’d rather be alone.”

“No you wouldn’t. I can show you how good it can be. I wasn’t that bad at it myself, though I think I let my poor wife down at times. Still, I’ve learned. I could make you happy.”

“Stop it,” Harriet said fiercely. “We can’t. You’ve spent months courting my cousin, and she has every right to expect a proposal from you. I don’t think you should do it if you’re not sure. But you cannot marry me. She would feel awful. It would be wrong.”

“It would be the most sensible thing I’d ever done. Just tell me that you feel it, Harriet. Tell me it’s not just me.”

She looked up at him and he saw the truth in her eyes. “It’s not just you.”

Matthew took her hand and raised it to his lips. He wanted to take her into his arms but at any moment somebody might come into the room and out onto the terrace and he could not do that to her or to her cousin. He must come to a decision but he realised that he needed to make it without reference to Harriet.

“I think I may have fallen in love with you, Harriet Faversham.”

She looked up at him, squeezing his hand. “I think I might have fallen in love with you too, Matthew Howard. But we were too late and this would not be right. I wish I could have met your children though. They sound remarkable.”

They went back into the house and he endured another dinner and another round of port and another game of cards. He was aware of every word she spoke and every movement she made. His heart was broken and he did not think it would ever be mended.

He awoke early and went out into the crisp darkness, watching the sun come up over the hills. Somehow he was not surprised when she joined him in the garden, long before their hosts or any of the other guests were awake.

“Matthew, I’m leaving today. I’ve invented an excuse about a crisis on the estate. Nobody will be surprised. I’m known for being unsociable. I’m sorry. I can’t stay here and be around you now that I know… Look, you need to speak to Clara. You can’t keep putting this off. Everybody is waiting for the announcement.”

“I’m not sure I can marry her, Harriet. Not now.”

“You should think about it. She will be kind to your children and she’ll be a good wife.”

“I think living with Anne might kill her.”

Harriet laughed aloud. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure Anne is very sweet.”

“She is, to those who can see it. I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to. This is all wrong. I’m going home to get the barn roof fixed. You will marry Clara and be perfectly happy. You and I don’t even know each other that well.”

“I know more about you now than I’ll ever know about her.”

“She’ll be a good wife.”

“I don’t know, Harriet. I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think more clearly if I’m not here. Thank you for everything. I’m so glad to have met you. It’s taught me what I might have had.”

He felt his heart break all over again, but she had stated her wishes, so he endured through the endless breakfast and the agonising farewells. He stood waving on the drive with the others until the carriage was out of sight then went inside to play charades with his fellow guests. When the rain eased off, Lord Broughton suggested a ride and the gentlemen cantered through country lanes and discussed a shooting party for the following day. Matthew felt hollowed out, as though sadness had left him empty. He was painfully aware that now that Harriet had gone, he needed a frank conversation with her cousin.

There was no opportunity the following day. The weather was fine and Lord Broughton had organised a full day of sporting activities. In the evening, there were guests for dinner and afterwards the drawing room was cleared for dancing. Matthew trod his way through endless country dances and wished every one of his partners to the devil.

There was one more day, and the party was developing the listless sense of guests who were more than ready to depart. Matthew knew that his time was running out. For better or worse he needed to talk to Clara. He knew that Harriet had been right. He could not have jilted her cousin to marry her, even if she would have accepted him. Whether that meant he could choose the marriage of convenience he had always intended, he was still not sure.

To his surprise, Clara made the first move. They had finished breakfast and there was some desultory talk of a carriage ride out to a local beauty spot. The ladies of the party were already instructing their maids about packing, and there was a good deal of conversation about travel arrangements for the following day. Matthew took a walk down to the ornamental lake to stretch his legs. As he came back into the house he was surprised to find Miss Danbury hovering in the hallway.

“Sir Matthew. Did you enjoy your walk?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s cold, but I like the fresh air. Will you be joining us this afternoon to visit Leveret Hall, Miss Danbury? I’m told the grounds are very fine.”

“I do not believe I will. It’s too cold for me, and I have a good deal to do before we leave tomorrow. Sir Matthew, I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments? The breakfast room is free.”

Matthew was astonished, but he recognised a perfect opportunity even if he still had no idea what he wanted to do with it. Practicality and romance warred together in his heart as he followed her into the room. She closed the door. It felt very final. Matthew took a deep breath and spoke.

“I’m glad of the opportunity to speak to you, Miss Danbury. I’ve enjoyed this week but I feel we’ve not had the chance to talk as much as I’d hoped. I know you’re aware…that is, we’ve been getting to know each other, and I…”

“Please, Sir Matthew. Allow me to speak first. This is difficult and somewhat embarrassing.”

Matthew pulled up short, bewildered. He studied her and realised for the first time that she was rather pale and looked upset. He wondered what had happened and for a panicked moment, thought of Harriet and the long journey to her home. He wondered if her cousin had received bad news.

“What is it, Miss Danbury?”

“As you have said, I am aware that we have spent some time together and that certain expectations have been raised. I feel the weight of those now, but I must be honest with you. This past week, I have begun to wonder if we should suit as well as I first thought. Also, I have been made aware of the feelings of…of another gentleman. Yesterday, he spoke to me and made his intentions clear. I cannot, in good faith, do anything other than be truthful.”

Matthew stared at her. He became aware that his mouth was hanging open and closed it quickly. She sounded breathless and terrified, as though she expected him to shout at her, but there was something very resolute about her which drew both his respect and his sympathy.

“Miss Danbury, are you telling me you’ve received a proposal of marriage?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“And you wish to accept it?”

“I do. I am so sorry. I believed that we might..”

“It’s all right,” Matthew said quickly. His heart was singing so loudly that he was surprised she could not hear it. “Is it…I’m guessing it is from Mr Robinson?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Sir Matthew. It is just that he seems to understand me so well and I feel that…”

Matthew stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it. “Please don’t feel you must explain. I’m very happy for you, ma’am. You owe me nothing; we had no formal agreement. I wish you all the best for your future. He is a lucky man.”

Her face, which had been so pale, flushed with surprised happiness. “Thank you, that is so good of you. He wanted to be with me to tell you, but I thought I owed it to you to do it myself. I have never wanted wealth or position. Just a good man and a quiet life. I think I will have that with him.”

Matthew’s heart was full, not just for his own suddenly revived hopes, but also for her. He thought about how close they had come to a match which would have made neither of them happy.

“I think you will, ma’am. I hope you’ll both be staying for dinner this evening.”

“If it will not be awkward for you?”

“It won’t. If you both agree, I’d like to make the announcement and propose a toast. That will silence any possibility of gossip about it.”

Her face glowed. “I’ll talk to Edward but I’m sure he will say yes. Thank you, sir. You are the best of gentlemen.”

***

The roofer sucked in his breath, shook his head and named an inflated price after his first inspection of the barn. Harriet, who was not in the mood, told him what she thought of his quotation and of the reported standard of his workmanship. She also threw in some comments about his ability to add up a column of figures. The roofer capitulated and they agreed a date to start work.

It rained all week. Harriet rode over her lands, inspecting cattle and flocks. There were several early lambs, flood damage to a footbridge over the brook and a complaint from one of her tenants about a blocked well. She dealt with them calmly and competently, went home to her solitary supper and cried herself to sleep. It was painful but it would pass.

On Sunday she lay late in bed, trying to persuade herself to get up and go to church. She did not always go but liked to make regular appearances. She found the services comforting and thought that it cemented her position as lady of the manor, even with those local gentlemen who thought a woman could not possibly run an estate.

Eventually she dragged herself out of bed and went to wash and dress, deciding that she would miss breakfast until after the service. She was halfway down the stairs when the footman, whose job it was to answer the door, approached her looking bewildered.

“There’s a gentleman to see you, ma’am.”

“If it’s Mr Barratt the roofer, tell him to go away. If he has another problem, I’ll take my business elsewhere. I’m tired of him.”

“No, ma’am. It’s an actual gentleman. He gave me his card.”

The footman sounded impressed. Harriet was not surprised. Visitors were so rare that most of her small staff had never seen a visiting card. She took it and stared at it. Her heart momentarily stopped.

“Is he…I mean has he left?”

“No, ma’am. He’s in the parlour. He wouldn’t go away and I didn’t know where else to put him.”

Harriet wondered if she should teach her servants a little about how to treat visitors.

“That’s all right, Scott. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Her heart was beating faster as she walked through to the small parlour which she used as her sitting room and study. He was standing with his back to the room, looking out onto the garden. It was not raining for once. Harriet thought that he seemed to fill the room just by entering it and it had nothing to do with his size.

“Sir Matthew. This is a surprise.”

He turned and came forward quickly to take her hand. “Mrs Faversham. I’m sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this. I sat down to write a letter. In fact, I wrote about eight of them, but none of them would have answered the purpose. It seemed easier just to come in person.”

Harriet returned the pressure of his hand then gently withdrew hers. “I thought we agreed that it was best to leave things as they were,” she said.

“We did and I obeyed your instructions to the letter, ma’am. But you need to be adaptable in matters of business. Things can change very suddenly and it’s important to be ready to take advantage or you’ll miss your chance.”

“Did something change?”

“I really hope that your feelings haven’t, lass, or I’m here making a fool of myself. Have they?”

“It doesn’t matter. We agreed that my cousin…”

“Your cousin doesn’t want me. Turned me down flat in favour of the vicar. They’re to be married quietly and will spend their lives happily nursing their imaginary ailments and quailing at the sight of a speck of dust on the furniture.”

Harriet stared at him in astonishment. “She turned you down?”

He grinned at her tone. “Well that surprise is very flattering and more than a little hopeful. It’s an interesting place you’ve got here.”

Harriet had no idea what to say. Making an effort to gather her scattered wits, she latched onto his last, although least important, remark with relief.

“Would you like me to show you around?”

The warmth of his smile threw her into confusion again. “I would, ma’am.”

Harriet accepted his arm with a growing feeling of happiness. As they wandered through the rooms of the abbey. Harriet could not help thinking back to the first time she had come here with Charles. One of the things she still remembered fondly about him was his love for his ancestral home. He had been a fount of fascinating history and scandalous stories about the Faversham family, who had occupied Westhorpe since the sixteenth century when Henry VIII had evicted the monks and sold off the lands.

“Charles used to say that the original Sir Henry Faversham was granted the abbey as a reward for looking the other way when the King seduced his wife. It might have been true; it was a generous grant.”

“It’s one way of doing it,” Matthew said. “Myself I’d rather earn my fortune through hard graft and tell his Grace where to go if he looked the wrong way at my wife, but I’m guessing that wasn’t the Faversham way.”

Harriet laughed. “It was with some of them. Sir George Faversham was Charles’ great-grandfather. They found coal on his land and he made an impressive fortune out of it and improved the family lands through the study of modern agricultural methods. Come through to the great hall and look at his portrait. It’s the largest one there.”

They stopped at the foot of the stairs, studying the serious looking gentleman who had been painted against a background of farmland, with a hunting dog beside him.

“Very nice. I notice there’s no sign of the coal mines in that painting though. I bet they kept the source of his fortune as quiet as they could.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “They certainly didn’t make much of it when I joined the family. The mine was closed down some years ago. There are rumours that there’s still a fortune in coal down there but it was too expensive to get it out, and the family felt it was not worth it.”

He gave a flicker of a smile. “I wouldn’t mind a look round the old works some time. If the lady of the manor would agree to take me.”

“I’ll gladly come with you, but we’d need to take old Jack Taylor from the village with us. He knows the site well and can point out the dangerous spots. Do you know much about coal mining?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. I’m always willing to learn.”

Harriet studied him with her head on one side. She realised he was speaking the simple truth. “I believe you. Come and see the cloisters then, and I’ll teach you all about the Benedictines who once lived here. There’s supposed to be a ghostly brother.”

“I’m not sure there’s much profit to be found in spectral monks, but I’m still happy to learn. Lead the way.”

They went out into the cool stone cloisters. For Harriet they held memories of both her brother and Charles and it seemed strange to be walking there with this solid, down-to-earth man who could not have been more different. She was very conscious of the state of the house: the patches of damp and faded old furnishings, though he said nothing about them until they arrived back in the parlour. She offered refreshment then had to go to the door to call to the maid for tea because the bell pull had not worked for years.

He followed this with some amusement, accepted the seat she offered and watched as she sat in her favourite armchair, which badly needed recovering.

“It’s a beautiful old house, Mrs Faversham, but it’ll take a tidy sum to make it comfortable again.”

For a moment she was shocked and then angry. “It’s my home, Sir Matthew. I’ve no intention of selling it.”

He looked startled. “Lass, that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to sell it. Why would I? I was just saying…actually, I haven’t really said it at all, have I?”

“No,” Harriet said.

“I suppose I thought…when we spoke before you left me to my fate at the Broughtons, I had the impression that if things had been different…” He broke off, studying her, his expression suddenly worried. “Why do you think I came, Harriet?”

His use of her name caused her heart to skip a beat. “I suppose to tell me that you were not betrothed to my cousin. I still cannot believe she chose that skinny churchman over you. She never had the least sense.”

He grinned. “That’s more like it. I don’t agree with you, but keep thinking that way. I came to ask you to marry me, Harriet. Please don’t ask me to go down on one knee or make a big declaration. You know I love you. I think we could be very happy together. It’s a lot to ask. I’ve four children as you know, as well as a big house and a lot of responsibility. I hope you like Helton Ridge. It’s nothing like this place. It’s a house, but I’ve never really made it into a home. I’m hoping…look, I’m grateful to Clara. But for her, I’d have made a stupid mistake. I was wiser when I was young and married for love. It wasn’t perfect but we were happy. I like to think I can do even better now. Could you?”

Harriet rose and walked towards him. “I had no intention of marrying again, Matthew.”

He stood up and took her hands in his, bending to kiss her. “Given your first marriage, I don’t blame you. Will you give it a try? With me?”

She was smiling as she reached up to kiss him. The kiss was very satisfying. He seemed content to take it as his answer. They finally moved apart as the maid arrived with the tea tray. Harriet poured, thinking how odd it was to be concentrating on such a mundane task when her heart was overflowing with joy.

“I’ll drink this and be off for a bit, because I’ll need to find a bed for the night. I didn’t really plan this very well, but your man said there’s a decent inn in Southwell. It gets dark so early still, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning and…”

“Stay here,” Harriet said. She saw his eyes widen in surprise then he smiled.

“I’d love to, Harriet, but I don’t want to put you or your servants out, making up rooms and cooking meals. And you know how people gossip.”

“My servants are as capable of getting dinner for two as for one, and I don’t care at all about gossip. We’re both adults and we’re going to be married. My staff have been with me for years, they’ll be delighted for me. As for the bed, you can sleep in the guest room if you wish, but you’ll have to make it up yourself and the sheets won’t have been aired.” Harriet gave a warm smile. “Or you can stay with me, Matthew. Where you belong.”

***

They chose to be married in the parish church in Thorndale at the beginning of May. Matthew would happily have given her an elaborate ceremony and a lengthy wedding journey, but Harriet sensed that he was relieved at her refusal.

“If we have a big wedding, I will have to invite all my most irritating relations. And poor Aunt Amabel needs time to recover from the shock of this. We’ll invite her to Yorkshire later in the year and she will be very happy when she sees how well I have done for myself. I know that you don’t really want to be away from the mills for that long and I have so many plans for the house. Also I want to get to know the children.”

He was visibly nervous on her first visit to Helton Ridge. Harriet tried hard to hide her own nerves. She was looking forward to meeting the children, but she had never been a stepmother before and she experienced a sudden panic in case she turned out not to be good at it.

The children met her in the hall under the stern eye of Miss Price, the governess. The boys were tall, dark and very like Matthew, particularly Arthur. They were on their best behaviour but could not hide their lively curiosity about her. When encouraged, they opened up freely, asking her so many questions about herself, her family and her home that Harriet had to beg them to slow down so that she could keep up with the answers. Katherine, at eight, was fairer in colouring, like her mother according to Matthew. She was a little shy but stayed close to Harriet, drinking in every detail of her appearance and hanging on every word. Harriet decided that she was very much in need of an affectionate and sympathetic stepmother. Matthew remained on the edge of the group, to give the children time to get to know her. He looked pleased.

Harriet wondered why everybody was pretending not to notice that the youngest member of the family was missing.

She had suggested to Matthew that for this first day, they dine early and with the children. He looked surprised, which told her that he took the traditional view that children should eat separately in the nursery. On the whole Harriet agreed with him, but she wanted today to be about them.

The weather was so fine, that it was agreed that dinner should be a picnic on the back lawn. Harriet approved this neat solution and Matthew went away to speak to the kitchen staff, while the boys and Katherine raced off in search of rugs and tablecloths, and garden chairs for the adults. Left alone, Harriet slipped quietly upstairs in search of the nursery wing. She found it easily but there was no sign of Matthew’s youngest daughter.

She was just considering her next move when she heard running footsteps along the corridor outside the day nursery. She went to the door and looked out and the child stopped so abruptly that she almost rocked back on her heels.

There was a surprised silence. Then the girl said:

“Oh. You’re here.”

Harriet surveyed the truant. The child was dark, more so even than the boys. Her hair was straight and she wore it in a long plait, which had probably started the day neatly tied with ribbons but was now straggling loose. Her dress matched Katherine’s, pale blue over a white petticoat except that Anne’s was splashed with mud around the hem and had a tear in the sleeve. The child’s hands were dirty.

Despite all this, she was extraordinarily pretty. Harriet thought she seemed tall for her age. Her eyes were very dark, fringed with long lashes. She was studying Harriet thoughtfully.

“Yes, I’m here. Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Oh yes, but I thought you’d be later. Or maybe it is later. I was skimming stones at the brook with Peter and I forgot the time.”

Harriet could not resist smiling. “That’s very easy to do. I think you must be Anne.”

“And you must be my new stepmother. Or I suppose you’re not yet, but you soon will be. You’re very pretty. Where’s my father? Is he very angry?”

Harriet noted that the child did not seem particularly worried, which told her something about Matthew’s relationship with his children.

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention it. I think he was hoping I wouldn’t notice you were missing.”

“Well that was silly,” Anne said. “I mean you seem clever and you can count. You were bound to notice. I hope I haven’t missed dinner.”

“You haven’t. Your father has agreed we are to have a picnic on the back lawn and has gone to make the arrangements.”

“A picnic? Well if I’d known that, I’d have come home sooner.” Anne surveyed Harriet. “I am sorry. I really didn’t mean to be so late and I didn’t mean to be rude. I just forget the time. I hope Papa doesn’t say I must miss the picnic.”

“I think at your age I forgot the time a lot as well. Don’t worry about it, he won’t be angry with you. Though I think it might help if you arrive looking less like a gypsy. Let’s get you washed and tidied up and I’ll do your hair for you again, then we’ll go down.”

Wide dark eyes surveyed her seriously then Anne held out her grubby hand and smiled. It was dazzling. For a moment, all Harriet could think about was the effect that smile was going to have on the local young gentlemen in a few years time. She managed not to say anything and took the child’s hand.

“Thank you,” Anne said. “I am glad you’ve come. You seem very nice and I think I’m going to like having a stepmother. What should we call you? Papa didn’t tell us. I think I’d like to call you Mama, because I never knew mine so you’re my first one really. But George and Arthur remember our mother so they might not agree. What do you think?”

Harriet meekly allowed herself to be towed to the girls’ bedroom. “We’ll talk about it later, Anne. I think you’ll all have to agree; it will be confusing if you call me different names.”

“I suppose that’s true. Don’t worry, I’ll talk the boys round. I always do.”

Harriet reached for a hairbrush. “I believe you,” she said faintly.

Anne flashed another smile. “Well you should call me Nan. All the family do. And don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to me very quickly. Even Papa doesn’t get cross that often, though he did once say that the man I marry is going to need nerves of steel and a constitution of iron. I’ve lost my ribbon. Never mind, a white one will have to do. Oh, I just remembered. I should have said welcome to Helton Ridge, Mrs Faversham.”

***

Matthew watched them approach, walking hand in hand across the smooth grass. The boys and Katherine were setting out the picnic, already squabbling over the lemonade. He could hear Anne chattering happily to his fiancée. Briefly he considered reprimanding her for her late appearance, but the day was so perfect he did not want to spoil it.

Anne raced to help set out the food and Matthew went to kiss Harriet. She was smiling and looked relaxed and happy.

“I see you found our truant. I’m glad you’ve met her and haven’t run away yet. If you can manage Nan, you can manage anything.”

“Even you, Matthew?”

He looked down at her, a smile curving his lips. “Especially me,” he said, feeling very content. “Come and join the party before they eat all the beef patties. They’re like a flock of vultures and I’m hungry. And have some champagne.”

She allowed him to seat her in a garden chair, accepted a glass of champagne then watched as he joined his children, unpacking the food baskets. Glancing back at her, Matthew thought he had never been happier in his life.

Welcome to Kaunas

Welcome to Kaunas

Welcome to Kaunas, as Writing with Labradors tackles a whole new challenge. Leaving the Peninsular War and Royal Navy behind for a short time, I’ve arrived in Lithuania as a medical tourist to get my right hip replaced.

 

 

I’ve written before about the difficulties I’ve had getting treatment for severe osteoarthritis in my hips. After a lot of heart searching and even more research, my husband and I decided to take the plunge and go overseas for the operation. We read a lot about Lithuania, particularly the Nord Clinic in Kaunas, joined a patient group on Facebook and before Christmas we booked to make the trip, leaving Oscar and Alfie in the care of Jon, Anya and Anya’s partner Ollie.

Largely because of how much worse my mobility has got over the past year, we’ve not travelled much. I had a relaxed break in Mallorca at the end of 2023 and a few short trips to visit family or to attend conferences during 2024. This trip to Kaunas hardly counts as a holiday but there was still a sense of anticipation as Christmas came and went and it was time to pack for the journey.

In the chaos of packing, organising the house and trying to get the broken central heating fixed before setting off, it didn’t occur to me I was going to be nervous, but the day before we were due to travel I unexpectedly realised I was absolutely terrified. It suddenly seemed insane that I was about to set off to a country I’d never visited to have a major operation. No matter how much I’d read about the excellent record and glowing testimonials for the Nord Clinic I wanted to cancel the whole thing and go back to bed. My poor husband patiently talked me down from my panic, soothed my tearful moments and reminded me how much better my life would get when I could walk my dogs on the beach or in the forest again.

Travelling off island in winter is always a slightly risky proposition and we watched the weather reports with growing concern as snow and ice were predicted. This is seldom too much of a problem on the island but it’s a different matter in the UK and on Sunday morning we woke to news that whole areas of the UK had been affected and that Liverpool airport was temporarily closed while they tried to clear the runways and de-ice the plane. We went to Ronaldsway and waited, stress rising as the flight was delayed, then delayed again. We were due to stay overnight in Liverpool but if we didn’t make it that day we would miss our connecting flight on Monday to Kaunas and the whole thing would have to be rearranged.

A day of stress, virtually no food and complete exhaustion ended with us collapsing into bed in the Liverpool Airport Premier Inn. We got to the airport so late that it was closed and the passenger assistance we had booked completely failed, leaving us stranded on the plane. I’d like to give a heartfelt shout out to the EasyJet pilot, Mark. It wasn’t his job to wait behind with us, to chase up a man with a wheelchair or to personally help Richard to get me down the icy steps from the plane. He then went off to track down our checked-in luggage and escorted us to the taxi rank to make sure I was okay. That man went well beyond the call of duty and I’ll never forget how kind he was.

Things went much better the following day and we arrived in a snowy Kaunas to be met by the Nord Clinic driver who took us to the Hotel Kaunas. Fear of not making it in time was now replaced by fear of something going wrong with the pre-operation check-up which would prevent me having the surgery. I have no idea why I thought this might be an issue. Apart from the arthritis I’m in excellent health, very seldom get so much as a cold and had no reason to think that had suddenly changed. It turns out that pre-battle nerves can take some strange forms.

Fortunately my fears turned out to be as unnecessary as my patient husband had said they would be. All was well at the clinic this morning and with the knowledge that the surgery can go ahead, along with my first experience of the kindness and professionalism of the Nord Clinic staff, my mood improved significantly. Suddenly I realised I was in a new city, the snow had mostly gone, though it was cold and drizzling rain and I wanted to go out.

Richard made faint murmuring sounds about whether it was wise to go for a walk when the pavements are still covered in slush and I forgot to bring my walking stick from home. He didn’t really argue for long though. I’d spent far too long inside over the past few days, perched on uncomfortable airport seats or wedged painfully into airplane seats without enough leg room. I set off with a mission; I wanted to see the river and at least a little bit of the old town. Richard had a mission of his own which was to buy me a new walking stick before I killed myself.

Both missions were successful. We made it down to the old town despite slightly miserable weather and once we got there, Richard gleefully spotted some rather lovely hand carved walking sticks in a shop which sold local arts and crafts. The shopkeeper helped me to test for the right size and I was delighted with my new stick, for several reasons. It will enable me to make the most of my limited visit to Kaunas before I’m laid up after the operation. It will also be a rather lovely souvenir. Finally, it made me think affectionately of my late father, who bequeathed me a fine collection of walking sticks, mainly because of the number of times he left home without his and had to buy a new one while he was away. I felt like a bit of an idiot for forgetting mine but I’m rather pleased now. I just have to make sure I don’t leave this one in the hotel room.

Our hotel is on the Laisvės Alėja which translates as Liberty Boulevard. It is apparently the longest pedestrian street in Eastern Europe and was mostly built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. On our way down to the old town we passed an open square with several statues and a memorial plaque. It looks a little bare at this time of year though I suspect it must be pretty in the summer months. The plaque tells a tragic story from a very different era to the one I’m used to reading and writing about. It is a memorial to Romas Kalanta, a 19-year-old Lithuanian student who killed himself by self-immolation in an act of protest against the Soviet regime in Lithuania. 

At noon on 14 May 1972, Kalanta poured three litres of petrol over himself and set himself on fire in the square in front of the Kaunas State Musical Theatre where, in 1940, a puppet legislature had declared the establishment of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic and petitioned the Soviet Union to admit Lithuania as one of the soviet socialist republics. He left a note on a bench which blamed the regime for his death. Kalanta’s suicide. His death provoked a wave of anti-Soviet public demonstrations throughout 1972 and 1973 including 13 other suicides by fire. 

I’d done a little reading about the history of Lithuania before setting out on this trip, so I knew the outline of its struggle with the Soviet Union. Reading about a nineteen year old giving his life in such a horrific way brought the background sharply into focus. As always, it’s the story of individuals that makes history real for me and this was such a sad one.

There are some lovely buildings in the old town, though slippery streets and some major building work meant I was cautious about exploring as much as I wanted to. I really took a liking to this particular house though. It’s known as the House of Perkunas which means the House of Thunder and was named after a sculpture of the god Perkunas which was found in the house during some renovations in 1818. The house was built at the end of the fifteenth century by a wealthy townsman and was later the home of a famous Jesuit historian. In 1844 the first drama theatre in Kaunas was established there. In 1991 it was returned to the Jesuits and is now used for educational purposes as well as housing a museum dedicated to the poet Adam Mickiewicz.

 

By the time I staggered back to the hotel I was in some pain, though delighted with myself for walking so far. We rewarded ourselves with coffee and pastries in the coffee shop next to the hotel. Being restricted in what I can do and where I can go has been a big problem for me and I was pleased to have seen even a little bit of Kaunas. I have a whole day tomorrow and if the weather allows and I feel up to it, I’m hoping to walk over to the castle and get in a tiny bit of history tourism to go along with my medical tourism.

 

We found a lovely restaurant last night, called the Wood Fired Kitchen. It’s directly opposite our hotel and given its extensive menu, nice atmosphere and good beer we’ve decided not to be too adventurous with eating out and to go back there. It’s tempting to feel I should explore but this week I’m happy with familiarity. I’ve been very impressed so far with how friendly the people of Kaunas have been. Many of them speak some English and I’ve found them very welcoming and helpful.

Thanks to everyone who has sent me good luck messages over the past few weeks. I’ll keep everybody updated with how things are going and hopefully, with how work is progressing while I’m convalescing. After all, there are always stories to be written.

Signing off for today from Writing with Labradors does Lithuania. Looking forward to a new hip and some new adventures once this operation is done.

Welcome to 2025 from Writing with Labradors

Welcome to 2025 from Writing with Labradors. It’s New Year’s Eve on the Isle of Man and it’s foul weather; high winds and driving rain. After zooming around outside like a lunatic earlier, Oscar is very happy to snooze the afternoon away in my study, snuggled up on the sofa. Sadly for him, his younger brother is bored.

“Muuuuummm! Tell Alfie to stop wrecking the sofa. Look what he’s done to it again.”

“Alfie, don’t do that. It’s not good for the sofa and neither of you can settle properly like that. Down you get and I’ll fix it for you.”

“Sorry Mum. I’m just bored. Can I go outside again.”

“Just for a bit. I’ll get my coat.”

 

20 minutes later…

“Muuuuummm! Come and speak to the Ginger Sponge again. He’s come in soaking wet and is lying all over me chewing on his bone. It’s ridiculous, there are two sofas in here.”

“Alfie, come and get dried off before you get on the sofa. And give Oscar a bit more space. There’s plenty of room for two on there. Or use the other sofa.”

 

 

15 minutes later, I’m immersed in work.

“Muuuuuummm! He’s done it again. Look at the state of this. What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s just got the fidgets, Oscar. Alfie, come outside again. We’ll play with the new Christmas shark for a bit.”

“You’re not taking Big Shark out in this weather, Mum. He’ll get soaked and probably blow into next door’s garden. And don’t take Blue Octopus either, he hates the rain. Like me. Take Big Puppy.”

“All right. Come on, Alfie.”

20 minutes later, I’m in the kitchen making a cup of tea and trying to dry out.

“Muuuuummm! Look at what’s happened now. Can’t somebody adopt him when it rains? He can come back when it’s dry.”

“No, Oscar. You’d miss him. Come into the living room and I’ll light the fire. There’s more space in there.”

 

“All right. And put a blanket over his head. It might work the same as for parrots.”

“I’m not convinced, Oscar, but we’ll give it a try.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half an hour later the house is quiet. Working at my desk I can hear the rain against the window panes and the wind blowing somebody’s left-out recycling round the front garden. I can also hear two lots of snoring on the sofa behind me.

“Are you back now, Oscar? Did you get lonely in there?”

“A bit. And look at him – he’s fairly cute when he settles down. Maybe he really is a parrot.”

“Whatever the reason, it’s worked.”

“It was a great idea. I wonder if Anya still has that weighted blanket. That would really do the trick.”

“Don’t even think about it, Oscar.”

 

 

Happy New Year from all of us here at Writing with Labradors. It’s been a very strange year in many ways but despite all the difficulties, it’s ended so much better than it began. I started the year with depression and anxiety and the horrible feeling of not knowing where I was going next. I’ve ended it feeling safe and grounded and ready to face anything.

It’s just as well, because physical health hasn’t gone quite so well this year and my osteoarthritis in both hips has got so bad that it’s severely limiting my mobility. I’m also in constant pain. As mentioned in a previous post, I’m off to Lithuania in a week for my first hip replacement operation. I still can’t entirely believe I’m doing it, but if it gets me back to climbing hills and running along the beach with my dogs again it will be so worth it.

There were some work achievements. I wrote and published book nine of the Peninsular War Saga and a Formidable Frontier is proving very popular. I was offered a three book contract by Sapere Books to write a new Age of Sail series, which I’m working on at present. I published my usual free short stories which my readers seem to have enjoyed. A Provincial Nobody for Valentine’s Day told the story of the first meeting of two well-liked characters from the Manxman series. The Kittiwake at Halloween was a ghost story with a nautical theme. The French Lieutenant brought a little Christmas cheer into the life of a French prisoner-of-war. And a bonus story, An Ungentlemanly Officer took us back to Paul van Daan’s early days in Portugal.

I’m looking forward to writing more books, more short stories, more blog posts and more tales of Oscar and Alfie in 2025 and onward. Thanks to all my readers for your messages, e-mails and fabulous reviews. Your support means so much to me.

In the meantime, it’s still raining but the boys seem to have decided that the sofa is big enough for the both of them after all.

Happy New Year Everybody.

The French Lieutanant

Welcome to the French Lieutenant, my Christmas story for 2024. As always it’s freely available on my website, so please share as much as you like.

This is not the first short story I’ve written about a French prisoner of war. In an Impossible Attachment back in 2018, Lieutenant Damien Cavel managed to escape before he is marched onto the transport to England. Raoul Delon is not as lucky in this story. Or perhaps he is.

I read a lot about the arrangements for captured French officers in the various parole towns around England and Scotland. The rules were the same in every town but the application of them seems to have varied widely. The parole agents were often open to bribery and some officers broke their parole and escaped back to France. Curfew and boundaries were strictly enforced in many places and very lax in others. I suspect that in towns where the prisoners gave no trouble and got on with the locals, they were give a lot more latitude than in towns where there were drunken brawls and resentment. Some officers brought their wives with them. Others found wives among the local girls. Some chose not to go back to France at the end of the war.

It only recently occurred to me that my fictional industrial town of Thorndale was exactly the kind of place designated as a parole town. It gave me the opportunity to revisit a storyline which began in the very first book in the Peninsular War Saga as well as to introduce some new characters. There are also one or two links to a Formidable Frontier, my most recent book and to the Kittiwake, my Halloween story.

In the winter of 1813-14 there is still no peace in Europe, but in a small Yorkshire town there’s a sense of reconciliation and looking towards the future which feels right for Christmas.

I’m looking forward to moving on with my new Age of Sail series and with book four of the Manxman series in 2025. In the meantime I wish all my readers, old and new, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As always, your enjoyment of these books and stories makes it all worthwhile. I hope you enjoy the French Lieutenant. Thank you so much.

The French Lieutenant

Yorkshire, November 1813

Heads turned as he left the narrow house at the end of the street and made his cautious way over the slippery cobblestones towards the baker’s shop. The stones would have been hard enough to manage in worn boots which let in water, but a marked limp and the need to use a cane for support added to the probability that he would slip over. Lieutenant Raoul Delon had been making this journey every morning for the past three weeks, apart from Sundays when the baker’s was closed. He wondered if the curious townspeople were disappointed that so far they had not seen him sprawled in a puddle unable to get up.

He was not the only Frenchman currently billeted in this little English town but he was the most recent and therefore the most interesting. Raoul had arrived on a transport after long appalling weeks in an army hospital which he was still surprised to have survived. His leg, broken by a shot while leading his men on the heights of the pass at Maya, would probably have been amputated if there had been enough surgeons available. As it was he had been left in an isolated farmhouse with a resentful Basque couple and a promise that help would come.

Help had eventually arrived, not from his compatriots but from a contingent of English troops on their way to make a new assault on the pass. By then Raoul was weak from blood loss, shivering with fever and starving, because his unwilling hosts refused to feed him more than scraps. The English had carried him down the mountain and into an army hospital. Raoul felt as though he had been transported into a dimension of hell.

Neglect had probably saved his leg and a naturally tough constitution had saved his life. When eventually he was marched aboard a prison transport to England, Raoul was no longer sure how much he cared, but he learned to take each day as it came. At least here he had shelter and rations and, for the first time in years, felt safe from either being blown to pieces on a battlefield or slaughtered in an ambush by Spanish partisans. Even fever, which killed more men in Bonaparte’s army than battle wounds, was less likely here.

Mr Farnham the baker greeted him with his usual surly nod and waited for his order. Raoul stated his requirements, keeping it brief. During his first week in Thorndale, he had attempted to make polite conversation with the townspeople. His English was quite good but he quickly realised that the thick dialect spoken in this town was nothing like the language he had been taught at school and practiced among his fellow officers. He knew they understood him perfectly well, but it seemed to amuse them to pretend they could not and he often could not understand them. He had given up now and kept his conversation as simple as his shopping requirements. Farnham wrapped the bread and hot pasty and watched him leave.

Around the corner was a butcher and a row of market stalls selling fresh goods. There was a full market once a week, but these local stalls were out every day. Several of them were run by women and Raoul found them more friendly than their menfolk, though no easier to understand. His cooking facilities were limited so he subsisted mostly off cooked meat and preserved fish, bread and cheese. Once a week he squandered some of his allowance on a hearty stew at the Red Lion with the dozen other French officers allocated to this particular parole town and enjoyed several glasses of wine over cards or chess. Otherwise he drank ale, ate herring and remembered wistfully the fresh food grown on his family farm in the Loire Valley.

Raoul distributed his various packages between the big pockets of his old greatcoat and limped back up the hill towards his billet, which was a chilly room above a stationer’s shop. Mr Thorpe, the proprietor, was unmarried and managed with a maid and a manservant who also worked in the shop. The kitchen was old and the big range never lit, so cooking took place over the fire. Thorpe was perfectly happy for his guest to use it but Raoul always felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two servants, so managed as far as he could over the smaller fire in his room. Coal was expensive but there were extensive forested areas within ten minutes walk of the edge of town and years in the army had made him an expert forager.

It was growing colder, with a sharp wind which cut easily through his shabby coat. The paroled officers received a weekly allowance which was paid by the town parole agent. Being new, Raoul had only just begun to receive his and had so far received no money from home, though he was hoping that his brother, who ran the family’s small estate, would be able to arrange it soon. He was saving for new clothing but in the meantime he would manage. This Yorkshire market town might feel inhospitable at times but it was nothing compared to bleak, freezing nights in the Pyrenees.

The cold made him quicken his pace which proved his downfall. Setting down his cane he felt it slide away from him and as he tried not to follow it, his bad leg went the other way. He fell heavily on his side and lay winded, feeling pain shooting down his leg. It panicked him. The break had healed but he had no idea if the bone was permanently damaged and whether it might break again from a simple fall. For a while he made no attempt to get up, but he knew he was going to have to. Unless he was lucky enough to be spotted by one of his fellow prisoners he did not think any of the locals would come to his aid.

He had barely begun to move however when a shadow fell over him and a man’s voice said:

“Stay still, now. If you get up too quickly you’ll be over again, lame as you are. Catch your breath. Here, you boy! Get yourself over and take his other arm. And your friend can take his cane. Bring him into Mr Arnold’s office.

Raoul opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Until he had rested his leg for a while he did not think there was any way he would make it back to his billet, let alone up the stairs to the second floor. He allowed his rescuer to help him up three steps and across a wide, tiled hallway into what looked like a waiting room. There was an old-fashioned sofa against one wall and Raoul sank onto it gratefully.

“My thanks, sir, and your pardon for being so troublesome,” he said, careful to speak slowly and clearly. “I will be better soon.”

The other man studied him for a moment then turned to take Raoul’s cane from one of the two boys. He handed a coin to each of them and waved dismissal, just as a second man bustled into the room.

“Now then, Mr Carlyon, what’s this? Is the poor gentleman hurt? A nasty fall and if I’d not been standing at the window, I’d never have seen it. Mrs Cobb? Where are you? Make some tea would you? And get Smith to bring the burgundy and glasses down here. I’d invite you up sir, but you shouldn’t try the stairs yet. Leg paining you is it? I’ve seen you struggle past a few times and wondered. Glad to have finally met you. Arnold’s the name. Henry Arnold, lawyer and man of business. And this gentleman who was ahead of me down the stairs to help you up is Mr Benjamin Carlyon, our former MP who lives nearby.”

Raoul’s head was spinning a little but he was relieved that he was easily able to understand Mr Arnold’s accent. He shook the older man’s proffered hand and that of Mr Carlyon with real gratitude.

“Thank you both, sirs. I am sorry to have been so much trouble. My name is Delon – Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne. I was wounded at Maya and captured soon afterwards. My leg has been recovering slowly but I am not yet steady on my feet.”

“Of course you’re not. Damned stupid of Johnson to shove you right at the top of old Thorpe’s building in my opinion. What’s your room like? Do they feed you? Can’t help noticing you’ve been doing your own marketing most days. Here, Smith. Take Lieutenant Delon’s coat and be careful with it. He’s got his supper in the pockets.”

Raoul felt himself blush. “I am well enough there, sir,” he said quickly. “Some of the officers stay next to the Red Lion and have a mess arrangement there but I would rather not feel obliged.”

Mr Carlyon looked surprisingly sympathetic. The servant had set down the madeira and he went to pour a glass for Raoul.

“Don’t get on with your fellow officers, eh?”

“I do, sir. We meet regularly. Only I have only recently arrived and do not know them that well yet. Also they are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “They are thankful for nothing. Me, I remember what I have just come from and am thankful for what I now have.”

Arnold fixed him with a look then accepted a wine glass from Carlyon and drank appreciatively.

“By God, you’ve got it there, lad. Whiny lot, aren’t they? My wife makes a point of inviting them to dinner every few weeks. Trying to make them feel welcome. They sit round our table moaning in French to each other like they think we’re too stupid to understand them. My wife speaks it well and I can get by.”

Raoul went even more red. “I am sorry for their manners, sir. I am surprised you invite them back.”

“We feel sorry for them. I’ve a nephew in the navy. Midshipman aboard the Venerable. And Carlyon here has a son out with Wellington. We’ve said before that we’d like to think some French family would be good to them if they were taken prisoner.”

“I imagine you would also like to think that your son and your nephew would show good manners,” Raoul said. His ability to converse with these two men was beginning to restore his confidence in his English. Carlyon grinned.

“Well there’s nothing wrong with your manners, lad, that’s for sure. I think some of the officers here regret not being sent to a livelier town for parole. There’s not many of you: only fourteen now you’ve arrived. There are hundreds in some of the bigger towns and cities. They’ve built their own communities. It’s boring here for your countrymen and none of them have brought wives with them. Are you married, sir?”

Raoul shook his head. “No. I am glad of it. It is enough that my mother worries.”

“Poor lady. Drink up. Are you feeling any better?”

Raoul shifted his leg and winced. “A little. I think I can make it back to my billet…”

“Until you take a tumble down those bloody stairs and break your neck,” Arnold said scathingly. “It won’t do. What do you think, Carlyon?”

“I’d be happy to take him but it wouldn’t be suitable just now. I hadn’t got around to telling you, but we have a guest staying with us – a young lady.”

“I see.” Arnold sounded doubtful. Raoul was beginning to feel like a stray dog being passed around until a sympathetic owner could be found. He did not like the feeling, but he sensed genuine kindness in these men and having received nothing of the sort for a long time he appreciated their intentions. “I suppose that might be awkward. Relation of some kind? Your wife’s perhaps?”

“Not at all. If it were my niece she’d enjoy the company,” Carlyon said with grim amusement. “We didn’t know the girl personally but her brother served with Simon.”

“Served?”

“Yes,” Carlyon said. Raoul understood what the man was trying to say and felt a little shiver of sadness for the unknown woman. He had been tactful so far but he could not let this pass.

“You mean that her brother was killed in battle by one of my countrymen, sir?”

Carlyon looked flustered. “Well yes, sir. Though there’s no need for you to take it to heart. I can see you’re the kind who would. He was doing his duty same as you were. The thing is, it’s very recent and she’s been left completely alone. There was some relative living with her; they’ve a house in Hay-on-Wye. A Welsh family, very respectable.”

“I feel much sadness for her,” Raoul said. “Too many men have died on both sides.”

“How did she come to be staying with you?” Arnold asked with interest. “What age is she? When she’s feeling more the thing I’ll get my wife to call. Introduce her to my daughter. Louisa’s a kind soul.”

“It would be the very thing for her,” Carlyon said warmly. “Give her a week or two to settle in. My wife is delighted. She misses Simon, it’s good for her to have a young person to fuss over again. Miss Lloyd is twenty and a very nice girl. The aunt she’s been living with died. Left her on her own in their big old house with a few servants. Lloyd served in the 110th and was a good friend of my Simon’s. It seems he’d only just heard of his aunt’s death  before he was killed in this latest action. He chose Simon to take care of his affairs if anything happened. Nothing formal of course: there’s a lawyer. But he left a letter for the girl and Simon sold his horses and the like and sent his personal effects home to her. Simon was worried about her; she’s young to be left alone in the world. He’s a responsible lad, is Simon. Not like…anyway, he wrote to us about it and nothing would do for my wife but to write to the girl to invite her to stay with us for a time.”

“I hope it’s a success.”

“I think it will be. She makes no demands. She has her own money and will inherit what was her brother’s. She just needed some company and we’re happy to have her. But that’s why I can’t offer Lieutenant Delon here my hospitality just now.”

“Of course,” Raoul said quickly. “She cannot possibly wish to see a man in this uniform. Please do not trouble yourself any more, gentlemen. I am very well at Mr Thorpe’s and…”

“Nay, Arnold here is right. You shouldn’t be climbing up those stairs every day and you shouldn’t be living off cold food because Thorpe is such an old clutch-fist that he won’t light his kitchen stove.”

Raoul looked startled. Carlyon smiled. “Servants meet at the market, lad. They talk. You can’t come to me and Arnold’s house has worse stairs than Thorpe’s. They’d need a hoist to get you to bed at night. I’ll need to think about it.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Benjamin. There’s an obvious solution. We need to speak to Howard.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Raoul had no idea what it was about but he felt it. Finally Carlyon said:

“No point. Helton Ridge is even further out of the parole area than my house. Mr Johnson wouldn’t allow it.”

“Rubbish. Johnson is flexible enough with the rules when someone bribes him enough,” Arnold said cynically. “And we all know whose pocket he lives in. Look, the Lieutenant can stay with us for one night. At least he’ll get a decent meal and Louisa can practice her French on him. I’ll take him over now and then I’ll ride out to Helton Ridge. If Howard can get permission for them to attend his receptions and Christmas ball well out of curfew hours, he can damned well intervene to make sure this lad has a safe billet.”

Raoul was horrified. “Sir, I cannot impose on you this way. It is illegal. It could end with you getting into terrible trouble and I might be accused of breaking my parole and be sent to a prison hulk. And I do not think I would survive that.”

The two Englishmen exchanged amused glances. They must both have been at least sixty and Raoul sensed a benevolent conspiracy between two very old friends.

“I’d go if I could,” Carlyon said apologetically.

“I know. Though I wish you would. It’s long past time.”

“I can’t, Arnold. Not after what happened.”

“Aye, I understand. I just think you underestimate Howard. He’s a good man. Let’s get those documents signed before I forget that’s what we were doing, and then I’ll take Lieutenant Delon over to my lady.”

Raoul made an attempt to rise and Arnold moved forward and put his hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Stay there. Mrs Cobb will bring you some tea, if you can stomach it after a good madeira. You’re not well, lad. You’re as skinny as a rake, as pale as a ghost and about as mobile as a fish washed up on Whitby Beach. Sit you there for a while and rest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to meet you ever since I’ve watched you struggle up that damned hill every day. Don’t worry about anything. Whatever we do will be perfectly legal and signed off by the parole agent. Sir Matthew Howard will see to that.”

***

There was a thick frost on the ground and the household was barely stirring when Gwynneth Lloyd fastened her cloak and slipped quietly out of the side door into the gardens of Glebe House. She had arrived in Thorndale in a downpour a week earlier; so cold and tired that she had noticed nothing about her destination other than that the house was comfortable with all modern conveniences. Her hostess was motherly and kind, and there was a fire lit in her room.

Since then, the weather had been unpredictable with fierce stormy days succeeded by brilliant blue skies and crisp cold air. Gwen sensed that this would be one of those days. She was an enthusiastic walker and was used to a good deal of independence but she had quickly discovered that her hostess tended to fuss. Mrs Carlyon had never had a daughter and Gwen suspected she felt the lack keenly. It made her an attentive but over-protective hostess so Gwen was learning to slip out when the house was quiet.

She had cried with relief when Mrs Carlyon’s invitation arrived. The news of Davy’s death, coming only months after the death of her elderly Aunt Cerys, had left her grieving and bewildered. She realised that she had spent the past few years in a constant state of waiting, believing his cheerful promises that once the war was over and he was home, they would make some plans.

“No need to rush into marriage with some local sheep farmer, Gwen love. You’re still young and Da left enough for a respectable dowry for you. Bless them both, they never saw further than the end of the valley but it’s different for me, and it should be different for you as well. It’s a fine regiment, the 110th. You’ll do well enough with Aunt Cerys for a year or two and then I’ll be home and we’ll rent the house out; you can come up to Leicestershire and I’ll introduce you to my friends. You’ll be settled in no time, I promise you. Just look at you. You’re growing into something of a beauty.”

She had trusted him implicitly and been grateful for his determination that she should not be left behind as he stepped out into a wider world. Some brothers would have accepted the first offer he received just to get her off his hands and there had been several as soon as she reached seventeen. They were from men she had known as boys, and still thought of as such, and she had refused them kindly but with relief. She had been given the gift of time and choice and it never occurred to her that he would not be there to honour his promise.

Gwen had been angry and grieving during those first weeks but also paralysed with indecision. She had no idea what to do now. Her brother’s lawyer, who had also served her father, had given her a very encouraging report of her financial affairs and suggested that she allow him to advertise for a hired companion to lend her respectability and to support her through her mourning period. Gwen did not want a stranger in the house but was already aware of a stirring of interest, a rise in the number of morning calls and invitations to tea from those local families whose sons she had already rejected. She was beginning to wonder if such a marriage was the only choice left to her but the surprising invitation from Mr and Mrs Carlyon had offered, if not a solution, certainly a reprieve.

She had studied the letter with caution, but before she had the chance to decide, a courier arrived from Spain bringing Davy’s personal possessions, the money from the sale of his horses and campaign goods and a letter he had written to Gwen in case of his death. There was also a letter from the wife of Davy’s commanding officer who had employed the courier. Both made Gwen cry all over again, but it confirmed that the Carlyons were respectable people who wanted only to help. Travel arrangements were made and Gwen set off for Yorkshire. After only a week, she knew she had found the refuge she needed and was immensely grateful to those who had worked to bring her here.

The Carlyons lived in a compact house built during the reign of Queen Anne. It was not particularly large but was elegant and well-maintained, and several generations of the family had been raised there. There was a small estate with a home farm and a number of long term tenancies and the place had an air of comfortable prosperity. Mr Carlyon had served for many years as the MP for the Thorndale constituency but had given up his seat several years earlier. He and his wife had raised two sons to manhood, both of whom chose careers in the army. The elder had died during the early years of the war in Portugal and Mrs Carlyon seemed to find it hard to speak of her loss. The younger, who had been Davy’s friend, was still with Wellington’s army which had just crossed the border into France for the first time.

Walking always helped Gwen think. She struck out across the frosty lawns, skirted the orchard and joined a narrow track which took her up a steep slope known locally as Gallows Hill. She had not troubled to ask the origin of the story. It was not hard to guess. The hill had a spectacular view of the town of Thorndale and the surrounding moors and dales, sparkling in the winter sunlight.

Yorkshire was lovely, even in this bleak weather, and it gave Gwen a curious sense of hope. She loved the soaring mountains and deep valleys of her Welsh homeland but she had always yearned to see other places while at the same time dreading that she would be disappointed. She was not. Beauty existed beyond the confines of her girlhood home and she realised, even in the depths of her grief for Davy and her Aunt Cerys, that she had not lost her curiosity about the world beyond her limited experience.

She stood at the top of the hill, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the glittering fields below her. The frost would be gone soon, and sheep and cattle would be out enjoying their winter grazing in the lower pastures. She found herself trying to imagine the steep mountain slope where her brother had fought and died. When he wrote to her, telling her stories of the places he had visited and the battles he had fought, she remembered feeling a fierce envy along with her anxiety for his safety. He had travelled so far from their rural upbringing. It had never really occurred to her that he might never come home.

Back down at the house the servants were busy about their work and there was the smell of bacon and new baked bread. Gwen went upstairs to change, then made her way down to the cosy parlour where breakfast was served. She found Mr Carlyon present, though his wife had not yet appeared.

“Out early this morning, Miss Lloyd. Nice bright morning, but cold.”

Gwen smiled and made a cheerful response. She liked both the Carlyons and was deeply grateful for their generosity to a young woman they did not know. She had heard Davy talk warmly about the bonds of friendship created during army service. She had not expected it to extend to his family and was touched at the care taken on her behalf.

They chatted about the weather until Mrs Carlyon joined them. Gwen saw that she had several letters in her hand but she did not open them, merely set them beside her plate. Gwen made a guess. Buttering her bread, she said lightly:

“Do you have a letter from Captain Carlyon, ma’am?”

The older woman coloured a little. “Well yes, my dear. But I can wait until…”

“Please don’t. After all your kindness – and his to my brother – I should like to know that he is well.”

Mrs Carlyon’s hand hovered over the letter. “I don’t wish to upset you.”

“It won’t, ma’am. The war is still going on and I cannot avoid all mention of it. Davy would have something to say to me if I tried.”

Her hostess beamed at her and broke the seal of the letter, opening a sheet which was covered with writing so small that Gwen deduced that her son was trying to make the most of the space. Mrs Carlyon gave a little groan and peered closely while sipping her tea.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed in surprise. “He writes from France, Benjamin. They are properly established upon French soil. How strange after so long. They have very comfortable billets and are hoping for a peaceful Christmas.”

Gwen ate her breakfast and let the conversation drift past her. She found it curiously soothing. It brought back the excitement of getting letters from Davy, who had never been a particularly regular correspondent. When he did write however he made her laugh with stories from the regiment, descriptions of the places he had seen and a running commentary about the misadventures of his commanding officer’s dog which frequently made her laugh out loud. It was bitter-sweet to think of the regiment carrying on without him but at the same time Gwen was glad of the news. It made her feel closer to him.

She realised Mrs Carlyon had stopped reading aloud and was casting a doubtful glance at her husband. Firmly she said:

“Thank you, ma’am. I enjoyed hearing that. It brings back happy memories of my brother. Is there any further news?”

“Well…only a mention of the matter of the French prisoners. I believe we mentioned to you that Thorndale is a parole town, though only designated one last year as they were running out of space in one or two of the other towns. We have but a dozen or so junior officers and they give us no trouble. It seems that arrangements are being made for the parole boundary to be extended so that Helton Ridge can be included. Mrs van Daan’s family live there, you know, my dear. Lady Howard has been hospitable to the officers. I wonder if she is thinking of offering accommodation to some of them. It might be suitable, especially if any of the officers have wives joining them. They have a lot of space. Do you know the Van Daans?”

“Not personally,” Gwen said. “General van Daan wrote to me to tell me about Davy’s death of course and then his wife wrote me such a kind letter afterwards. I did not know the prisoners were permitted to bring their wives with them.”

“The officers are, certainly,” Carlyon said. “Not that any of them have in Thorndale. They’re mostly juniors and unmarried. I’m glad that they’re moving the parole boundary. It should make it easier for Arnold to talk Sir Matthew into taking that young Frenchman who had such a bad fall. I told you about him, my dear.”

“Of course. I am sure it will all work out for the best. Sir Matthew is always so helpful,” Mrs Carlyon said brightly. “Now for today. I need to go to the drapers and then I have the intention of calling on Mrs Noah Battersley to discuss the Christmas boxes for the poor. If you would like to accompany me Miss Lloyd, you would be very welcome.”

Gwen did not hesitate. She was being invited to what would undoubtedly be a rather boring social event but it would be better than seclusion. Now that the worst shock of her grief had eased a little, she realised she had become very isolated and she was a naturally social person.

“I would be happy to accompany you, ma’am, and to help however I can. You mentioned a young French officer who was injured. What happened?”

“Nothing to speak of, Miss Lloyd,” Carlyon said briskly. “The young man arrived recently, wounded and very lame. He had a bad fall in town yesterday and his billet is unsuitable for his recovery. Mr Arnold though that Sir Matthew Howard might be able to help out. Now, would you like some more eggs?”

***

Raoul was overawed upon his arrival at Helton Ridge. He had visited, and even been billeted, in chateaux and palaces during his army service but most of them were old and in poor repair. This house had been built during the previous century and still retained the elegant classical lines of its Georgian origins but inside it had been brought fully up to date. It was not a museum but a busy family home.

He was relieved when the housekeeper showed him to a room in a ground floor annexe overlooking the rose garden. A fire had been lit against the cold November afternoon and the room looked cosy and inviting.

“It’s not that you’re not welcome in the house, sir, it’s just that her Ladyship thought this would be easier for you, without the stairs.”

“Of course,” Raoul said gratefully.

“We use this wing for one or two elderly guests who need to be on the ground floor,” Mrs Hibbert said chattily. “And my lady used to put Mr George and Mr Arthur’s friends in here when they came to visit sometimes, because there was no telling the hour they’d come in and she wouldn’t have the young ladies woken up.”

“Young ladies?” Raoul said, faintly alarmed.

“Yes, sir. Miss Anne isn’t here; she’s out with her husband in Spain or France or wherever they are now. He’s a major-general. Miss Katherine – Mrs Gisbourne I should say – has been living in London but she was sadly widowed earlier this year so she’ll be home for the Christmas season. And I hope it’s not all too much for her, because we’ll be having those children this year, with Mrs Patience van Daan needing peace and quiet with the new baby. So it will be very lively.”

Raoul was completely bewildered by this stream of information about people he had never heard of. He tried to guess what this nice woman wanted to hear.

“I will stay out of your way and be no trouble. Please assure them of that, madame.”

The housekeeper gave a sniff. “I wouldn’t blame you for trying, sir, it’s like a menagerie when they all get together and Mr George will be up from London as well, once Parliament is adjourned for the holidays. But they won’t let you sit over here on your own and mope. My lady always says a soldier is a soldier, no matter who he’s fought for and that the French gentlemen had no choice about it half the time. That’s why she has those parties for the paroled officers every few weeks. You’ll be able to attend now that you’re close by. For today, Lady Howard asks that you join the family for dinner. Five o’clock, since we keep country hours when there’s no guests. She asked me to tell you there’s no need to change; they’re very informal. She’ll talk about the other arrangements then. I’ll send the boy over to collect you and show you the way.”

He was relieved to discover that Lady Howard was as good as her word. He was shown into a pleasant salon which was set up as a family dining room. His hostess, an attractive woman in her fifties came forward to greet him and introduced him to Sir Matthew, who was probably ten years older than her, and to her stepson Mr Arthur Howard.

“Have some wine, Lieutenant Delon,” Sir Matthew said cheerfully. “Cold afternoon, isn’t it? Gets dark so early now. Are you settled in? Have everything you need?”

“I am very comfortable, sir. This is so kind of you, madame. Is it…forgive me, but does Mr Johnson know of this change? The parole agent. I have to register with him once a week to receive my allowance. On Wednesday. I do not wish him to think I am breaking my parole.”

“I’ve spoken to Johnson,” Sir Matthew said briefly. “And I’d already written to the Transport Board. I made a formal request that the parole boundaries be extended to the far side of my estate. It makes perfect sense since it’s bounded by the River Thorne on that side and I doubt any of you are going to try and swim that in full flood on a cold November day.”

“I am certainly not,” Raoul said. Arthur Howard gave a splutter of laughter.

“Wise man. Don’t worry about it, Delon. We’ll be included in the parole boundaries. My father has managed it.”

“With the help of my daughter’s very well-connected father-in-law,” Sir Matthew said somewhat drily. “There will be no difficulty, Delon. How are you feeling? Arnold tells me you had a bad fall.”

Dinner was informal, with dishes left for them to serve themselves. Raoul had expected to feel horribly out of place, but he decided that although the Howards were obviously wealthier than his family, they were probably not far removed in social terms. Howard was a textile manufacturer with several profitable factories around the town and a lucrative contract providing woollen goods to the army. Raoul wondered how much his daughter’s marriage to a major-general had helped with that, but he knew that was how things were done, in France as well as England.

It was the best meal Raoul had eaten since arriving in Thorndale and he hoped he had not seemed greedy. Fortunately Lady Howard appeared delighted with his enjoyment of her hospitality. He had the impression that the Howards liked entertaining guests and loved having a house full of people and he wondered if that had worked in his favour.

At the end of the meal, his hostess left the gentlemen to their port and Howard passed him a glass and gave a contented sigh.

“I am becoming old and fat,” he said, with the air of a man trying to sound regretful and failing. “It is a shame that I’m enjoying it too much to stop. I’m glad you were able to join us, Delon. Has my wife spoken to you about meals?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“We serve breakfast in this room. It’s informal; dishes laid out on the sideboard. We also dine in here unless we’ve other dinner guests and I hope you’ll join us. When it’s more than family, it will depend on who they are. Most will welcome you; a few won’t. I know which is which and my wife will let you know. On those days you can have a tray in your room.”

“Sir, this is more kindness than I deserve.”

“The French are our enemy. You’re our guest, Delon. As long as you keep to your parole and don’t do anything stupid, we’re happy to have you.  Don’t be an idiot and spoil it.”

“I am not an idiot, sir. I will not abuse your hospitality.”

Howard smiled. “Good man. Tell me about the Pyrenees. My daughter is out there, you know, doing God knows what in an army hospital. Terrifying the locals probably. I feel sorry for them. Where were you when you were wounded?”

After the meal Raoul rose to return to his room but found himself waylaid by Arthur Howard who towed him off to an impressive library to drink more port.

“I’m glad you’re here. With my brother in London and the girls off and married, I’ve been the youngest person in the house for a few years. Apart from when my sister’s brats turn up, in which case I’d rather be somewhere else.”

Raoul grinned. “I have two nephews. I remember the noise they make.”

“Good, I’ll have an ally.” Howard laughed and relented. “They’re all right really. She’s got two of her own, but they’re just babies. The little girl from his first wife is very sweet. It’s the oldest two that are a handful. My stepmother loves having them though. The rest of us have let her down badly in the matter of grandchildren so far. George and I aren’t married yet and poor Kate never had any. I noticed by the way that you were careful what you said about campaigning in front of my stepmother. Appreciate it. She worries about my sister constantly.”

“I will continue to be so, though I do not suppose your sister’s husband allows her anywhere near the battlefield.”

To his surprise, Howard laughed aloud. “You don’t know my sister, Delon. I doubt the poor man stands a chance. Drink up and get yourself to bed. You look exhausted. Bloody stupid to put a lame man in old Thorpe’s place.”

“It was not ideal,” Raoul admitted. “But I remind myself that I am here as a prisoner, not a guest.”

“You’re a paroled officer not a criminal. Surely the point is to stop you fighting against us, not to punish you?”

Raoul smiled. “That is a good way to look at it. Thank you, sir. I am grateful to your family and also to Mr Arnold and Mr Carlyon. I hope I will see them to thank them properly.”

“You’ll see Arnold in and out all the time. He’s our lawyer. You won’t see the Carlyons here I’m afraid. Their choice, not ours.”

Raoul remembered suddenly the odd conversation between Arnold and Carlyon. “There is a quarrel?”

“Not on our part. It’s old history but it’s not really mine to share.”

Raoul took the hint and took himself off to bed gratefully. He understood the other man’s reticence but he decided he would call on Carlyon as soon as he could manage it to thank him personally for his help. It was the least he could do given this extraordinary improvement in his living arrangements.

***

The visit to Mrs Battersley gave Gwen a new interest. She discovered that the ladies of Thorndale were enthusiastic at collecting donations for poor families to help them through the winter but less willing to visit their dwellings to distribute the clothing and bedding. Gwen, who had been accustomed to help her aunt in the village, had no such qualms and brushed aside Mrs Carlyon’s anxiety. Driven by one of Mr Carlyon’s grooms she sallied forth each morning with neatly organised boxes accompanied by woven bags of bread.

“We’ve given up sending them potatoes and vegetables my dear, though we always grow too many. A lot of those cottages don’t have good cooking facilities and even those who do don’t know how to use them.”

Gwen doubted the truth of that but knew better than to argue. She had found good housewives in the grim rows of miners cottages in her Welsh valley, whose only problem was having no food to cook if their man was injured or laid off and she suspected it would be the same in this manufacturing town.

The workers cottages varied considerably. Several of the mill owners had begun to build housing for their workers. Thorndale was a small market town being rapidly overtaken by the expanding textile mills which were being built to make use of the abundance of rivers and streams to power them. The local workers were accustomed to spinning and weaving on a small scale in their cottages and were often reluctant to take work in the factories where they were expected to work long hours behind locked gates.

Instead, the mill owners were beginning to bring in workers from elsewhere. Some were from the land, unemployed hands driven to seek other work in hard times. Others were from Ireland, fleeing from desperate poverty. There were also children brought in from orphanages and workhouses. These were housed in hastily constructed accommodation close to the mills. Gwen had seen the conditions some of the young mine workers lived in back in Wales and was beginning to feel a strong urge to have a look at these improvised dormitories but she was new here and must feel her way carefully.

To house their imported workforce the mill owners built rows of terraced housing. These varied a good deal in quality. Some were reasonably well-built although small and dark. Others looked as though they had been thrown together from left-over building materials. They were over-crowded, with many families taking in single men as lodgers to earn extra income. In one of them, belonging to the Battersley cotton mills, Gwen found a family of six living in their single ground floor room with four Irishman living upstairs. The filth was appalling and Mrs Swinford tried hard to prevent her visitor from entering the house.

Gwen went in anyway. She accepted the offer of a cup of weak black tea and sat on a hard chair, lifting the youngest child, who was about two, onto her lap without flinching at the state of her. Mrs Swinford was visibly pregnant and looked exhausted and defeated. She knew very well that the house was a mess and the lodgers were not ideal but she had been laid off from her job at the mill as her pregnancy advanced and they were struggling to manage on her husband’s pay.

“Our oldest girl is ten now and is working up at Battersley’s piecening – that’s where they repair broken threads under the looms. Children are good for that, ma’am. They’re small, like.”

Gwen tried not to flinch at how dangerous that probably was. She was not easily shocked, knowing what children endured in the mines. She asked questions about the various children and their ages and when she was back outside she found her pencil and note tablets to jot down the information. At her next meeting with Mrs Battersley’s charity committee, she would make a point of requesting donations of warm children’s clothing and try hard not to point out that if Battersley paid his workers a proper wage they would not be needed. Her aunt, a notable campaigner, had taught her to choose her battles wisely.

The gig had just arrived at the end of the lane which led up to Glebe House when a man came into view, walking in the same direction. He was tall and slim, dressed in a shabby greatcoat and battered shako. He was limping badly and walked with the help of a sturdy cane but he moved surprisingly quickly. Dobson slowed the horse and the man turned at the sound. He took in the groom with a lady seated on the box beside him and stepped aside to let them pass, removing his hat and bowing politely. Gwen felt a little shock as she realised that the uniform jacket under the coat was blue and that this must be one of the French prisoners.

Dobson gave a nod of acknowledgement and flicked the reins. Gwen felt unexpectedly confused. The man was clearly making his way up to the house; there was nothing else on this road apart from a few farms some miles on, and her instinct was to offer a lame visitor a lift. At the same time she was painfully aware that he was French. He was an enemy.

As the gig passed him, he bowed again then looked up directly at her. Gwen was surprised at how young he was; probably no more than a few years older than her. Dark, curly hair framed a distinctive face with pronounced cheekbones and dark-blue eyes. He looked nothing like a soldier and certainly nothing like the marauding monsters which had haunted her dreams these past weeks, cutting down her brother over and over. He looked like a rather weary schoolboy.

“Dobson, wait.”

The groom hauled on the reins with a muttered complaint. His attitude suggested that a female who had dragged him round all the worst slums in Thorndale was exactly the kind of female to pick up a French prisoner. Gwen decided to her surprise that he was right. She tried a tentative smile and it came out quite well.

“Are you going up to visit Mr Carlyon, sir?” she asked.

“I am, mademoiselle. Do you know if he is at home?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve been out all morning. It’s at least another mile though and the track is uneven. Why don’t you climb up and we’ll give you a lift?”

He hesitated. Gwen could not decide if it was because he thought he should refuse or because he was unable to scramble up. Before she could decide, Dobson made a snorting noise and reached out a hand. The Frenchman made it up onto the box without mishap and replaced his hat.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. It is very kind. I should introduce myself. Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne.”

“I am Miss Lloyd. I am staying as a guest of the Carlyons at present.”

She saw immediately that her words meant something to him. He looked a little startled and then dropped his gaze. She considered the matter and suddenly understood.

“I collect you have heard about me, sir.”

He looked up quickly. “Only that Mr Carlyon had a guest, mademoiselle. And that you were recently bereaved.”

She indicated her dark cloak. “My aunt and then my brother. It has been difficult. I was grateful for this invitation.”

“Are the Carlyons related to you?”

“No. My brother served with their son, Captain Simon Carlyon.”

She could see that he was genuinely upset and was surprised at her desire to reassure him but she could not think of what to say. He was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. She realised he wore no gloves and thought he must be freezing. He looked up.

“I am so sorry about your brother, mademoiselle. There is nothing more that I can say. So many brave men have died.”

She felt a little rush of sympathy. “On both sides, sir. If you had not been lucky, your family might have endured the same. Please don’t upset yourself. I should not blame every Frenchman I meet for what happened. The fault lies with those whose policies created this war.”

His lips twisted into an attempt at a wry smile. “And for those who will not end it. There is certainly a Frenchman – or a Corsican – at fault for that.”

“It isn’t you though.”

The smile widened and she blinked a little at how much it changed his serious face. “Thank you for that.”

They had turned through the gates of Glebe House and as they drew up on the carriage drive, one of the footmen emerged to help Gwen down from the gig. He performed the same office for the Frenchman, looking rather surprised.

“Jackson, this is Lieutenant Delon who has come to call on Mr Carlyon. Is he at home?”

“He’s over at Glebe Farm, ma’am, but if the gentleman would care to wait I don’t think he’ll be more than twenty minutes.”

Gwen shot a glance at the Frenchman. He gave a little smile. “I will wait if it is permitted. It is a long walk back. I do not wish to be troublesome though. Perhaps I could walk in the gardens a little.”

She smiled. “There isn’t much to see at this time of year, sir, but I’ll walk with you. Not before we find you some gloves though. Your hands are turning blue. Jackson, could you ask Mr Carlyon’s man if…”

“I will see what I can do, ma’am,” the footman said rigidly.

They walked through the half-bare shrubbery and between neatly weeded beds, bare for winter. Tree branches soared starkly against a blue winter sky and Gwen threw back her head to watch some magpies swooping overhead before diving down in search of food in the hedgerows. They walked down to the coppice and she asked him questions about his home and his family. He asked more tentatively about Wales and about Davy. Talking about him to a man who had been an officer and understood something about the life her brother must have led was surprisingly comforting.

Very brief enquiries told her that by the time Davy died, this man had already been a prisoner in an army hospital, unsure if he would keep his leg or even survive. She was glad to know that it could not have been him giving the order for the musket volley which had killed her brother. She liked this diffident young man and rather wished that the Carlyons had not been so careful of her grief and had asked him to stay with them.

She asked rather shyly if he would mind if she practiced her French. He appeared delighted and they talked awkwardly for a while. At her request he gently corrected her pronunciation and they shared laughter at some of her efforts. He told her of his problems understanding the Yorkshire accent and laughed again when she admitted that at times she had the same problem.

They saw Carlyon in the distance, riding back towards the house and turned to stroll back. He glanced at her.

“I have a rather strange question, Miss Lloyd. May I?”

“I’ll help if I can,” she said cautiously.

“It is about Mr Carlyon and Sir Matthew Howard. I have met them both now and they seem like good men. Both have connections to the army. Sir Matthew’s son-in-law and Mr Carlyon’s son. I think they know each other.”

“They do. Mrs van Daan, who is Sir Matthew’s daughter, wrote to me, suggesting that I accept this invitation. She was so kind.”

“And yet two such men are not friends. More than that; they do not meet at all. When it was suggested that my billet be changed, Mr Arnold approached Sir Matthew. It was clear that for some reason, Mr Carlyon could not. And Mr Arthur Howard said the same thing. It makes me a little sad. Have you any idea why?”

“No,” Gwen said. “I’ve only been here for two weeks, sir, but it seems very strange. It’s clear that Major-General van Daan and his wife are on very good terms with Captain Carlyon. I cannot imagine what could have come between their seniors.”

“Forgive me. It is not my business, I know. I am just here to thank Mr Carlyon for his intervention and his kindness.”

Gwen hesitated. “I’m glad you came,” she said abruptly. “I realise I’ve been worried about running into any of the French gentlemen on parole here. It was silly. I won’t care about it now. I’m glad we met.”

“So am I, Miss Lloyd.”

“I’m not sure if it will help. But if you really want to know, I can probably find out.”

He looked surprised. “But how?”

She grinned. “I have become acquainted with several ladies who busy themselves on charitable matters. One of them has a daughter, Miss Lucy Battersley who has invited me to take tea with her on Tuesday. She is unmarried and loves to gossip.”

He stared at her, arrested. “Truly? How will I know…?”

“I’ll send you a note and we will arrange to meet. Up at the coppice perhaps.”

He gave her his startling smile and she basked in it unashamedly for a moment.

“The exercise is good for my leg,” he assured her. “But is this acceptable?”

“Well my brother was my legal guardian, though I am almost of age. Wait, I shall ask him.” Gwen put her head on one side and considered for a moment, than nodded firmly. “He says it is perfectly acceptable for us to meet in the good cause of helping his friend’s family, sir.”

She saw unexpected mischief dance in his eyes. “I am happy to accept this from a fellow officer and your former guardian, Miss Lloyd. I will wait for your letter with pleasure.”

***

They met on a grey morning, with dark clouds threatening rain. The Carlyons had become used to her eccentric habit of walking in all weathers and apart from recommending that she wear her warmest cloak and not go too far, they made no objection.

Raoul had been surprised two days earlier by the arrival of a box from home. It had contained both money and replacement clothing, including his dress jacket and an undamaged hat. His mother had also supplied new boots and a warm coat which was a considerable improvement on his old greatcoat. He had visited the barber in town and thought he saw a look of surprise and possibly even approval on Miss Lloyd’s face as she approached. He bowed, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of gloves.

“Please return them to Mr Carlyon, ma’am. With my grateful thanks.”

He saw her smile a little at his use of the word ‘ma’am’ which she had taught him during their previous meeting. She took the gloves and slipped them into her cloak pocket.

“I see you are rather better equipped, Lieutenant.”

“My family finally sent my possessions from home along with some money. I have been able to repay several small debts to my fellow officers. And when I went for my weekly report to Mr Johnson, the parole agent, he positively fawned over me in his approval of my new accommodation. Apparently Lady Howard has written to ask if it would be acceptable to invite his daughter to her Christmas ball this season. I am given to understand that this is a considerable social honour.”

Gwen chuckled. “I believe so. Do you…will you be attending, sir? It is several weeks away, I know.”

“I will, ma’am. I had not expected it, but Lady Howard tells me that all the French officers will be invited.” He studied her, not sure how to ask. She gave a little shrug.

“I will certainly not be able to dance in full mourning, sir. As to the invitation, I don’t know. I imagine it will be issued. It is issued every year but not accepted.”

“I think you have discovered why.”

“Yes. It is a very sad story. Miss Lucy Battersley was only too happy to share the gossip, as I thought she would be. A little too happy to be honest. I was rather uncomfortable. Shall we walk as we talk? It will be warmer.”

Raoul fell into step beside her. He was walking more easily with so much practice and she was good at keeping pace with him.

“You know that Sir Matthew has two daughters? They are not Lady Howard’s; she is his second wife, though I believe she raised them as her own.”

“Yes. Mr Arthur Howard has spoken of them. The elder is returning home soon; she was recently widowed. The younger is in France with her husband.”

“Yes. Anne. She is the same age as Miss Battersley and she tells me they were apparently friends. I’m not so sure about that. It seems that her brother, Mr Samson Battersley had hopes of marrying Anne. She was the local beauty and very much courted.”

“I have seen her portrait,” Raoul said quietly. “She was apparently only fourteen but she was already very lovely.”

“I think Miss Battersley may have been a little jealous. Or perhaps disappointed on her brother’s behalf. Anyway, it was expected that Anne Howard would make a splendid marriage. Instead she created a scandal of some kind with an officer of the 115th foot. His name was Robert Carlyon.”

Raoul felt a little lurch of his stomach. He turned to stare at her. “Their eldest son?”

“Yes. I don’t know exactly what happened. Miss Battersley was far too delicate to explain properly. She may not even know. Whatever it was, it led to a very hasty marriage and the young couple were posted down to the south coast somewhere and then on to Portugal with Sir Arthur Wellesley. Lord Wellington as he is now.”

“I see. You think the two families quarrelled because the Howards did not approve of the match?”

She shook her head. “It was rather worse than that. Much of this did not emerge until much later of course because they were abroad and Anne never told them in her letters. It appears that Robert Carlyon treated his wife very badly. Beat her in fact. Eventually some of his fellow officers intervened and Carlyon deserted. He returned later on and tried to kill her. He was shot dead by another officer, in defence of her.”

“I thought he was killed in battle,” Raoul said, appalled.

“I think for the sake of his family it is seldom talked of. They are well respected locally. I think it broke their hearts.”

“Of course it did. How dreadful. So that is why the Howards do not…”

“It isn’t the Howards,” Gwen said. “Apparently they have tried several times to mend matters. It seems that when Simon Carlyon arrived in Spain he was welcomed as her brother-in-law and is very close to the Van Daans. Which I know to be true from Davy’s letters. I think the Carlyons are too ashamed.”

“That is terrible,” Raoul said. He was surprised at how upset he was. He had only known both families for a few weeks but his sense that they should have been friends and allies had not been misplaced. “All because of the dreadful behaviour of one man. How could a brute like that come from such good people?”

“That’s what makes it so much the worse,” Gwen said soberly. “I’m sorry. I can see this has upset you. It upset me too.”

“I wish there was something we could do to help.”

“Perhaps there is.”

Raoul paused, staring. He had a sudden sense that this girl had been in search of more than just gossip.

“I do not understand.”

She smiled, took a deep breath and summoned her French. “I would like to help them.”

“How?” he replied in the same language.

“I am not sure. But all they really need is to talk.”

Raoul stared at her with a faint feeling of terror, as though he was about to get drawn into a situation that he might regret in a strange country and an unfamiliar language. She looked back at him seriously. She was a very pretty girl with a fine boned face and intelligent dark eyes, fringed with ridiculously long lashes. She could easily have been French; a Celtic look, from Brittany perhaps. He thought suddenly that he would be proud to take her home to his mother and introduce her to his brother and sister-in-law. The thought made his face warm a little but he did not think she had noticed.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. One should never make a plan too quickly. I have an idea about the Christmas ball, but I need to think about it. It is very cold out here. Why don’t we walk up to the house? You shall present Mr Carlyon with his gloves and we will have a hot drink and get warm. You might want to mention how happily you are settled with the Howards and how grateful you are.”

“Will that help?”

“It definitely won’t hurt. And we will be warm. May I take your arm?”

He held it out with mute delight and escorted her up to the house. Part of him wondered what he had walked into. The other part had never been so happy in his life.

***

Christmas in Yorkshire brought a sudden flood of invitations which rather bewildered Raoul. He found it hard to shake the feeling that, as a prisoner, he should be held under more difficult conditions. Instead he was living in a comfortable home, on perfectly friendly terms with his hosts and their neighbours and being included in a round of receptions, dinners and dances along with his fellow officers. It made him feel immensely guilty about his men, presumably still living in miserable winter quarters on the Spanish border, awaiting Lord Wellington’s next attack.

He was delighted to meet Gwen Lloyd at a concert in Thorndale’s brand new Assembly Rooms. He had attended with several other French officers all of whom seemed to be on good terms with the local gentry. Some of them had been in Thorndale for almost a year and had been cautiously accepted into the community.

Miss Lloyd was with Mrs Carlyon and Raoul was immediately aware of the presence of Lady Howard in the front row with several of her friends. She rose and came towards him immediately.

“If I had known you would be here, Lieutenant, I would have offered you a lift in my carriage.”

“I thank you but there was no need, ma’am. I dined first with my fellow officers at the Red Lion.”

“Well you shall certainly come back with me. I understand Mr Johnson has given special leave to be out beyond curfew for this evening but I would rather you weren’t walking that far once it’s over. Thorndale is generally very safe but it is always possible that one or two of our less salubrious locals might decide to take exception to a Frenchman out alone.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I would be grateful.”

Raoul was aware of a hovering presence behind him. He turned to find Miss Lloyd smiling at him in a friendly manner. She had put off her black mourning for the occasion and was dressed in a soft lavender gown with black lace at the cuffs and hem. The lighter colour suited her and she looked very pretty. She held out her hand and he took it and bowed over it.

“It is good to see you Miss Lloyd. I did not know you would be here.”

“I persuaded Mrs Carlyon to accompany me. I love music; I always sang in the chapel choir and I have not attended a concert for so long. I think she was a little anxious about the propriety of it but I do not think anybody will mind.”

“Very right,” Lady Howard said approvingly. “I always like to see a young lady taking a sensible view of the mourning period. Would you introduce us, Lieutenant?”

Raoul did so and Lady Howard bestowed a warm smile on Gwen.

“I was so sorry to hear about your brother, Miss Lloyd. My daughter wrote to me about him. She and the General were very upset. I know how highly they valued him.”

“She wrote to me too, ma’am. She was very kind.”

“I have been intending to call, so I’m very glad to have run into you like this. I’ve been hearing very good things of you from Mrs Battersley. She tells me you’ve been wonderfully helpful with her relief committee and have taken on all kinds of tasks that it is often hard to get people to do.”

Miss Lloyd blushed a little. “I like to be busy, ma’am. My aunt was very active within the mining community before she died. I’m not particularly squeamish.”

 “I admire that, Miss Lloyd. I realise this is going to be a difficult time of year for you. You must miss your brother and your aunt dreadfully and you can hardly throw yourself into the enjoyment of the season while you are in mourning. All the same, I hope I may persuade you to have tea with me one day. And as you have expressed interest in some of our working practices, I would like to give you a tour of what we are doing up at our mill. Sir Matthew and I spent some time visiting Mr Arkwright down at Cromford and Mr Greg near Manchester to see how they have set up their workers’ accommodation. They have given us some very good ideas.”

Miss Lloyd looked surprised but Raoul could see the quickening of interest in her dark eyes.

“If it is not too much trouble ma’am, I would be delighted.”

“Excellent. I don’t want to steal you away from Mrs Carlyon if she has need of you so I’ll speak to her to find out when it would be convenient. I just hope it doesn’t snow. It comes down so abruptly here.”

“Are you from Yorkshire, ma’am?”

“No. My family were from Northamptonshire originally, but I’ve lived here for many years. You’re from Wales of course. I don’t know it well, though I spent some time in Shrewsbury just across the border.”

The conversation ranged happily over places visited and enjoyed until a bell summoned the audience to their seats. Gwen returned to her seat beside Mrs Carlyon, shooting a mischievous glance over her shoulder at Raoul. He took his seat wondering if this meeting had been purely by chance or if Gwen had somehow engineered the whole thing, though he could not see how.

The music was charming: a visiting quartet from York and a very good soprano. Raoul enjoyed it but found himself glancing over towards the Carlyon party. Once or twice the girl looked back, flashing him a quick smile.

“I see you have set up a flirtation, Delon,” his neighbour whispered in French. “She is very attractive, but in mourning? A young widow?”

Raoul flushed. “It is not a flirtation, Gerard. Just an acquaintance. And she lost her brother in a recent action at La Rhune.”

“Ah, I see. Not the right time for a romance with a Frenchman then.”

Raoul thought regretfully that he was right. It was rather a pity because he had taken a great liking to the oddly outspoken girl. He said nothing more. The paroled officers had little to do but drink and gossip and he knew that if he attempted to deny his interest it would pique their curiosity. Better to ignore their speculation and let it die a natural death.

At the end of the concert, wine and sweet biscuits were served in the adjoining reception room. Raoul slipped away from his friends while they were distracted by the champagne and went to find Gwen. Her approving smile told him he had done the right thing. She was talking to a tall, shy young woman who was introduced as Lady Carew, recently married to Sir Julian, the new squire. Raoul watched her draw the other girl into conversation and thought, with a sudden rush of feeling, how much Gwen Lloyd seemed to care about other people. He was not sure he had come across anybody quite like her before and he found himself hoping desperately that she would choose to extend her visit to the Carlyons beyond the new year.

Beside her, Mrs Carlyon seemed uncomfortable although she was trying hard to conceal it. Raoul suspected he knew why. Lady Howard had been standing on the other side of the room talking to some friends but as he watched, she turned and began to make her way towards them. He felt Mrs Carlyon stiffen.

“It is growing late,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wonder if we should leave, dear Miss Lloyd. Perhaps I can find a servant to go for the carriage.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Gwen said brightly. “Would you like me to find somebody?”

“No no, I will go…”

“I’ll be right back,” Gwen said firmly. She smiled an apology at Lady Carew and disappeared into the crowd just as Lady Howard appeared. She looked a little surprised. Raoul bowed.

“Miss Lloyd has just gone to send a servant for the carriage, ma’am. She will return shortly.”

Lady Howard’s face cleared. “Of course. Lady Carew, how are you? Mrs Carlyon, I’m glad to have caught you. I have a favour to ask you about your young guest. What a lovely girl she is.”

Mrs Carlyon was caught and she knew it. Raoul wondered how many social occasions she had missed in her effort to avoid just such a meeting. She was a polite woman though, and pulled herself together.

“She is a delight,” she said warmly. “I did not realise you had met, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant Delon introduced us, but I have been hearing about her efforts with the relief committee from Mrs Battersley all week. I wanted to speak to you about that. Miss Lloyd has expressed interest in visiting the mill. Not the weaving sheds, though I suppose she might also want to see those, but the workers housing and the apprentice house. The school might be of interest as well.”

“Oh…of course. It sounds very interesting.”

“I wanted to make sure she has no engagements with you before I arrange a day.”

Mrs Carlyon shook her head with a faint smile. “No. We do not go out much. I am glad to see her getting out a little. Her bereavement means that she cannot attend parties of course…”

“Is that what she wants?” Lady Howard asked. “Forgive me but although I realise she cannot dance, there seems no reason why she cannot attend. I had hoped to invite her to our Christmas ball, and perhaps to dinner one evening.”

Mrs Carlyon stiffened. “I…I do not know, ma’am. She is not under our guardianship in any way, she is just our guest.”

“A brother is not the same as a husband, though I have no doubt she mourns him sincerely,” Lady Howard said persuasively. “But for such a young woman, I cannot think it right for her to shut herself away.”

“I do not wish it either, ma’am. It is just that we do not go out much ourselves.”

Raoul could hear the desperation in Mrs Carlyon’s voice and he felt sorry for her. He was trying to think of something to say that would help, but Lady Howard was first.

“I know this is difficult for you,” she said very gently. “There is no need for a chaperone to visit the mill or to dine with us informally. Lieutenant Delon has agreed to be our escort at the mill and will be present at dinner with several other young people. Miss Lucy Battersley will be there and my daughter Katherine will be home by then and I think will be delighted to make Miss Lloyd’s acquaintance.”

Raoul was startled out of his sympathy. He managed to cover up his surprise and look as though he had known of these plans for his entertainment all along. It occurred to him suddenly that Miss Lloyd might not be the only one making plans. He shot her ladyship a quick glance and saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

“Of course,” Mrs Carlyon said. “Nothing could be more suitable.”

“But she cannot attend a full ball without a chaperone, ma’am, even if she is not to dance.”

“I am not sure…”

“Please come.”

There was something stark about the words that seemed to silence Mrs Carlyon. Raoul was uneasily aware that people around them had begun to stare as though recognising the significance of this meeting and this conversation.

Mrs Carlyon took a deep breath and made a final protest. “Lady Howard, I do not think my husband will be comfortable…”

“Of course he will not, the silly man,” Lady Howard said crisply. “Neither will Sir Matthew. This has gone on for too long and they are men. Their pride will not allow them to make the first move. We had better do it now, ma’am, because I have it on excellent authority that this war is drawing to a close. If my younger daughter arrives home and finds that I am not on visiting terms with Simon’s mother, I will not answer for the consequences.”

Raoul realised with horror that there were tears standing in the other woman’s eyes.

“I remember her as such a lovely girl,” she whispered. “I feel so ashamed.”

Words came to Raoul unexpectedly. He reached out and took her hand. “I understand, ma’am. When I see the sadness in Miss Lloyd’s eyes for her brother, I am ashamed to be French. But she tells me that is foolish. I did not kill him and I could not have stopped his death. And two months later, his army did their best to kill me. I am not responsible for what my compatriots did that day.”

“And you are not responsible for your son, ma’am,” Lady Howard said gently. “Thank you, Lieutenant. What a wise young man you are. Take Mrs Carlyon’s arm if you will and we shall go in search of Miss Lloyd. By now she will have been waylaid by some enterprising gentleman who is gazing into her eyes and calculating how long her mourning must last. We cannot have that.”

***

Gwen drifted through the Christmas season in a confusing mixture of sadness and happiness. It had been several years since she had spent Christmas with Davy but she was assailed by memories of their younger days, with the valley under deep snow drifts; walking to chapel with their parents or going out with the shepherds to search for lost sheep. It had been a happy childhood and she realised that she had looked forward to his return to restore a sense of belonging.

That hope had gone and she mourned it. On the other hand she was unexpectedly content where she was. Her days became suddenly busy. She toured the model village at Helton Mill, admiring the sturdy well-built cottages and the brand new schoolhouse. She admitted that Sir Matthew Howard seemed to take better care of his workforce than most of the other mill owners she had encountered, though she wondered how much he was motivated by profit rather than philanthropy. Healthy workers could put in more hours and were less likely to leave for other work.

Lady Howard clearly invested a great deal of her time in the various projects, including education for both workers and children. Gwen spent several Sunday afternoons listening to children reading in the schoolhouse and tried not to notice broad hints about further assistance which implied a far longer stay in Thorndale than she had intended.

She went to dinner several times at Helton Ridge and was introduced to a number of other young ladies whom she liked rather more than Lucy Battersley, including Sir Matthew’s elder daughter Katherine, still in deep mourning for her husband. She met most of the other French officers and was grateful that her bereaved state prevented them from flirting with her as outrageously as they did with the other girls. She sat beside Raoul Delon at dinner and enjoyed his quiet conversation. At other times she enjoyed simply being silent with him. She tried hard to remind herself that after Christmas she must consider returning home and picking up the threads of her old life.

Gwen was a little anxious that Mrs Carlyon would be upset at the amount of time she was spending with the Howards but her hostess appeared perfectly content. Two days after the concert, Sir Matthew Howard rode up the drive to Glebe House to make a morning call and the following day Mr Carlyon returned the courtesy. Gwen had no idea what they spoke about but there was no more talk of not attending the Howard Christmas ball.

Gwen gave in to vanity and ordered a new gown for the ball. She could not dance but she was delighted with the modest silvery-grey silk with a short train, which was simple enough to be considered half-mourning yet made the most of her dark colouring. She was pleasantly conscious of male eyes following her through the ballroom but she was aware that she was searching for one gentleman. There were a number of dark-blue uniforms present but Lieutenant Delon’s tall slender figure was easy to spot.

He seemed to sense her approach and turned. She saw his eyes widen a little and then he came forward, took her hand and bowed over it with more formality than she was used to from him. It made her blush a little and when he straightened and looked at her, the smile in his eyes made her face even warmer.

“Miss Lloyd. You look very lovely.”

The direct compliment confused her for a moment but she managed to rally.

“It is clear you have been practicing your English on the ladies of Thorndale, sir. You are looking extremely smart yourself.”

“Thank you. I made a visit to the tailor. I thought it was time I stopped looking like a prisoner.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You have never looked that way to me, sir.”

“I have felt it. It seems to have been decided though that such matters as curfew and parole boundaries are to be forgotten until after the Christmas season.”

Gwen looked across the room. The dancers were forming up for the first set and she could see Miss Anthea Johnson, the parole agent’s daughter, partnered with Captain Gerard, her eyes shining and her face flushed with happiness.

“I think the arrangement has been very satisfactory for both sides, sir.”

“I hope that is nothing more than a flirtation,” Raoul said consideringly, following her gaze. “Her father does not really like the French. He will be furious if it becomes more serious.”

“Goodness, do you think it might? Is Captain Gerard not married?”

“No, he is unattached. I believe he is quite taken with Miss Battersley but her Papa does not like the idea.”

Gwen could not help laughing. “I do not intend to act as matchmaker to your friends, Lieutenant. I think we have done quite well enough patching up an old quarrel between neighbours.”

“I think that was your doing rather than mine,” Raoul said quietly. He stopped a passing waiter and handed her a glass of champagne.

Gwen looked up at him. She could not decide if a good haircut and new clothing made him look older or more like a charming boy. Either way it suited him.

“According to Lady Howard it was you who found the words to break through Mrs Carlyon’s reserve, Lieutenant. She told me what you said. It was exactly the right thing.”

It was his turn to blush. “I did not make any clever speeches, ma’am. I just said what I believed.”

“You spoke from the heart and she listened. I know you don’t want to be thanked, but please let me do so just once. I went to her dressing room as she was getting ready for this evening. She was so happy. It seems this is a very important social event in Thorndale and not feeling able to attend has made her feel rather like an outcast. She is back now, where she belongs.”

“Thanks mainly to you.”

“I think we made a very good team.”

He smiled and touched his glass to hers. “My one regret tonight is that I wish I could ask you to dance.”

Gwen blushed again. She put her hand to her warm cheek and he smiled.

“We are taking it in turns, it seems. That is a phrase I did not know until you taught me. My English is so much improved.”

“Yes it is. I think you have cheated. We speak so much in English while my French languishes untouched.”

“I am so sorry.”

“There are other ladies without a partner, Lieutenant.”

“I am afraid I do not dance this evening either, ma’am. My leg is still too painful and I would be too clumsy.”

Stricken, she realised she had completely forgotten about his limp. It seemed to have got so much better that it had not occurred to her that dancing would be impossible for him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Lloyd. I have no wish to dance. I have promised a French lesson to a very lovely young lady. Come, let us sit and we will begin.”

She was aware of curious looks as he led her to a brocade sofa in a small alcove by the big double doors but quickly forgot about them as he began to speak to her. She replied, listened to his corrections and repeated them. She tried some phrases of her own, interrupting herself to ask for the right word or to check her pronunciation. With music playing, dancers whirling around the floor and the noise level rising, she became completely absorbed in the lesson and in him.

Eventually a noise from outside the room caught her attention. She broke off, listening and saw from his intent face that he had heard it too.

“Whatever is that?”

“I do not know. Come.”

He rose, took her hand and drew her through the doors. They went to the balustrade which overlooked the entrance hall below and were startled by a peal of laughter which had to have come from a child.

“Now give over, Miss Grace.” The voice was that of Mrs Hibbert, the housekeeper. “You’ll have to come through into the book room while I fetch Lady Howard. We had no idea you’d be arriving today and this late. We’re in the middle of the Christmas ball and I’ve barely got the nursery ready.”

“Oh that’s all right, Mrs Hibbert. We’ll camp out in the book room until tomorrow,” a small boy said cheerfully. “We got used to camping in Portugal and Spain when we visited Mama and Papa and…”

“That’s enough Francis,” a man’s voice said firmly. “Mrs Hibbert, I’ll take Grace and Francis through but the little ones need to be taken to bed immediately. Miss Webster can carry Rowena if…”

Gwen could not resist. The children’s voices and laughter reminded her of her own small cousins back in Wales. She was already on her way to the stairs when Raoul said:

“They remind me of my nephews.”

She looked round at him in surprised delight. He was smiling. Gwen put out her hand and towed him down into the tiled hallway where an exhausted looking tutor and governess carried a small child each. A fair-haired boy of about ten or eleven was standing inspecting a family portrait above the fireplace, while a dainty girl of about the same age in a fur-lined pelisse had caught the sound of the music from the ballroom and was dancing gracefully across the tiles in a world of her own.

“Good evening,” Gwen said cheerfully. “You seem to have some surprise arrivals, Mrs Hibbert. Is there anything we can do to help? Neither of us can join the dancing this evening and we heard them come in.”

Mrs Hibbert looked at her in surprise. “Well, Miss Lloyd, I don’t rightly know. I’ll need to find Lady Howard without disturbing the party too much and I’ll have to supervise them taking the luggage up, since Bentley is busy with the wine for the party. As Mr Harcourt says, the little ones should go straight up, but as for this pair…”

She surveyed the two older children with a grim expression which imperfectly concealed her affection. The boy turned to give her a broad grin.

“We’ll be all right, Mrs Hibbert.”

“May we go up and watch the dancing?” the girl begged.

“You may do nothing, miss, until your Grandmamma says so.”

“Why don’t you see to the nursery, Mrs Hibbert. Lieutenant Delon can find Lady Howard and I’ll stay here with Grace…and is it Francis?”

“Yes,” the girl said instantly. She had stopped dancing and came forward, bobbing a little curtsey. “I am Grace and this is Francis van Daan. Who are you, ma’am? Are you a guest at the ball or staying in the house?”

“I’m just a guest. I’m currently staying with Mr and Mrs Carlyon.”

“Oh, Uncle Simon’s parents,” the boy said casually. “That’s nice.” Deep blue eyes were fixed on Raoul and Gwen suddenly wondered if her French companion was about to be insulted by the son of a major-general.

“Are you French, sir?”

“I am,” Raoul said gravely. He gave a little bow. “Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th ligne. I am a prisoner-of-war but this evening I too am a guest. I have been billeted here while I recover from a wound.”

“Really?” Francis sounded delighted. “Will you be here all over Christmas?”

“I will.”

“That’s excellent. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I’ve never met a French officer properly before, though I’ve met loads of English ones of course. Your English is very good. Where have you served? How were you wounded? Have you ever seen Bonaparte? Did you…”

Raoul was laughing. He held up a hand. “Enough, Master Francis. You may ask me anything you wish, but not all tonight. I must go to find Lady Howard. You shall stay with Miss Lloyd. She is my very good friend so do not talk her to death.”

“Do you speak French, Miss Lloyd?” Grace asked. She was surveying Gwen thoughtfully.

“Not very well. I learned it at school but Lieutenant Delon has been helping me to improve.”

“Well I wish you would help Francis,” Grace said grimly. “Papa says he speaks French like a drunken Irishman.”

Francis started to laugh. “Yes, he did. He didn’t realise Mama was listening. You should have seen the look she gave him. Could you help us though? Miss Webster and Mr Harcourt are good sorts but I don’t think their accent is any better than mine and I’ll need to speak it properly for when I’m in the army.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Gwen said, thankful that the weary tutor and governess had disappeared off with the younger children.

“Yes. I want to be a major-general, like my father. Or even a field marshal, like Lord Wellington. And I’ll fight the French and…”

He froze abruptly, realising what he had just said. For a moment he looked apprehensive. Gwen shot a glance at Raoul but he was smiling.

“I hope you will not have to, Francis. I hope by then, our two countries will be friends.”

“So do I, sir,” the child said, sounding relieved. Raoul looked at Gwen.

“I will be back very soon with Lady Howard,” he said in French. “Courage, ma belle.”

He had taken three steps towards the stairs when Grace said clearly:

“Are you married to each other?”

Raoul turned in surprise. He looked at Gwen. She was carefully not looking at him.

“No, Grace.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No, Miss Grace. We are not engaged. Just friends.” Raoul’s voice sounded a little strained, as though he was barely containing laughter.

“Oh.” Grace sounded a little disappointed. The Lieutenant turned away. He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she spoke again.

“Are you going to get engaged?” she asked. “I think it would be a good idea. If you’re not married to somebody else, I think you’d suit awfully well.”

***

It took more than an hour to get the children fed with bread and butter and warm milk. Raoul was not quite sure how he and Gwen became incorporated into the arrangements. At the last moment, Grace insisted that he go up to the nursery to sing them a French song before they went to sleep. Lady Howard protested loudly but Raoul was absurdly flattered and assured her that he did not mind. He sang them three and they were almost asleep as he tiptoed out of the nursery accompanied by Nurse’s whispered thanks.

He found Gwen in the book room, drinking a glass of brandy. She handed one to him and he sipped it gratefully.

“Lady Howard had to go back to the ball. Supper will be starting soon. She has reserved seats at the family table for us, since she says we seem to have been adopted into it.

He laughed. “I enjoyed it.”

“So did I. I’m almost glad we couldn’t dance this evening. We’d have missed all that. You had better eat plenty at supper. I think you are going to be much in demand tomorrow to describe your entire army career to Master Francis van Daan.”

“As well as teaching him French,” Raoul said gravely. “May I take you to supper, Miss Lloyd?”

“I would like that, Lieutenant Delon.”

“Je m’appelle Raoul.”

She shot him a surprised glance and took his arm.

“Raoul. Je m’appelle Gwen.”

“Gwen. I do not know if this would be possible, or even legal while I am still a prisoner. I certainly know that I cannot follow you back to Wales without breaking my parole. But I cannot help agreeing that we should suit awfully well.”

He saw her smile light up that attractive face that could have been French and remembered that he had once thought he could easily take her home to meet his mother. Not yet, but one day, God willing.”

“Raoul, I would never allow you to risk breaking your parole. I think until this war is over I will have to find a way to stay here.”

He turned to her quickly, his heart full, catching her by the shoulders. “Truly?”

“Truly, my love.”

He bent to kiss her and was aware of nothing but his joy in her, so it was a shock when he finally looked up to see two children, both in nightclothes, standing on the stairs watching with benign interest.

“Francis, Grace, what are you doing out of bed?” Gwen asked. She sounded a little breathless and her face was pink.

“I just remembered there was one more thing,” Francis said. “Can I practice fencing with you? My father started teaching me and gave me a practice foil but Aunt Patience said she would rather face a herd of charging elephants than let me loose with a weapon.”

“I thought it was rhinoceros,” Grace objected.

“Was it? Maybe it was, I wasn’t really listening. Anyway, could you, sir? I don’t think Uncle George or Uncle Arthur can fence and…”

“Francis, I will fence with you,” Raoul said. Her hand was warm in his and his heart was full of happiness. “But if you do not go to bed immediately I will give you your first lesson right now and I promise you will not enjoy it.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Really? That’s capital. Thank you, sir. On our way. Sorry to interrupt.”

Grace was smiling broadly. “So sorry. And congratulations, Miss Lloyd. He’s very handsome.”

When they had vanished up the stairs, Gwen took his arm and squeezed it gently.

“Shall we go, before they come back?”

“That is a very good idea. Next time it may be pistol shooting. I think I should have brought the brandy with me.”

She was laughing, her face alight with happiness. “We can send a footman to bring it,” she said. “Come to supper, Lieutenant Delon. It is almost Christmas and I believe we have something to celebrate.”

Writing with Labradors does Lithuania

Writing with Labradors does Lithuania

It’s been a while since I did much of a personal update on here. With book nine of the Peninsular War Saga almost ready to launch, the Christmas short story written and work underway on the new Age of Sail book for Sapere Books, I thought I’d take time to let you know what’s been happening for me.

 

I’ve mentioned a few times that this has been a difficult year. Some of that has been family matters which are now much improved, but a big part of it has been my health. I’ve suffered for years with osteoarthritis in both hips and they’ve been getting steadily worse. I’ve always taken the view that pain is manageable and while I can still get out and about, life is good.

At the end of August, I had a fall and then another one. Quite suddenly the pain went off the scale and my mobility decreased very quickly. I went to the GP and had x-rays. There was nothing broken but my arthritis in both hips has moved from moderate to severe. My right hip is the worst and I’m now having to use a walking stick because every now and then it just gives way.

Working from home as I do, my ability to write hasn’t really been impacted that much. Occasionally I forget, and it’s only when I stand up and the pain hits that I remember. But there’s so much else I can’t do. My life has been turned upside down in less than six months.

I can’t walk my dogs. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that Oscar and Alfie, my two Labradors, are the joy of my life. Winter is a favourite time for walking, since they love splashing through puddles and racing up and down a windswept beach. I miss that with a permanent ache in my soul.

Housework is incredibly difficult. I can’t haul the vacuum cleaner about any more, and everything has to be done one-handed so that I can use my stick to balance. Cooking is okay if it’s something quick, but I need to sit down in between which makes more complicated meals a trial.

Gardening is almost impossible. I ask other people to rake up leaves and tidy beds, and there are bulbs in my shed which probably aren’t going to get planted this year. I’m so sad about it.

I don’t sleep. I doze off but wake up every time I move in my sleep and the pain knifes through me. I have strong painkillers and they work well for a few hours, but the effect wears off long before I can take another dose. I’m sleep deprived in a way that I’ve not been since having a new-born baby and with far less joy.

Everything is difficult. Shopping, laundry, tidying the house. There are other people who can step in and pick up the load but I loathe the loss of independence and the sense of helplessness. I’m a naturally happy, optimistic person but sometimes now I just can’t maintain that.

There’s a solution of course. I need a hip replacement. Actually I need two, but the right hip is the one causing most of the pain so that needs to be done first. It needs to be done now, but the NHS on the Isle of Man is in the same dire state as the NHS in the UK and the wait is unbearable. I’ve been told by my GP that it will take at least a year to see an orthopaedic consultant. Until that happens, I don’t even show up on the waiting list. That list is likely to be years.

We’ve spent months discussing options. The cost of private treatment in the UK has risen sharply over the past few years. We’re both self-employed, with no company health plan. Funding it ourselves is the only option. After a lot of research and a good deal of heart-searching, I’ve decided to travel overseas, where I can get a very comprehensive treatment plan for around half the cost. I could never have imagined doing this a few years ago, but I’m desperate enough to try anything now.

The Nord clinic in Kaunas, Lithuania has been remarkably helpful and easy to deal with from start to finish. They’re seeing so many people like me coming from the UK that they’ve refined their system so that it works seamlessly. After the operation I’ll stay for seven days physio and rehabilitation. I’ve joined a patient group and got to know a number of people who have been through this process and their stories are very reassuring. I’m scared but I’m determined.

It won’t surprise any of my readers that I’m already working out how to set a Napoleonic short story in Lithuania. I mean I’ll be laid up. I’ll have to have something to do while I’m there.

So why have I shared all this, when generally I like to write fun stories about my dogs or lovely walks through the glens of the Isle of Man? It isn’t really because I wanted to vent about the unfairness of it all. I have family and friends I can share that with. Mostly I think it’s because I hope it might help some people who are also struggling with this. I’ve felt very down about it. Almost desperate at times, as the people I love carry on their lives around me and I’m marooned here, in a place where I can’t be myself any more.

What I’ve learned from this process is that paying for private treatment for something this painful and disabling is no longer exclusive to the rich and privileged. I’ve talked to people who have taken out loans, dipped into their pension pots and even tried crowdfunding in their desperation. One lady sold her home and downsized because she valued being able to walk over a bigger house. And these, like me, are the lucky ones.

I can’t stop thinking about the people who can’t manage this no matter what they do. They’re reading the news about further cuts to the health budget and wondering if they’ll ever walk properly again. Their joints are deteriorating along with their mental health and the operation gets more challenging with every year’s delay.

There’s no quick or easy solution to this. Some people rant about how useless the NHS is. Other people are angry about that and list all the ways it has worked for them. Some blame fifteen years of Conservative government. Others blame all the things Labour did wrong before that. I can find bits that make sense in all of this, but the truth is that we’re an ageing population; the NHS hasn’t worked well for years and the abandonment of almost all healthcare during lockdowns has left a backlog which may never be cleared. There’s no point in apportioning blame. Looking for solutions would be far more helpful. I don’t do political debate in public and I’m not going to try.

I’m incredibly grateful that my amazing husband is completely supportive and will be with me every step of the way. I’m lucky that we’re in a position to afford this, though not especially easily. I can look forward to a time when I can walk my dogs through a forest again.

Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC BY-SA 3.0

In the meantime, my brain is mostly still working and I can still type. I can write about people scaling mountains and hauling on sails, even if I struggle to get to the back of the garden at times. I’ll keep everybody updated on progress. Wish me luck and expect to learn some information about Lithuania during the Napoleonic Era along the way.

Following the Trail of a Knight by Ronan Beckman

Following the Trail of a Knight by Ronan Beckman

Today on Writing with Labradors I’m delighted to host author Ronan Beckman who is here to talk about his short story, recently published in the latest Historical Writers Forum anthology. To Wear a Heart So White features seven stories about Crime and Punishment. Ronan’s contribution is called Carte de Viste and he is about to tell you the story behind it.

 

 

 

“I’m sure you didn’t know we had a knight in our family!”

That was absolutely true. But another fact was that this family was all new to me. I was adopted as a child, so everything about my past was new to me. Only through a lot of challenging detective work was I able to become reconnected to my birth family at the age of 36. And having tracked down a 2nd Cousin through a genealogy website, I now had this fascinating piece of history to explore. Out of all the newfound ancestors I had, this one intrigued me the most.

My 3x Great Grandfather, Sven Stenander, was the knight in question. My cousin sent me a poem in Swedish, along with a translation in English, which outlined his life. She assured me that there were newspaper articles about his life (which my later research confirmed to be the case), so there was a very nice stack of material for me to follow up on. Most intriguing for me was a copy of an actual photograph of this man in his late eighties. Staring at it, I saw the reflection of a man born in the 18th Century. A warrior who participated in battles of the Napoleonic War and fighting the Norwegians in their unsuccessful quest for independence. And on his chest, I could see a distinctive medal, the St. George’s Cross. This was the source of his knighthood. But I wanted to know more.

The poem was relatively vague in details. A stanza roughly translated to this: In the war, he served with distinction in many ways and was awarded medals for valour. The recognition was great, but not anything like the St. George Cross he received from the Emperor that made him a Knight of the St. George’s Order. Who was the emperor? After some time, I was able to find news articles that provided a little more information. They reported that he was awarded the St. George’s Order, 5th Class, from Tsar Alexander of Russia (an ally of Sweden at the time). This raised a few more questions than it answered. Why was a Russian Tsar bestowing a medal on a Swedish soldier? And researching the Russian Order of St. George was a bit challenging for me, as I am very much not a military history expert. I seemed to be able to only find references to the 1st class through to the 4th, no mention of a 5th class.

After 20 years, I have finally been able to solve the mystery (only just today!). I discovered through an American forum on military medals that Tsar Alexander had bestowed numerous St George’s Cross medals to British troops in gratitude for their participation in the Battle of Waterloo. These included 5th Class medals for subalterns (those ranked below a Captain) and soldiers. The higher-class medals tended to be reserved for those with an officer ranking.

Further digging into medal collector forums resulted in the discovery of a similar scenario where the Russian Tsar demonstrated his appreciation for Swedish soldiers battling Napoleon. Apparently, Sweden and Russia did a trade of medals to be awarded to their soldiers. 200 Swedish bravery medals were exchanged for 200 Russian St George’s Cross medals, which were for soldiers and non-commissioned officers (thereby making them 5th Class). Once exchanged, each nation awarded these medals to their soldiers as they saw fit. So, Sven did not receive his by direct command of the Tsar (that mystery solved!). But another revelation was brought to my attention. These medals were not actually what was often assumed. Many soldiers went back home, stating that they were now a knight of the Russian Order of St George. But these medals were actually considered a lower class of St George medal, one which did not confer a title of knighthood. So, a family legend (and one that was repeated in the press over the years) has been quashed. It is often said that family lore doesn’t always hold up to scrutiny. Nevertheless, being the recipient of one of only 200 medals is still quite an honour.

I have long wanted to write about my most interesting ancestor, but didn’t feel that I had enough information to sustain a whole novel or a non-fiction biography. But another interesting occurrence did help me with this quandary. A Facebook writing group I belong to, Historical Writers Forum, were creating a collection of short stories around the theme of ‘Crime and Punishment’. Remember that copy of the photograph of Sven I had? Well, I discovered a newspaper article about my ancestor being sent to prison over this photo. He had accused a neighbour of stealing this photo from his home. The court stated that there was no evidence for this and imprisoned Sven for the false accusation. The press, however, were treating the 78-year-old war veteran as some kind of folk hero – an old warrior bravely facing his sentence. I tried to imagine how Sven would have spent his time in incarceration. The poem sent by my cousin served as an inspiration for me to reflect upon his life and forms the basis of my short story, Carte de Viste, one of seven short stories by seven authors featured in the anthology To Wear a Heart So White (available through Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DKFZRRLC ). His life was so full of quirks and interesting occurrences. One last tale before I finish: Sven was nearly ninety-years-old and on his sickbed while being watched by his neighbour, the painter Tiselius, as the family went about some errands. Drunken Tiselius insinuated that Sven must have stolen the medals, and in no way deserved them. With all his remaining strength, old Sven grabbed his walking stick and whacked it hard over the head of his tormenting neighbour. The family legend is that proud Sergeant Sven Stenander was buried with the medals he treasured so much.

 

Ronan Beckman is a retired former educator living in Northampton, England. He writes historical fiction and biography, often based on characters discovered while researching family history. You can find out more on his website: www.ronanbeckman.com

 

 

James Spivey talking about The Last Duel

James Spivey talking about The Last Duel 

Today I’m delighted to welcome James Spivey who is here to talk about his debut historical novel The Last Duel. Set during the Crimean War, this is a tale of war, romance, feuding brothers and terrifying military incompetence.

Welcome to Writing with Labradors, James. To start with, what made you want to write The Last Duel? Did you always have ambitions to be an author or was it this particular story you wanted to tell?

Writing with Labradors is an excellent name for a group. My childhood companion was a Labrador and the most wonderful, handsome, goofy sod I ever knew.

They generally are.

I’ve always had an interest in history and paid more attention in those classes at school than others. But it was the TV Series Sharpe that really accelerated my interest. I read the books obsessively then moved onto biographies. It was period drama I originally wanted to write and ten years ago wrote a script, which provided the template for The Last Duel. However commissioning such a drama is not inexpensive and I didn’t expect it to go anywhere, but when lockdown went ahead in 2020 I decided to adapt it to a novel.

Why the Crimean War – how did you become interested in it?

If Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe was my first love, then George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman series was my second. His writing is peerless and even Bernard Cornwell dedicated a book to him. If you don’t know, it’s a comic and subversive take on the boys own adventure in which the protagonist is the antithesis of a stoic Victorian hero, even though he looks like one. While I was aware of the Charge of the Light Brigade, it was his magnificent book Flashman at the Charge which fired my interest.

This year was the 170th anniversary of those great and shambolic battles; The Alma, Balaklava and Inkerman and there was a disappointing lack of attention given to them. The veterans of Crimea, who endured so much, have been overshadowed by the Napoleonic Wars on one side and two World Wars on the other. But if you study the Crimean campaign you’ll see how it foreshadowed the events of WW1 and the US Civil War; a naïve expectation of a rapid victory turning to an industrialised slaughter in the trenches and a slow, grinding, attritional slog.

The reason I chose it as the setting for my story is because it was the nadir of the ancien regime and the purchase structure in the army. Britain was becoming a modern, industrialised nation while the likes of Lucan and Cardigan were anachronisms who embodied aristocratic entitlement and ineptitude. It also matched the timeframe for the eradication of duelling.

I loved the book. It looks as though a lot of research went into it. Can you tell me a bit about it. What sources did you use? How hard was it to find material? There are loads of published accounts of the Peninsular War, which is my own period. What about the Crimea?

I was ridiculously lucky. I started the novel in the first winter lockdown, but when I went back to work, the writing stalled. A chance conversation with a colleague revealed that her father, John Cotterill was a Veteran of the Sherwood Foresters and a battlefield guide who had toured the Crimea 13 times before that modern Tsar, Vladimir Putin decided he wanted it. John had a bookshelf of materiel which he was kind enough to lend me for a year, thereby imposing a deadline that I just managed to keep. Kinglake’s 9 book series is the most comprehensive. Terry Brighton’s Hell Riders provides an excellent chronological analysis with supporting testimony from the Light Brigade. Obviously I read the journals of Fanny Duberly and William Russell. I think I identified with them as sceptical writers more than the obedient soldiers. “Theirs not to reason why?” I’d have been the first to say, “get stuffed.”

Yes, it’s difficult sometimes to imagine what it must have been like for those men just to have to ride into that.

I’m interested in the idea of the duel and its importance in your book. Did you read much about duelling? How common was it in the run up to this period? I mean during the Peninsular War it was fairly common, it used to make Wellington furious. Which is rich given that he went on to fight a duel. But if this was the last duel, what stopped it?

I started writing about the Crimean War because I was already interested in it, but I only read what I needed on the topic of duelling once I had decided to write about it. I wanted to signal the end of an era in the most dramatic way possible. Social attitudes had changed significantly by the Victorian era so duelling was less common, though naturally Lord Cardigan had fought one in dubious circumstances and avoided prosecution on a technicality concocted by the House of Lords. There was widespread public disgust and Cardigan himself was chased out of a theatre by an angry mob.

The last (recorded) fatal duel in England was fought in 1852 between two French emigres; Barthélemy and Cournet. Barthélemy killed his opponent and was charged with murder. Meanwhile in Ireland, British troops had fired upon a crowd of unarmed Irish peasants and killed six of them. They were arrested and charged with murder but the Attorney General had them released on bail. Barthélemy’s lawyer argued for the same leniency, as they were “honourable” duellists. Unsurprisingly this request was denied, but in doing so, the judiciary had to come down hard on the practice of duelling. It was now harder to escape the penalties, though I suspect a good many more were hushed up.

I suspect you’re right about that. You mingle your fictional characters with real personalities very well. Who would you say was your favourite real character to write about and why?

Fanny Duberly by Roger Fenton, 1855 (Wikimedia Commons)

Easy: Fanny Duberly. It took a huge amount of nerve to smuggle herself to the front line (would you leave your home to go to the front line in Ukraine today?) and a good deal more to defy the social norms of the time, not to mention Lord Lucan. She undoubtedly used her charms to get what she wanted from men, so naturally the gossips had a field day, but there is no evidence of anything else. In fact she never conceived a child, which makes the more scurrilous rumours less plausible. In this day and age her rehabilitation is long overdue.

I think you’ve done a good job of it in the book. Following on from that, who was your least favourite real character? Was that because they were difficult to portray or because you just didn’t like them? That does happen – you should hear me on the subject of Thomas Picton some time.

Lieutenant General James Thomas Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan

Thomas Picton turned out to be a nasty piece of work didn’t he? I was very disappointed when I found out about his conduct in Trinidad. Yet he was a brave and effective commander. Physical bravery isn’t always accompanied by decency as my two candidates for this accolade prove. Lucan and Cardigan (it’s a toss up between the two) were thoroughly detestable, narrow-minded snobs and frequently lacking good judgement. Terry Brighton’s Hell Riders was the first non-fiction I read on the subject and he laid out their failings in technicolour. Spoilt bullies who never grew up and were incapable of admitting fault. I got heartily sick of them.

What did you make of Lord Raglan? In my books of course, he’s Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s young military secretary. Everyone loves him and he has his whole life and career ahead of him. What is he like by the time you’re writing about him? What went wrong?

 

Field Marshal Lord Raglan (Wikimedia Commons)

I don’t think anything went wrong with his character, he just grew old. The fact that he died on campaign tells you the impact it had on his health. He thought it was a mistake to invade Crimea, but he believed it was his duty to do so once ordered. It would have been better for everyone if he’d passed the job on to someone else, though I suspect it would still have been too much for him if he’d been younger. After all, the Duke of Wellington preferred obedience to initiative and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of his junior officers foundered without his instructions to follow.

 

The logistical failings of the Crimean campaign began in Whitehall and Raglan didn’t really get on top of them. The bureaucracy must bear the brunt of the blame for these failings, but one of the reasons that Raglan failed to confront them was that, unlike his mentor Wellington, he was too averse to confrontation. For example, when dealing with Lucan and Cardigan over their conduct he merely kept them stationed miles apart instead of disciplining them, thus their feud continued and seeds of disaster were sown.

The fact that the campaign did not have a Commander in Chief like Eisenhower 90 years later was deleterious to the allied effort. The French wanted to attack at the Alma, so Raglan agreed to support them without knowing what it entailed. The result was that British troops took the heaviest casualties. Then the French refused to follow up the victory when the Russians expected Sebastopol to fall immediately and Raglan went along with it when his instinct was to advance. After Balaklava, Lucan told him not to station the survivors of the Light Brigade on the heights above Sebastopol where they were exposed and isolated. But the French requested it and so Raglan insisted upon it. Consequently the horses starved, the men froze, both became sick and died. When Raglan got things right, he was talked out of it, when he got things wrong, he went ahead regardless.

I think that’s a very interesting point about Wellington’s officers. Of course some of them did go on to prove themselves effective commanders – Sir Harry Smith being an obvious example. But he had that kind of personality from the start. More to the point, he remained on active service whereas poor Raglan spent most of his career behind a desk. And I suspect his time with Wellington honed his diplomatic skills more than his tactical ability.

This is your first novel. What was the hardest thing about writing it?

Starting. There’s nothing more intimidating than a blank page. After that it was finding the time. I work about 10 – 11 hours a day, usually 5 days a week. For a year I worked, then came home to write.

Harry and Jack. Where did the idea for their feud come from? Did you find yourself sympathising with both of them or were you firmly on one team?

Oh Team Jack all the way. Their feud isn’t based on any real life equivalent, though I’m sure there were similar ones. But when you have both a huge inheritance and a beautiful woman to fight over, things are bound to get nasty.

And Eliza. Where did the idea for her character come from? Did you realise when you started that she was going to step in and take over?

I first floated the idea for this story on a night out after leaving Uni many years ago and I’m ashamed to say in my original iteration she was merely a plot device to cause friction. It’s a good job I waited another 16 years before writing it because that gave me time to mature. Eliza herself is something of a cocktail, consisting of one measure of Lizzy Bennett and one measure of Miss Marple with a dash of my own quirks thrown in. That mixture happened by accident in the meet-cute with Jack when I wanted to demonstrate her intelligence whilst simultaneously helping the exposition. Suddenly she’s a young Miss Marple and that altered her trajectory somewhat. I had no idea she would have this kind of presence.

I’d say this was definitely a case of one of your characters taking over. I wanted to ask you a bit more about Fanny Duberly who is obviously a real character. I’d come across her in passing but really didn’t know much about her. She was remarkable. Can you tell readers a little bit about her?

I’ll just add a little more to my previous answer. She was born to an affluent middle class family, her elder brother was a cavalryman and that seemed to form an impression on her. She was exceptionally beautiful and was soon married to a cavalryman. When war broke out she was determined to accompany him to the front and wrote a journal of the campaign and provides an eyewitness report of Balaklava. After the Crimea she followed her husband to India where she was again in the thick of it during the Indian Mutiny. I wish I knew more about her life after the war because I’d like to keep her in any future stories, should I write them.

I hope you can manage it. She’s a real gift to a novelist.

Writing battles can be challenging but you really set yourself up for a big battle in your first book. Tell me about the Charge. What was it like to write about it? Did you find it difficult?

This was the moment I had always intended to write about, so was excited when I reached it. My daily word count increased significantly when I started Balaklava. In some respects it was easier to write as the work is already done for you. I took the eyewitness accounts and worked them into my description. The tricky bit was the chronology. There was so much information to stay on top of. At one point I confused the events of my original script with documented fact! Thankfully my editor picked up on that.

There have been so many opinions about this but I’m curious to hear yours. Who do you think was mostly responsible for what is known as one of the most infamous blunders in British military history?

Captain Louis Nolan (from Wikimedia Commons)

There has been a move in recent years to blame Nolan and claim that he deliberately charged the Don Cossack battery on purpose to prove a point he wrote about in his book on cavalry tactics. I don’t buy that for a minute. The accusation depends upon conflating his original assertion; that cavalry could take an enemy battery if it had previously been subjected to bombardment, with what happened at Balaklava, which was a frontal assault against a battery, which had not been softened up by artillery and was flanked by two other batteries of cannon. In these circumstances a frontal assault was suicide and he would have known this. Furthermore if he survived he would have been court martialled because Captains don’t get to decide strategy on the hoof (no apologies for the pun) without consequence. So either he committed career suicide or actual suicide.

 

 

George Bingham, third Earl of Lucan (from Wikimedia Commons)

However I do believe he bears a large portion of the blame for not relaying the message carefully. He let his personal feelings cloud his judgement and misdirected Lucan, who ought to have had the sense to clarify his orders, but he too responded poorly to be being addressed impudently by a junior officer.

Raglan himself made a mistake by ordering an advance in the first place. After restricting any initiative from Lucan and refusing him the ability to attack when opportunities presented themselves, Lucan can be forgiven for being confused by his Commanding Officer’s switch from extreme caution to recklessness. Raglan’s orders, as intended were foolish anyway. Sending a cavalry division, unsupported by infantry against troops that were occupying hilltop redoubts was pure folly and shows how much pressure he was feeling at that moment. Given that his orders specifically mentioned infantry support too, its hardly surprising Lucan was confused when told to attack immediately.

Cardigan really was not to blame for the charge, but he was to blame for deserting his men immediately afterwards. The speed with which he returned and his own justification that there was nothing else to do at that point is extremely poor and demonstrates why Lucan and Raglan were right to be cautious of giving him any authority.

So to summarise, Raglan issued a poorly worded, foolish order, which was miscommunicated and then misunderstood by a hot-tempered ADC and a General who was both over arrogant and under intelligent. So there’s quite a bit of blame to share around.

Yes, it’s hard to pick one single culprit out of that lot. It was genuinely shocking that Cardigan just disappeared off without at least finding out what happened to the men who survived. I believe some of them were taken prisoner by the Russians weren’t they?

Yes, 58 troopers were taken prisoner and one of them, Private Wightman, wrote an account of their treatment at the hands of their Russian captors. Apparently they lived in better conditions than their comrades camped outside Sebastopol. The Russians were quite impressed by them and treated them with respect, giving them the freedom of the town and a plenty of food. One, Private Henry was given over to the custody of a Russian lady and stayed in her home. He was quite distressed when he was exchanged in a prisoner swap and returned to his regiment. Very Flashman behaviour! 

What’s been the biggest learning curve as a first time author?

Discovering exactly how much research is required and even then you may fall short. Myths are being busted all the time. I may write something with absolute certainty and discover afterwards that is not the case. I spent longer than I should have liked trying to discover whether “Trooper” referred to the horse or the rider. Research is like an onion, you just keep peeling off one layer after another.

Oh, I’ve also discovered that I’m not as grammatically astute as I always thought. My editor’s red pen corrections demonstrated that.

And the big question, and I know you’ve already been asked this…are you going to write a sequel? If so – without spoilers of course – what should we expect?

I hadn’t envisaged one when I started writing, but by the end I had an idea for a sequel that picks up where I left off. It’s tricky to describe without spoilers, but the emphasis will be on Bayons Manor, not the Crimea and will give Eliza a chance to exercise her little grey cells. Once again my biggest obstacle is time, but I am going to give it a shot. I’ll still probably finish my next book before George RR Martin releases Winds of Winter though.

I think that’s entirely likely, and I genuinely hope so. James, thank you for joining Writing with Labradors today. The book is great and it’s fascinating to learn a bit more about how it came to be written. Good luck with it.

You can read my review of the Last Duel here.

 

James Spivey was born in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire. From an early age, films and history were his twin passions. He graduated from Bradford University and now works for ITV as a cameraman. He spent several years as a Parish Councillor and is a volunteer for a canine search and rescue team. His pastimes include roaming the English countryside often with a dog or two by his side, running an Airbnb and exploring places with a rich cultural heritage whether at home or abroad. Meet him on Twitter / X here.

 

 

 

The Last Duel is now available on Amazon.

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The Last Duel by James Spivey

The Last Duel by James Spivey: a review

The Last Duel is the debut novel of James Spivey and takes place against the backdrop of Victorian England and the bloody battlefields of the Crimean War. It’s a fast-paced tale of family feuds, star-crossed lovers and the kind of military incompetence that is hard to believe and at times even harder to read.

Spivey’s style is energetic and keeps the story moving along. He has clearly done a lot of research but manages to keep military detail from swamping his narrative. He freely acknowledges his love of traditional historical fiction, particularly the Flashman series and there are a few delicately dropped references to other books which were fun to spot. This isn’t a copy though, or even a tribute.

What I liked about the book was the characterisation. Spivey’s characters, both real and fictional are lively, entertaining and believable. It’s easy to over-write feuding brothers into caricatures of good and evil, but Harry and Jack Paget are both flawed and at times both vulnerable.

It is his portrayal of his female characters that really impressed me. For anyone who has read her diaries, Fanny Duberly is clearly a gift to any historical novelist and Spivey makes the most of her. It is Eliza however who steals the show, and to some extent runs away with the book.

All in all, a thoroughly good first novel and I hope to see more from James Spivey in the future.

The Last Duel is available on Amazon on both Kindle and Paperback

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