'Toll the Dead Man's Bells' and 'The Armitage Chronicles' published

Toll the Dead Man's Bells, book 12 in the Felicia and Robin series.
Robin and Felicia receive a letter from Fanny Rose, the beauty they met on the ship on which they sailed to England. Fanny wrote an impassioned plea for aid, as she has found a man who she wishes to marry, but there has been trouble. Crispin Parsons, the family tutor, still carries a torch for Fanny, and wishes to help her, even though she has found another man.
As Robin and Felicia are about to leave England to take Pernel and the other children to Italy for the winter, they decide to break their journey in Kent, near Canterbury, to look into Fanny’s unspecified troubles.
What they find is a very unpleasant family indeed, and some nasty things going on. A lot of secrets are revealed, regarding Fanny as well as her betrothed’s family.

US paperback Here
US kindle Here
UK paperback Here
UK kindle Here

The Armitage Chronicles  a spinoff from the Jane and Caleb series
  By request, “The Armitage Chronicles” is a deeper look at the romances seen in the background in ‘Jane and the Sins of Society’ as well as a visit to Agnes Fanshawe, an old school friend of Jane’s, who is also mentioned in that book. This book is a collection of three novellas, covering their stories. Laura Finds Love Laura Evans struggles to handle the spite of a prettier girl who makes fun of her appearance and pokes fun at Laura’s other friends. Laura feels her looks would never attract someone like Gerard, Marquess of Falkrington, known to be a heart-breaker, and quickly bored by any female. However, Gerard is about to learn that he is more interested in how much personality a girl has, rather than her superficial looks. The Governess’s New Job It is one of the clichés of romance, that the noble lord marries his governess. However, the novels generally have the courtship before marriage, and do not involve a proposal to save the noble lord’s life by being with child as soon as possible to deter his assassination. Her whirlwind wedding to Michael Strode, Duke Braxtrode, is encouraged by his three daughters, but the family still faces danger. Nessie Fanshawe and the Dastardly Doctor Agnes ‘Nessie’ Fanshawe is less of a poor little dab of a woman than she was when first encountered in ‘Jane and the Opera Dancer’, and is chaperoning her connexion, Emma Kemp, in Bath. However, she cannot stand by when she has some worrying suspicions about a doctor of whom she hears, and turns to her distant cousin, ‘Beau’ Popham for advice.
US paperback Here
US Kindle Here
UK paperback Here
UK kindle Here

The man from Somewhen

Some of you know I do book covers and sell the rights and one of the pictures I had created set me thinking.  So this is a piece of flash fiction. This one also arises from the writer's group which holds challenges; this was part of one of the challenges I set

The man from somewhen

Emily woke with a start.  She had fallen asleep over her book again, and the lazy summer’s afternoon had darkened into crepuscular gloom. Her parents would be worried. She jumped up, but something in the woods caught her attention.

It was a spark of light, rapidly growing, until it formed a big glowing disk made of purple and white flames.  Nothing seemed to be catching on fire, however, and Emily stared as a man stepped out of the disk. He was wearing clothes which Emily would describe best as Victorian, including a top hat.  And Emily was pretty sure he had not been behind the spark before it formed.

He looked around, and stared at her.

“What are you doing here?  There should be nobody here,” he said.  He sounded rattled.  “And your clothes ...”

“There’s nothing wrong with my clothes,” retorted Emily. “I’m not the one looking as though he’s going to a costume party.  Are you from the past or something?  I’ve read HG Wells’ ‘The Time Machine’, you know.”

“Hell,” said the man.  “What year is it?”

“2006,” said Emily.  “What year should it be?”

“I was aiming for 1906,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Emily Ward, though I’m not sure I should be telling a complete stranger,” said Emily.

“Emily Ward? You are named after an ancestress?”

“Yes, my great-great-great-grandmother,” said Emily, counting on her fingers to check the number of greats.

Behind him, the glowing disk wobbled, flickered, and disappeared.

“You shouldn’t even exist,” said the man.

“Well, tough shit, mate,” said Emily.  “And you shouldn’t exist now either, but I fancy you are stuck with it; unless you have another time machine or whatever.”

He whirled around.

His language was not Victorian, or Edwardian, or whatever.

“And now, perhaps, as you can’t get at my great-great-great-grandmother you can tell me what you intended to do,” said Emily.

“There was an opportunity on the timeline to make sure she did not meet your great-great-great grandfather,” he said. “And it would have prevented your line being born.  I would not have killed her.”

“You would have killed me,” said Emily. “Why on earth would you want to kill my whole family line?”

“Because one of you invented the first look-back machine, which led to the temporal entropic portal,” he said.  “Which is what I came through.  Have you any idea how much crime can be committed when a criminal can pop back in time, pull a heist, and then nip back into the future, beyond the time of the statute of limitations?”

“How come yours went pear shaped then?” asked Emily.  “To pull a heist like that, you need to get back to your own future.”

“It’s not supposed to operate if there are any other people inside 200m of it,” he explained.  “And you were not expected to be here.  You have a time by which you are supposed to be home.”

“Yes, and I fell asleep,” said Emily.  “I should have been home ages ago.  And by the way, you haven’t told me your name.”

“David Ward, great-great-great grandmother,” he said, mockingly.

cover pic for Bess

Libby's Luck is live

paperback UK here
Kindle IK here
paperback US here
Kindle US here

If you've read Daisy's Destiny there are some hints at what is going on back at Swanley Court, but nothing in Libby Freemantle's letters hint at the initial misunderstandings and frictions between the head preceptress and the newest trustee, replacing Mr Everard.  As the misunderstandings are ironed out, they work together both on the problems of the new girls from the harsh school in Oxford, and on problems caused by unsavoury elements in Lucius Belvoir's own home neighbourhood.

Bess and the Dragons 1

This is a story aimed at young teens, in which Walter Raleigh went in search of El Dorado and found .... dragon eggs.  It takes place in an alternate Merrie England, and opens in 1599 when eleven year old Bess Marlowe is encouraged by her guardian, Master Will Shakespeare, to see if she will be accepted into the School of Wyrm Lore and Draxterelry. 
Naturally, England's enemy, Spain, is not happy that England might have a strategic advantage, and Bess and her friends must face danger as well as learning how to be Draxtereleers. 
This is a work in progress and I'm posting it to make myself get my finger out to complete it. 

Chapter 1

The large, red-brick country house was just a few hundred paces from the gatehouse where the hopeful candidates were gathering. All they had to do to take up a place at the school was to walk up the drive.

The huge, lavender-coloured dragon blocking their way was the only obstacle.  Bess knew, because Master Shakespeare had told her, that the lavender dragons were Lorewyrms, reckoned the cleverest of all dragons.

“How can they expect us to go past a dragon before we’re trained to deal with them?” demanded a big, heavy-set boy.  He was plainly a prosperous merchant’s son, with good woollen broadcloth clothing, and embroidered bands.

“It’s not fair. I’m not staying.  I never thought it would be like this,” the aristocratic girl in a brocade farthingale whined.

She was not the only one to think that way; quite half the hopeful candidates for the School of Wyrm Lore and Draxterelry retreated, though one boy was driven back by his father, who had brought him himself in his heavy covered travelling waggon.

Bess sighed.  She had not intended to stand out, or make a spectacle of herself; being the illegitimate daughter of a playwright who had died in dubious circumstances was not something that made one seek public notice, but if none of the other idiots were going to manage to do it, one of them must show the way.

She turned to the boy who had been shooed back by his father, an expensive looking youth, and smiled; and smiled too at the tatterdemalian girl with bare feet. The faces of both were expressive and intelligent; their background did not matter.

“Come with me,” she said, holding out her hands.

“Yes, look you, I will, right willingly,” the ragged girl took her hand.  Several of the better dressed youngsters shuddered, and one of the rich-looking girls shrieked.

“Be careful, you might get plague from the Welsh doxy!”

“Doxy?  She’s a little girl like us, thou, rudesby,” said Bess, deliberately using the familiar form of speech.  “And art too busy shrieking for me to wish to ask you.”  Master Will Shakespeare, her patron, had warned her that in the school there would be no favour for the wealthy, for the favour of the dragons counted more than material wealth, or she might not have dared.

“Why do you ask me?” the boy asked her haughtily, looking down his nose.

“Because though your courage is hiding, you look to be a companion worth having, if you will accept aid to find it,” said Bess.

Long moments he hesitated, and Bess wondered if he would prove too proud to accept the hand of friendship from someone of lower estate than himself.  He wavered, but put his hand forward.

Together, with Bess leading, they started up the drive.

“Is… is this what we are supposed to do?” asked the boy.

“It’s the only way to get to the school, and someone has to show the way,” said Bess.  “A lorewyrm is hardly going to be there to eat the candidates, but to test them.”

“I did not like to be presumptuous,” said the Welsh girl.  “We have always honoured dragons in Wales.  I may not look much, but my family claims descent from Uther Pendragon.  On the wrong side of the blanket.  My name is Tangwystl Goch.”

“I’m born on the wrong side of the blanket myself,” said Bess. “I’m Bess Marlowe.  Our other friend, I fancy, is more regular in his ancestors.”

“My father is Lord Edward de Bercy,” said the boy, “and I’m his second son, Diccon, and he wants me to be a Ruby Knight; but I am not of martial turn.  I … if I was lucky enough to bond, I would rather bond with a lorewyrm,” he added in a rush.

“We should concentrate on our lessons first, I fancy,” said Bess.  “Greetings, great one.  We wish to go to the school,” she said as they approached the big amethyst dragon. She dropped a deep curtsey.  Tangwystl copied her, though not as elegantly, and Diccon bowed.

The deep violet eyes regarded them, thoughtfully, and for the first time they experienced the heavy, pressing feeling of dragon thoughts in their heads.

“Greetings, young ones.  You are here to study dragons, and to hope to be matched with one as you mature.  You have at least shown some courage, as all Draxelteers require, which is especially sought by Ruby dragons, the Warwyrms. Amethyst dragons seek wisdom; black Diamond dragons,[1] or Spellwyrms seek intellect and talent. The Beryl dragons, the Speedwyrms wish for those who can take quick decisions. Topaz dragon, falsely called Common Wyrms seek those who nurture. It is my task to observe you, that you are placed in the correct House in the school to study towards your aims. It is not fixed nor unchanging,” she – they could feel she was a she – reassured them.

“Will we be barred from learning magic if we choose any but the Diamond House?” asked Bess.

A huffing noise issued from the nose of the Amethyst Wyrm.  Bess realised it was laughter.

“All will be taught magic,” said the Wyrm.  “How well you take to it determines much.  You thirst for knowledge, as does Diccon.  The way of the LoreWyrm is hardest, for you must understand all the ways.”

“I am not afraid of hard work,” said Bess.

“If that is the way, so be it,” said Tangwystl.

“I want to learn, more than anything else,” said Diccon.

“Then you will be placed in a House appropriately.  Pass, scholars,”  and the mind voice was withdrawn, and the massive head lifted from the path for them to pass underneath it.

 “That was … amazing,” said Diccon.

“Incredible,” agreed Bess.

“All I had imagined and more,” breathed Tangwstyl.  “Which house do you suppose we shall be in?  I hope we are together.”

“I … I had the feeling that our own choices might count for something,” said Bess.  “We did all secretly hope for Amethyst, did we not?”

“I certainly did,” said Diccon.

“And I,” said Tangwystl.

They came to the door of the school, and Bess looked at the other two, shrugged, and turned the handle.  It opened silently, and the three almost fell over in shock when a noise of cheering broke out. 

The older youths of previous years were sat at long tables; five tables, and on the dais, adults, presumably the professors who would teach them.  With a shock, Bess realised that they all, men and women alike, wore galligaskins, much decorated and many of them in soft leather. Over them they wore mannish doublets and jerkins, some of the men bowing to fashion with the peasecod shape, some plainer.  The women at least wore their breeches wider, so they might almost pass as a knee-length skirt.

The central figure, an elderly gentleman, came forward, and made a slight bow. Unlike the rest of the staff, he wore a formal robe, and a scholar’s hat rather than the flat cap most of the rest wore, with or without decoration.

“Congratulations to our first arrivals this year,” he said.  He had an accent of the low countries and Bess gasped; this must be the near-legendary  Master Piet Van Huys, and he must be the companion of the Lorewyrm who waited without!  She could have kicked herself for not realising sooner, for only Skyshadow could be an adult of such size, since Lorewyrms never stopped growing, and Skyshadow had been bonded before, perhaps many times, choosing to rebond with a shipwrecked Flemish merchant, Master, or Mynheer, Van Huys.  The tale was one told by minstrels, up and down the land, and how Master Van Huys had met Raleigh on his second voyage to the island of the eggs, and he and Skyshadow had agreed to return with him to England rather than to give knowledge of Draxterelry to the hated foreign rulers of the Spanish Netherlands. 

Van Huys smiled benignly on Bess and her companions.

“I see that you have heard of me, of Piet Van Huys,” he said.

Bess and Tangwystl curtseyed hastily, and Diccon bowed.

“Your honour’s fame has spread the length of England.  And Wales,” Diccon added hastily.

Van Huys beamed.

“Ah, the joys of notoriety,” he murmured.  “I believe a few more are coming; let us welcome them, and then when all are safely gathered in, we may assign you to your houses.  Pray take a seat on the edge of the dais and await the newcomers.”

The three youngsters did as they were bid, feeling very much under the eye of the established scholars on their separate tables, one each around a square, and one in the middle.  The carven backs of each chair was set with a painted plaque, picturing a dragon in the colour of the House of each table. The central table was Amethyst; the furthest was Beryl; the nearest, Black.  On each side were Ruby and Topaz.   And the students at each table wore doublets in the colours of their own House over their own galligaskins, and loose scholar’s gowns over them. Those who wore flat caps rather than just the usual simple linen cap also had them in the house colours.  One could not tell who was wealthy and who was poor, even as Master Shakespeare had said.  Bess squeezed Tangwystl’s hand, and the young Welsh girl squeezed back to indicate that she had understood.  It was interesting to notice, however, that there were a few older ones whose hats had a jewelled pin in them, and some did not.

“The ones with jewels in their hats are bonded to dragons,” whispered Bess to her companions.

It showed how few succeeded in bonding; there was only one youth on the amythest table with a jewel in his hat, though there were a few more at each of the other tables. Interestingly too, the side tables of Ruby and Topaz scholars were the largest, with more scholars. 

And then the next scholar was coming in, and Master Van Huys waited for the two following and then made his welcome speech again. The first boy was the big, heavy-set lad with expensive clothes, and a cheerful countenance who had wondered how they were to deal with a dragon before they were trained; he gave a rueful smile at the three, acknowledging that they had shown the way as he introduced himself as Lancelyn Webber.  He was followed by a boy who was dressed according to the fashions of the gentry, but with neatly darned sleeves at the elbow, named John Seymour, and a girl who could not keep the wonder from her face as she looked around, one Jane Evrard.  Over the next half hour, six more made their way in, including the girl with the farthingale who had been rude to Tangwystl, who stared in horror at girls in galligaskins, and complacently tweaked at her own skirts. Bess heard Tangwystl suppress a snigger.  She would soon learn.

And then Piet Van Huys made a curious gesture and the big double doors closed. Bess gasped as she seemed to feel a rushing feeling in her head.  Tangwystl held her ears, Diccon put his hand to his head, as did another boy who had introduced himself as Aloysius Cobb.  There were a few nods from those on the black table of the diamond students.

“That is all,” Van Huys said.  “No-one else has found their courage and it is too late for them this year.” He looked down at the dozen children sitting on the edge of the dais. “And now, I will place you into your houses, according to the findings of Skyshadow, who has spoken with all of you.  Rise, and when your name is called, take a seat at the table you are sent to.” They stood, obediently.

---

[1] This was a time before the ‘brilliant cut’ made diamonds into sparkling jewels acting like prisms; most were cut to be square stones and appeared black. 

Don't piss off a writer

Sid Smith, on whom derision's poured

Because, I fear, he is a fraud

Back in March he promised then

To make me panels for a pen

To give my cats a place to play

Safe, where they cannot go astray.

Such panels he had made before

Well-wrought, they were, without a flaw

But by the ending of July

I fear with my cash he did fly.

Sid is, I fear, a rotten scunner

And with my money did a runner.

'Quality Hutches and Runs' he makes

Alas, it seems he is a fake

His reputation can get slighter

Because he has pissed off a writer.

Wild Things and Horses

July 1818

The sun beat down relentlessly on Jenefer’s head as she made her way up the drive to Lord Summerhey’s fine Palladian house. She sighed.

Doubtless it was a waste of time and effort, but she had to try.

She knocked, and found herself confronted by a very grand footman.

“I’ve come to see the Marquis,” she said.  “It’s a matter of business. My name is Miss Hellyer.”

“I will see if his lordship is at home; please wait,” said the starchy butler, motioning her into the grand vestibule.

Jenefer sighed in relief at the coolness of that marble-clad room.  She judged that the walls here were real marble, not the painted faux marble favoured by many.  Pink-shot panels were surrounded by frames of darker pink breccias, light against the general grey of the wall, and the floor was in marble tiles of dark and light grey.  A grand, white staircase sprang away to upper floors, and sundry doors opened off the vestibule.  Jenefer tentatively sat down on one of the delicate Louis Quinze chairs.

She jumped up at the sound of an amused voice.

“Well, you don’t look like a Paphian.”

She felt suddenly very conscious of her old, out-of-date cotton gown, her darned gloves, and felt certain that the speaker could even see the darn on her stocking toe, under her heavy brogues. She was aware that her capote bonnet had been out of date for many years.

“Sir, I am not a Paphian,” she said.

The man who emerged from the shadows was tall; so very tall!  Jenefer was a small, neat person with the dark hair of her Celtic forebears, and she barely reached his collar-bone! For the rest, he was unremarkable, if described, and yet he had a presence which filled the room.  His face was as swarthy as any farmer or sailor, making his tow-coloured hair and piercingly bright blue eyes the more startling.  He was casually dressed, but the fabric was of the finest, and did not hide his broad shoulders and slim hips.  His neck tie was a casual knot, of no recognisable style, but it suited him.

“No, I believe I said I did not think you were.  I wondered who you might be, and what you might want.”

“I came to see the marquis; are you he, or has he sent you to get rid of me?”

“Why, if I planned to get rid of you, I would hardly ask what you wanted, would I?”

“No, I suppose not, but it might be a politely conventional question posed before an equally polite but definite brush-off,” said Jenefer, candidly. “You didn’t say if you were the marquis or if you were an amanuensis.”

“No, I didn’t, did I?” his eyes sparkled with near malicious humour.  “Treat me like an amanuensis and tell me why you want to see the marquis.”

“Well, sir, it is because the marquis loves horses, and I hoped he would be amenable to help save the Exmoor ponies,” said Jenefer.  “Any man who has been written about in the news for having severed connexions with his mistress because she was cruel to her horse cannot be all bad.”

He blinked.

Whatever he might have expected, this was not it.

“Why on earth do the Exmoor ponies need saving?” he demanded.

“Oh, it is the fault of that horrid man, John Knight, who has bought the royal forest, now it has been sold off.  He wants to put it all to the plough, to the detriment of all the livestock, and those farmers who have had rights of forage for their pigs and kine, but he’s also driving off the ponies,” said Jenefer, passionately.

“Indeed?  They are the oldest breed of British pony, I believe,” he said.

“Yes, and it would be a shame if they just were captured and domesticated and bred with other ponies, so that heritage was lost,” said Jenefer.  “Oh, please, will you ask the marquis if he will help?  I ... horses and ponies trust me, so I could help with rounding them up, but I ... I have no monetary resources to help, Papa’s pension does not go far.”

“He is a soldier?”

“A sailor, he was second lieutenant on a frigate, but he was blinded in a magazine explosion.  He was lucky to survive, though he has often said he wished he had not done so,” said Jenefer softly.

“He is lucky to have a loving and caring daughter.  And as for telling the marquis, why, you have done so quite adequately.”

She stared.

“You are the marquis? But I asked, and you said you were an amanuensis.”

“No, Miss Hellyer, I told you to treat me like an amanuensis.  I thought I might get further if you weren’t about to gush.”

“I don’t gush, my lord; I have what many people in your position would consider a deplorable lack of gushiness.  If there is such a word.”

“Well, there is now, if there wasn’t before,” said the marquis.  “Well, here you see me, Neville Summer, Marquis Summerhey, do you really think I cannot be all bad?”

“Well, as an animal-lover, I am biased,” said Jenefer, candidly.  “The vicar, however, denounces you roundly as a womaniser and a misogynist, though I should have thought that posited an oxymoron.”

Neville gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“He means, you innocent little doe ... you look remarkably like a doe, you know, big brown pleading eyes, and somewhat untamed for all your docile appearance ... that I look on women only for my own entertainment. Those I pay attention to, anyway.”

“Do you?”

“On the whole, the ones I have met, yes,” said Neville. “Most of the females I know are either irritating or stupid, except for the ones who are both irritating and stupid.”

“Dear me,” said Jenefer.  “You appear to have had as limited experience with women as I have had with men, since most of the men I have met are either annoying or tedious, save for those which manage to be both annoying and tedious.”

“Touché, Miss Hellyer,” said the marquis. “Yes, I have met our worthy neighbours, and most of them are as dull as ditchwater.  I take it that any kind of season is out of the question?”

“On my father’s pension? Yes.  He was a younger son, and sadly devoid of rich uncles with a desire to leave any money to him.  But it is not an uncommon state of affairs.  When he was still in the navy, he was able to keep a wife and child well enough so long as we were not extravagant, and Mama was never extravagant, being a curate’s daughter.  However, I have resigned myself to the inevitable, and I am hoping to have books on the wildlife of Exmoor published.  Or I was before the wildlife was placed in jeopardy.  I am a competent artist.”

“Perhaps the production of such a book will also prompt more people to do their part in facilitating the wildlife before this fellow, what was his name? Gets it ploughed.”

“John Knight; he’s an ironmaster from Wolverly,” said Jenefer with distaste. “Do you think it would help?  I will put all my savings into having it published in that case.”

Neville frowned.

“Will you permit me to sponsor it, as my effort towards saving the wildlife?  I also have contacts which can more easily find a publisher.”

“Oh, sir, if you will, but I must pay you back.”

“You shall do so, when it is selling well enough to do so,” said the marquis, hoping that she had not overestimated her ability as an artist.  Wildlife books sold readily enough if well illustrated. But she seemed not to be the sort of young lady to exaggerate her abilities.  “And I will see about having some of the ponies moved to my own land.  May I drive you home?”

“I do not like to impose, but if the offer is genuine, not politeness, I will gladly take you up on it,” said Jenefer.  “It is a six mile walk, and in this heat it has been trying.”

“Good grief, Miss Hellyer!  You must partake of some refreshment before returning as well; I supposed you to have come up the drive only, from the village,” Neville was aghast. “No, do not protest; please come into the salon through here, and I will ring for tea and biscuits.”

It was not unpleasant to have so masterful a host, reflected Jenefer, and one who was sensible to the exertions of a long walk in the sun.  She supped tea, and nibbled some delicious biscuits of various types, chatting about the animals of the forest.

“I do have my commonplace book,” she said, shyly.  “I was going to show pictures of the ponies, to melt a hard heart if I had to do so.”

“Then pray show it to me,” said Neville.

Jenefer got it out of her large reticule, and he perused her sketches.

“You really are very good,” he said.  “And some nice botanical studies too; do you include those in your book?”

“Yes, sir, for the flowers and insects are as much a part of the forest as the animals,” Jenefer replied.

“ And a shame if we lost any of them. There are many kinds of grouse already which have died out in the forest, as well as the wild boar,” said Neville.  “Although I cannot say I regret the boar.”

“They are said to be a trifle aggressive,” agreed Jenefer.

Neville had ordered his curricle to be set up and a groom to ride along on the back when he ordered tea, and when Jenefer was refreshed, he led her round to the stables.

The sound of cursing and neighing was to be heard before they went into the stable yard to see several hands trying to hang on to a black steed, which was rearing and thrashing at them with its hoofs.  One of the men raised a whip.

“Not if you plan to keep your job,” bellowed the marquis.  The man backed off guiltily, and the horse reared up again, and seemed likely to run straight at Neville.

Jenefer walked forward.

“Now what’s all this, old boy?” she said.

The plunging hoofs cycled once ... twice ... and came down.

“So I should think,” said Jenefer, severely.  “What are you up to, frightening everyone like that?  Are you frightened, old fellow?”

The horse nickered.

“I think that was agreement,” said Neville.  “What happened?”

“He broke out of his stall again, my lord,” said the groom, gaping as Jenefer went up to what had been moments before an equine demon, patting his nose.  “I dunno how the lady did that.”

“It doesn’t matter; what matters is that she has Bellerophon calm for the first time since we have had him,” said Neville.

“What has happened to him?”  Jenefer was petting the big horse.

“He belonged to a female who was whipping him,” said Neville. “The one you mentioned.”

“Oh,” said Jenefer.  “He is such a softy, but I think he is afraid of the stall.  I don’t know what she has done, but I think he associates the inside of a stable with a bad experience.  Perhaps she whipped him worse inside so nobody would see.  I don’t think he is a horse who would do what he is told without wanting to do it as well.”

“Miss Hellyer, if you can gentle him, he is yours,” said Neville.

“I wish I could accept, but I must decline, for we do not keep any kind of horse,” said Jenefer, blushing at having to confess her poverty.

“Then I will leave standing orders that you may ride him any time you wish,” said Neville.  “He needs exercising, and if your papa will permit me to escort you, I will be happy to pick you up, oh, three times a week, say, to ride off his fidgets.  He won’t let me on him.”

“She’s had some paramour of hers whip him, hasn’t she?” blurted out Jenefer.  “So that she doesn’t have to do the exercise for herself.”

Neville’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“During her reign in my protection?” he said, in a quiet, dangerous voice.  “You are not suggesting it was me?”

“Obviously not,” said Jenefer. “And I wager whoever did it had to tie him.  He went for you when he saw you, not because he saw you as the tormentor, but because you are dressed as a gentleman and you have a high beaver.  I suspect the woman was playing you false.  Someone who would hurt an animal would do anything.”

Neville frowned.

“I did seem to run into Attenley rather frequently,” he said.  “And he has a cruel streak. I don’t say you’re wrong.  I must approach Bellerophon without the hat.”

“With due respect, my lord, I suggest you come to the stables without hat or coat to make his acquaintance, for any gentleman expecting to undertake exercise would take his hat and coat off, and he would see that happen.”

“Do you think he could be so intelligent?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir, horses can be very clever indeed,” said Jenefer.

“Very well.  For now, as the weather is set fair, he can go in the paddock,” decided Neville. “Will you lead him?”

“Gladly,” said Jenefer. 

“Two of you, bring a manger out for him,” said Neville.  “Through here, Miss Hellyer.  And my thanks for your aid.”

“I am glad to be of some use,” said Jenefer. “How fortunate it is that my bonnet is quite antediluvian in its antiquity, and devoid of feathers, so that I did not remind him of that female, for I cannot think that she even aspires to be a woman, never mind a lady.”

Neville laughed.

“It must be the first time in history that a woman has been glad of an old bonnet,” he said. “May I suggest that you continue to wear it to ride, rather than a riding hat?”

“Oh, I do not possess a riding hat, nor a habit; but I will make do with a morning gown and this, my one bonnet,” said Jenefer.  “Bellerophon, he’s a Greek hero, isn’t he? There’s a ship named Bellerophon and the men call her ‘Billy Ruffian’ which is the best some of them can manage.”

“Yes,” said Neville.  “But then, sometimes it is the humour of the men, I suspect, not ignorance which changes names; I heard of ship captured from the French which had been named ‘La Merle’, the blackbird, but a sailor who had picked up French when captured suggested calling it the ‘Merde’, which ... dear me, I forgot what I was going to say.”

“You were about to forget the presence of a lady and admit to a name which has a very questionable meaning,” said  Jenefer.  “I do not know what it means, but I do know that it is not a very proper word.”

“No, quite so,” said Neville.

“The marquis asked you to go riding with him?  Why?” asked Lt. Hellyer, sharply.

“To exercise the horse nobody else can go near,” said Jenefer. 

The Lieutenant frowned.

If he had not known of his daughter’s extraordinary gift with horses and ponies, he might have thought it a very strange excuse indeed, but he did know, and he also knew that the marquis was horse mad, and had been so from a very early age.

“Very well; but take care,” he said.

“Best of fathers,” Jenefer kissed his cheek.  “He’s hardly likely to be setting up a dowdy little country mouse as a flirt, so you need not worry about that.”

“I wish you were not dowdy,” sighed her father.

“But if I were not dowdy, you would worry more, and so would Bellerophon. My mount,” said Jenefer.

It was exhilarating to ride Bellerophon, and if Jenefer’s ankles showed more than was decent, in an ordinary round gown, the longest one she owned, then the marquis did not comment.  Bellerophon seemed to be enjoying himself too.

“I’ve set in train the removal of some ponies,” said Neville.  “Will you be able to help me with them in a week or so?”

“I’d be delighted,” said Jenefer. 

“I’ll tell your father, then; he will, perhaps accompany us so you are chaperoned,” said Neville.

“He’d probably think that a good idea,” said Jenefer. “I told him that you were hardly likely to set up as a flirt a dowdy little country mouse, but fathers are supposed to be over-protective.”

“Now from anyone else, I would assume that to be a means to get me to demur about your self-description,” said Neville.  “You, however, I think meant it without any expectation of being told otherwise.”

“Indeed not, sir; for it is the truth.”

“So is ‘item: two lips, indifferent red’, if you know your Shakespeare.”

“I do; but Twelfth Night is quite silly in parts.  I can’t see what Viola saw in Orsino, he was an idiot.”

“Granted; but to my mind the best man there, which isn’t saying a lot, is Feste the jester.”

“It’s a better name for Bellerophon, you know, Feste; he’s more of a jester than a martial hero.  He puffed up his girth to test me, and has been messing about changing feet to lead off to see how much it upsets me.”

“Well, we shall change his name then,” said Neville.  “You are a pretty girl, and it’s not your fault you are dowdy, since I collect you are handier with a paintbrush and pencil than with a needle.”

“I can mend and darn, but I have no enthusiasm for trying to copy a gown from a magazine, for I know that cheaper material will not look as well for the style, and I will lose all enthusiasm to see something look tawdry.  I would rather be dowdy than tawdry.”

“Bravo, Miss Hellyer, you are a woman of integrity.  Would you accept pay for exercising Bel – Feste, I should say?”

“No, because it also gives me pleasure.  Besides, what does it look like, if you pay me?”

“A good point.  Supposing I asked my housekeeper to sort out some of my mother’s gowns for you, including a habit which might be a little out of date, but which would be better than a round gown, and asked you to accept them as a thank you token?”

Jenefer flushed, and considered.

“I think you should ask my Papa,” she said.

“I will do so,” said Neville.

Whatever the marquis said to Lt. Hellyer, Jenefer did not know, though her father said that she was lucky to have found a patron who cared about her reputation.

“Nobody can make comments if you are dressed in the late marchioness’s clothing,” he said. “They will not be the sort of clothes a man buys for a mistress.  I am sure you will make them over adequately, so the marquis can ride with you without worrying that people will remark on how you are dressed.  Having a title like ‘secretary of the horses’ is also a good idea.”

“Yes, Papa,” murmured Jenefer, who had no idea that she held such a title.

The late marchioness had been a stylish woman, but the gowns were now a few years out of date, so Jenefer was much relieved.  Anything too stylish and modern would have been a problem.  She now possessed two riding habits, a plain beaver riding hat, York tan gloves, and riding boots of Spanish leather in addition to sundry day gowns, a couple of pelisses and one full dress gown; presumably the marquis felt he might need her to present a plan for the ponies to other people willing to help.

The boots were a little large, but this was better than being too small, and Jenefer wore them with an old pair of soft pumps on inside them, which made them fit perfectly.  The marchioness had, it seemed, had a fuller figure too, and that meant that her clothes might be readily adjusted.  It was very nice to have some virtually unworn morning gowns, silk stockings by the score, several pairs of gloves, and gowns for the winter too.  Jenefer suspected that one reason to buy her clothes was that the marquis was ashamed to be seen with her in public, when rounding up the ponies; or perhaps, being more charitable, was ashamed for her.

Several sets of his late father’s smallclothes and a coat which was not too antiquated, were also sent for Lt. Hellyer, who sighed, and said that one should not look a gift horse in the mouth, and that charity was a blessing to those who practised it, even if the proud disliked receiving it.  He and Jenefer crafted a polite note of thanks to the housekeeper for her kindness in arranging old clothes for those who had need of them, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Forbes wrote back, saying that nothing was too good for a hero of the wars against the French and his family.

“That makes it easier to accept,” said Lt. Hellyer.  “A gift in thanks for service is a gift, more than it is a hand-out.  And I confess, I am happier that his lordship has seen fit to gift me too, for then, the clothes for you are less to be remarked upon.”

“He is very clever like that, I think,” said Jenefer.

A number of local gentry and a few smart Londoners gathered for the collection and removal of the ponies, and Jenefer flushed to find herself the object of scrutiny through a quizzing glass.

“Ah, Timothy, allow me to introduce you,” said Lord Summerhey.  “The Viscount Winteringham, Miss Hellyer.  They called us Summer and Winter at school and thought it funny.  Miss Hellyer is my secretary of horse, Tim; she has a talent with equines, which is how come you see her riding Feste, previously known as Bellerophon, without any trouble.  She’s working for me to record the wildlife and circumstance of Exmoor before it vanishes altogether, because as you know I draw as well as you do.”

“Which is to say, not at all,” admitted the viscount, cheerfully.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hellyer; but don’t be surprised if Neville shows you no consideration at all for your sex,  he seems to be treating you like a lad.”

“Why, sir, I would rather that than suffer the insult of having him treat me as a plaything,” said Jenefer. 

“Wouldn’t say you don’t have a good point,” said Winteringham.  “Speaking of insults, Nev, I’d be careful if I was you around Taunton, Levrington is rusticating with his uncle, and apparently is swearing vengeance on you for what he calls stealing a valuable horse.”

“Oh, he bought it for the fair Ella, did he?” said Neville.  “So she was playing me false!  Well, I gave her fair value for Feste; I didn’t whip her.”

The Exmoor ponies were happy to trot after Feste, when rounded up, and if Neville shook his head in wonderment that they just followed Jenefer, he said nothing and rode with the others keeping the small herd from breaking and running.  Soon they were established on his land, in his own tracts of forest and moorland.

“Well done, Miss Hellyer,” he said. 

“Oh, I hardly did anything,” said Jenefer.

He laughed.

“Except calm the ponies enough to be able to actually move them.”

“Oh, well, it was not hard,”

“Permit me to be impressed, anyway.  You are a most remarkable woman, Miss Hellyer.”

“Well, you may be impressed if you really insist on it, my lord,” said Jenefer. “I don’t think that Feste is, however.  He was laughing at the ponies, you know.”

“He probably regards them as thoroughly plebeian beings,” said Neville, chuckling.

“From his point of view, they are, I suppose.  But also beautiful,” said Jenefer.

Jenefer found herself riding alone, having been collected by a groom, the next time she exercised Feste.

“His lordship popped into Taunton, miss,” the groom informed her.

“I hope he avoids that fellow Leverington,” said Jenefer.

“Oh, his lordship don’t need to worry about him,” said the groom.  “A man like that ain’t no match for his lordship, nowise!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jenefer. 

She rode largely on Summerhey’s own lands, but gave Feste some work on the roads, so he would not be too used just to grass, on the rides around the marquis’ estate.  She was trotting along one road when a loud report sounded as her hat was ripped from her head, the fastening under her chin pulled so violently she gagged, and lost her balance, falling heavily to the ground.

“Good Gad, what have we here?” a sneering voice said, as a man left the bushes, holding some kind of gun.  “You ain’t Summerhey; what are you doing on that horse?”

“I work for Lord Summerhey, as an illustrator; he gave me leave to ride Feste,” said Jenefer, fighting waves of nausea. Her hip was badly bruised and she was jarred from the fall.

“Feste?  That stallion is Bellerophon, I’d know him anywhere, and Summerhey stole him,” sneered the man.  “Well, well, so the Heartless Marquis has a pretty little thing who looks as demure as an innocent in his love nest;  I think I’ll take something from him.”  He started to undo the fall of his breeches.

Jenefer screamed, and grabbed a handful of dirt, to throw in his face.

He cried out, and started back, then reached for the riding crop she had dropped.

“It appears you need schooling,” he said, raising it.

Jenefer gasped as there was the sound of thundering hoofs and Feste, eyes rolling, reared up behind her attacker, and came down on the man, trampling him into the dust.  The man screamed, awfully, once, and then was silent.

Feste came over to Jenefer, and whickered gently.  She stroked his nose.

“Oh, Feste, I am sorry, but I do not think I can get up yet.  Oh dear!  And there is the sound of another vehicle!” she added, hearing the clop of hooves and the rumble of wheels.

Round the corner came a phaeton, and Jenefer almost passed out in relief, recognising Lord Summerhey’s greys.

He pulled up.

“Jenefer!  Miss Hellyer! What happened?”

“Oh, Summerhey!  I ... I think that is Leverington, and he shot at me, and I fell, and he ... he was going to ... to despoil me,” said Jenefer. “But Feste saved me!”

Neville jumped down, and took a look at Leverington.

“Quite dead,” he declared.  “And no loss to the world.  And fortunately, unlike dogs, nobody puts down horses which have killed, as it is held to be an accident.  Are you badly hurt?”

“I think my wrist is broken, and I am much bruised,” said Jenefer.

“I will take you back to my housekeeper, and will send for your father to stay with me,” said Neville, picking her up.

Jenefer clung to him, trying not to cry.

“Jenefer!” he said.  “I am not like that swine, but I do so very much want to kiss you better.”

“Now I have stopped feeling nauseous, I cannot think of anything nicer,” said Jenefer, blushing.

Fortunately the road was not frequented by many travellers, and Neville was able to kiss his lady quite thoroughly.

Jenefer sighed in satisfaction as he lifted his lips.

“Am I really good enough to be your mistress?” she asked

“Be damned to that!  You’re going to be my wife!” said Neville.  “And you can publish the damn book, which is what I’ve been to Taunton over, as the Marchioness Summerhey.”

“That will look very pretty on the title page,” agreed Jenefer. “Do you really want to marry me?”

“I do; and I’m tempted to have Feste as my groomsman,” said Neville.

“He would prefer that to being my page,” said the future Marchioness Summerhey.