Tag Archive | knights

The Microcosm of London or London in Miniature: Bartholomew Fair

The annexed print is a spirited representation of this British Saturnalia. To be pleased in their own way, is the object of all. Some hugging, some fighting, others dancing: while many are enjoying the felicity of being borne along with the full stream of one mob, others are encountering all the dangers and vicissitudes of forcing their passage through another; while one votary of pleasure is feasting his delighted eyes with the martial port of Rolla, and the splendid habiliments of the Virgins of the Sun, another disciple of Epicurus is gratifying his palate with all the luxury of fried sausages, to which he is attracted by the alluring invitation of “Walk into my parlour!” The ambitious, who, seated in triumphal cars, are by the revolution of a wheel, like that of Fortune’s, raised to the highest pinnacle of human wishes, look down with scorn on the little grovellers below, reckless that they gain their dangerous elevation at the hazard of their necks, and that, by another turn of the wheel, they must sink to the base level from which they arose.

A number of youths, each with the lass he loves, are carelessly disporting in the swings; indeed so carelessly, that one of them appears to have fallen out. The mighty Nimrods, each bestriding their fiery coursers on the round-about, pursue the chace with ardour; their ladies, seated in chariots, lead or follow with alacrity in their circle of amusements.

The wise zoologist finds ample gratification in Mr. Prdcock’s astonishing exhibition of wild beasts, assured by the stentoric showman, that here is to be seen “The largest elephant in the world, except himself!” The conjuror overwhelms his wondering spectators with . his surprising manual dexterity, and the philosophic operation of eating fire. Saunders, with his equestrian exercises, rope-dancing, and tumbling, has also his full share of attraction. Richardson delights a joyous group with the humours of their old and ever-welcome friend Punch; while a lady, with a tambourine, and a hero with a trumpet, are, with all their powers, adding to the concert of sweet sounds, which resounds from every quarter.  

The general effect of this print is highly interesting. The contrast of the gaudy glaring lights of the various booths, opposed to the calm and serene light of:

“the wandering moon,

  “Riding near her highest noon,”

has the happiest effect imaginable. The bustle and confusion of the various groups are well conceived, and executed with spirit. The surrounding scenery, St. Bartholomew’s hospital, the church, and the houses in Smithfield, are correct, and give an identity and value to the scene.

Of the origin and progress of this ancient and celebrated fair, it may be necessary to give some account; and it may not be uninteresting to give some idea of the other sports and diversions of our warlike and gallant ancestors, when Smithfield was the principal scene of action.

From “Hogarth illustrated, by John Ireland,” the following essay on the rise and progress of fairs is extracted. — Vol. I. article Southwark Fair.

“At a time when martial hardihood was the only accomplishment likely to confer distinction, when war was thought to be the most honourable pursuit, and agriculture deemed the only necessary employment, there was little social intercourse, and so few retail dealers, that men had no very easy means of procuring those articles which they occasionally wanted. To remove this inconvenience, it was found necessary to establish some general mart, where they might be supplied. Fairs were therefore instituted, as a convenient medium between the buyer and seller, and were at first considered as merely places of trade*. They were generally held on the eve of saints’ days. Some of them continued open many weeks, and had peculiar privileges, to encourage the attendance of those who had goods upon sale. The pedlar travelled from city to city, or from town to town, with his movable warehouse, and furnished his customers with what served them until his periodical return.

“As men grew more polished, their wants increased, their intercourse became more general, and the importance of commerce was better understood. The merchant deposited his goods in a warehouse, and the trader opened a shop. Fairs, deserted by men of business, gradually changed their nature, and, instead of being crowded by the active and industrious, were the haunts of the idle and dissolute. Such were they at the time of this delineation [Southwark Fair], made in 1733, and may be considered as a true picture of the holiday amusements of that period. Bartholomew Fair had a similar origin.”

According to Fitz-stephen, a writer in the reign of Henry II. “Without one of the gates was a smooth or smethe field, both in name and deed, where, every Friday, unless it be a solemn bidden holiday, is a notable shew of horses to be sold. Earls, barons, knights, and citizens, repair thither to see or to buy. There may you of pleasure see amblers pacing it delicately; there you may see trotters fit for men of arms, sitting more hardily; there you may have young horses not yet broken, &c. In another part of that field are to be sold implements of husbandry, as also fat swine, milch kine,” &c.

“To the priory of St. Bartholomew’, Henry II. granted the privilege of a fair, to be kept yearly, at Bartholomew’s tide, for three days, to wit, the eve, the day, and the next morrow. To the which the clothiers of England, and drapers of London, repaired; and had their booths and stalls within the churchyard of this priory, closed in with walls and gates, locked every night, and watched, for the safety of men’s goods and wares. A court of Piepowders was daily during the fair holden for debts and contracts. But now, notwithstanding all proclamations of the Prince, and also the act of Parliament, in place of booths within the churchyard, only letten out in the fair-time, and closed up all the year after, be many large houses budded; and the north wall towards Long-lane being taken down, a number of tenements are there erected for such as give great rents.” — Stow.

Smithfield, besides being. a market for cattle and horses, hay, straw, &c. and a cloth fair, was famous also for the celebration of royal jousts and tournaments. A general fair was likewise held a Bartholomew tide.

To shew the gallantry of those days of chivalry, it may not be impertinent to give an extract of one of those royal jousts from Froisart.

“In the fourteenth of Richard II. royal jousts and tournaments were proclaimed to be done in Smithfield, to begin on Sunday next after the feast of St. Michael. Many strangers came forth out of other countries, namely, Valerian, Earl of St. Paul, that had married King Richard’s sister; the Lady Maud Courteney and William, the young Earl of Ostarvant, son to Albret of Baviere, Earl of Holland and Henault.

“At the day appointed, there issued forth of the Tower, about the third hour of the day, sixty coursers, apparelled for the jousts; upon every one an esquire of honour, riding a soft pace. Then came forth sixty ladies of honour, mounted upon palfraies, riding on the one side*, richly apparelled; and every lady led a knight with a chain of gold. Those knights being on the king’s party, had their armour and apparel garnished with white harts, and crowns of gold about the harts’ necks; and so they came riding through the streets of London to Smithfield, with a great number of trumpets and other instruments of music before them. The king and queen, who were lodged in the bishop’s palace in the city of London, were come from thence with many great estates, and placed in chambers to see the jousts. The ladies that led the knights were taken down from their palfraies*, and went up to chambers prepared for them. Then alighted the esquires of honour from their coursers, and the knights in good order mounted upon them; and after the helmets were set on their heads, and being ready at all points, proclamation was made by the heralds, the jousts began, and many commendable courses run, to the great pleasure of the beholders. These jousts were continued many days with great feasting.”

One other instance we shall take from Stow, to shew that these sports were attended with some danger.

“In the year 1467, the seventh of Edward IV, the Bastard of Bourgoigne challenged the Lord Scales to fight with him on horseback and on foot. The king therefore caused the lists to be prepared in Smithfield: the timber-work cost two hundred marks, besides the fair and costly galleries prepared for the ladies and others: at which martial exercise the king and nobility were present. The first day they ran together with speeres, and departed with equal honour. The next day they tourneyed on horseback, the Lord Scales’s horse having on his chafron a long pike of steel, and as the two champions coped together, the same horse thrust his pike into the nostrils of the Bastard’s horse, so that for very pain he mounted so high, that he fell on the one side with his master; and the Lord Scales rode about him with his sword drawn, till the king commanded the marshal to help up the Bastard; who said, ‘I cannot hold up the clouds; for though my horse fail me, I will not fail an encounter, companion.’ But the king would not suffer them to do any more that day.

“The next morrow they came into the lists on foot with two pole-axes, and fought valiantly; but at last the point of the pole-axe of the Lord Scales entered into the side of the Bastard’s helm, and by force might have placed him on his knees, but the king cast down his warder, and the marshal severed them. The Bastard required that he might perform his enterprise, but the king gave judgment, as the Bastard relinquished his challenge.”

These were the amusements of the higher orders; those of the citizens are also interesting and instructive. “Let us now,” saith Fitz-stephen, “come to the sports and pastimes, seeing it is fit that a city should not only be commodious and serious, but also merry and sportful. In the holidays, all the summer, the youths are exercised in leaping, dancing, shooting, wrestling, casting the stone, and practising their shields. The maidens trip with their timbrels, and dance as long as they can well see.”

These manners continued with little variation to the time of Henry VIII. 

In the infancy of the drama, the young men were taught to perform in the Holy Mysteries; one of which was exhibited in 1591, at the Skinners Well, adjoining Smithfield, which lasted three days together, the king, queen, and nobles being present; and in 1409, one which lasted eight days, and was intended to represent the Creation. To these succeeded the performance of tragedies and comedies, then called stage-plays, which have continued a favourite diversion with your Englishmen ever since the time

“When sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, “

Warbled his native wood-notes wild.”

Bartholomew Fair had now for a long time, instead of three days, lasted a fortnight, and was unquestionably productive of some habits of dissipation, and much loss of time, among the lower orders of people who attended it. At length, in 1708, the magistracy of the city determined to reduce the fair to the original time of three days, and confine it to its first purpose, that of selling merchandise only; and an order of common council was made accordingly: but seems to have been ill obeyed, as in 1735, the court of aldermen came to a resolution touching Bartholomew Fair, “that it shall not exceed Bartholomew eve, Bartholomew day, and the day after; and that during that time nothing but stalls and booths shall be erected for the sale of goods, wares, and merchandises, and no acting be permitted.” This order it appears was obeyed no better. But Southwark Fair, and many others, were at this time suppressed.

Of the acting at Bartholomew Fair, little is known before the time of Elkannah Settle, who is only now remembered from having been the rival of Dryden, and having been honoured by Pope with a niche in the Dunciad. Settle was born in 1648: in 1680 he was so violent a Whig, that the ceremony of pope-burning, on the 17th of November, was entrusted to his management;he wrote much in defence of the party, and with the leaders was in high estimation. Politicians and patriots were formed of much the same materials then as they are now. Settle being disappointed in some of his views, became as violent a Tory as he had been a Whig, and actually entered himself a trooper in King James’s army on Hounslow Heath. The Revolution destroyed all his prospects, and in the latter part of his life he was so reduced as to attend a booth, which was kept by Mrs. Minns, and her daughter, Mrs. Leigh, in Bartholomew Fair. From these people he received a salary for writing drolls, which were generally approved. In his old age he was obliged to appear in these wretched exhibitions; and in the farce of St. George for England, performed the part of the dragon in a case of green leather of his own invention. To this circumstance Dr. Young refers in his epistle to Pope:

“Poor Elkannah, all other changes past,

“For bread in Smithfield dragons hiss’d at last;

“Spit streams of fire, to make the butchers gape,

“And found his manners suited to his shape.”

In these humble representations some of our greatest actors made their first appearance, and not a few of them, after they had attained high eminence, ranted, strutted, and bellowed through all the days it was kept open, to their own emolument, and the heartfelt satisfaction of Thames-street beaux and the black-eyed beauties of Puddle-dock. In 1733, a booth was built in Smithfield for the use of T. Cibber, Bullock, and H. Hallum; at which the tragedy of Tamerlane, with the Fall of Bajazet, intermixed with the comedy of the Miser, was actually represented. The bill of fare with which these gentlemen tempted their customers, may properly enough be called an olio; and the royal elephant sheet on which the titles of the play were printed, throws the comparatively diminutive bills of a theatre royal into the back ground.

In some of the provinces distant from the capital, dramatic exhibitions are still given out in the quaint style which marked the productions of our ancestors. This sometimes excites the laughter of the scholar, but it whets the curiosity of the rustic; and whatever helps to fill a theatre, must be the best of all possible methods. From the mode of announcing some late productions at the two royal theatres, there seems good reason to expect, that the admirers of this style of writing will soon be gratified by having it introduced into the London play-bills, or at least into the London papers.

But leaving the mighty characters who tread the London boards to their admirers, let us return to humbler scenes, and give one example out of many which they annually afford. A play-bill printed some years ago at Ludloiv, in Shropshire, was nearly as large as their principal painted scene, and dignified with letters that were truly capital, for each of those which composed the name of a principal character was near a foot long. The play was for the benefit of a very eminent female performer, the bills said, to be written by herself, and thus was the evening’s amusement announced:

“For the benefit of Mrs. ******, by particular desire of B. G. Esq. and his most amiable lady, this present evening will be performed a deep tragedy containing the doleful history of King Lear and his Three Daughters, with the merry conceits of his majesty’s’ fool, and the valorous exploits of General Edmund, the Duke of Gloster’s bastard. All written by one William Shakespeare, a mighty great poet, who was born in Warwickshire, and held horses for gentlemen at the sign of the Red Bull in St. John’s-street, near West Smithfield; where was just such another play-house as that to which we humbly invite you, and hope for the good company of all friends round the Wrekin.”

“All you who would wish to cry or to laugh,

You had better spend your money here than in the alehouse by half.

And if you likes more about these things for to know,

Come at six o’clock to the barn in the Highstreet, Ludlow;

  “Where presented by live actors, the whole may be seen:

  So vivant rex, God save the king, not forgetting the Queen !”

See Hogarth illustrated by John Ireland.

After Cibber and his companions, Shuter and Yates exhibited at Bartholomew Fair; since which time none of the performers of the theatres royal have had booths there, and the fair has been reduced to its original term of three days.

*The fairs at Chester, and some few other places, still keep up the spirit of the original institution.

*It was in this reign side-saddles were first used in England.

Back to Table of Contents

Never Too Late: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

Eight authors and eight different takes on four dramatic elements selected by our readers—an older heroine, a wise man, a Bible, and a compromising situation that isn’t.

Set in a variety of locations around the world over eight centuries, welcome to the romance of the Bluestocking Belles’ 2017 Holiday and More Anthology.

Special Pre-order Sale just $0.99 

After November 15th: $2.99

We’re still working on the rest of the retailer links but just in case you want to take advantage of our special pre-order price, jump on over to Amazon and order your copy now. The release date for NEVER TOO LATE is November 4th. Remember, 25% of the sales from the Belles’ box sets benefit our mutual charity, The Malala Fund. You, too, can make a difference in the life of a young woman or child by contributing to this worthy cause!

Amazon:

US: http://amzn.to/2y6oBg7
AU: http://amzn.to/2fycyAx
BR: http://amzn.to/2wjyWkm
CA: http://amzn.to/2yFvxxS
DE: http://amzn.to/2xA0Udb
ES: http://amzn.to/2yFIgk4
FR: http://amzn.to/2yF7gbg
IN: http://amzn.to/2fzQkhv
IT: http://amzn.to/2xzPPbW
JP: http://amzn.to/2xK5yqS
MX: http://amzn.to/2xJTlCK
NL: http://amzn.to/2hvRYkV
UK: http://amzn.to/2fyBesx

iBooks:

http://apple.co/2yY4gXC

Kobo:

http://bit.ly/2fK7vJR

Nook:

http://bit.ly/2y63988

Smashwords:

http://bit.ly/2xDMQkb

Print – $18.99

http://amzn.to/2zQ36Ny


The Piper’s Lady by Sherry Ewing

True love binds them. Deceit divides them. Will they choose love?
Coira does not regret traveling with her grandfather until she is too old to wed. But perhaps it is not too late? At Berwyck Castle, a dashing knight runs to her rescue. How can she resist?

Garrick can hold his own with the trained Knights of Berwyck, but they think of him as a piper, not a fighter. When his heart sings for the new resident of the castle, he dares to wish he is something he is not. Will failure to clear her misunderstanding doom their love before it begins?

Excerpt

“You saved me,” she whispered in a shaky tone. “You are truly a gallant knight to rescue me. Your liege lord must value you as one of his warriors.”

Warrior? Him? He opened his mouth to correct her assumption but could not find the words. He knew she would think less of him if she but knew he was only the clan’s piper.

“Are ye harmed?” he murmured, still holding the pleasing womanly curves of the lady who had not yet moved from atop him. Her brow rose, and Garrick inwardly cursed knowing there was no way to hide his Scottish accent.

“Nay, but only because of your ability to move so quickly. Thank you, Sir…” She left her sentence linger in the air between them.

“Garrick,” he answered, giving her his name, “of Clan MacLaren.”

“My thanks, Sir Garrick,” she replied with a kind smile.

They seemed to come to the realization the lists had become eerily silent with the exception of one person running in their direction.

“Get your hands off her!” a voice bellowed.

Before either of them could move, the woman was ripped from his arms, and Garrick saw her enveloped in the fierce embrace of Morgan. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and Garrick could not help the feeling of jealousy assaulting his emotions and tugging at his heartstrings.

“Coira! By St. Michael’s Wings you gave me such a fright, woman,” Morgan scolded in concern. Setting her down upon her feet, he proceeded to clasp both her cheeks afore placing kisses on each.

Her Wounded Heart by Nicole Zoltack

An injured knight trespassing on Mary Bennett’s land is a threat to the widow’s
already frail refuge. Even so, she cannot turn away a man in need and tells him he has her husband’s leave to stay until Christmas.

Doran Ward wishes only to survive for one more day. However, as he begins to
heal and to pay for his lodgings by fixing the rundown manor, the wounds to Mistress Bennett’s heart intrigue him.

Can two desperate souls find hope in time for Christmas?

Excerpt 

To her surprise, her guest had laid out a few vegetables, and she set about cutting them without saying a word to him.

At one point, he reached across her for another knife.

She stiffened and jerked back.

“My apologies,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Do not touch me,” she said, fear melting into anger in her voice. “My husband is a very strong and angry man. He shall take exception to anyone who dares to touch me.”

“Will he be joining us for dinner?” he asked as if unfazed.

She did not like to lie to him. Lying, after all, was a sin. But she also must protect herself.

“No,” she said shortly. “He already ate and has retired for the evening.”

“So it shall be only the two of us?” He glanced over his shoulder at the chunks of meat he had cooking over the fierce fire.

“Aye. You can brine-cure the meat we do not eat.”

“Very well.” He never did grab the knife but returned to tending to the meat.

Soon enough, she added the vegetables to a pot, along with some of his meat. A short time later, the stew was finished.

The man brought over two bowls. She stared at the wooden spoons in her hands. Her husband had lost their silver in yet another game.

Another sign to alert him that all is not well here.

Head back, she took a deep breath. Matters such as they were, she had no other recourse. As cold as the house was despite fires, she could not imagine anyone surviving the night out of doors. Would her good intentions spell even more doom for herself?

A Year Without Christmas by Jessica Cale 

London, 1645

Edward Rothschild returns home from war defeated in more ways than one. His friends killed and his property seized, he is an earl in name only. His family and his servants have all deserted him– all except his housekeeper, Lillian Virtue.

Lillian feels like home in a way that nothing else does, but as his servant and a recent widow, it would be impossible for them to be together. Then again, Christmas has been banned and the social order fractured; can one more impossible thing happen this year?

Excerpt

Somerton’s smile was like a bolt of lightning, a sudden flash of terrifying intensity that surprised them both. One shot of light across the darkness of his face and it was gone.
Her knees failed her suddenly and Lillian caught herself on the edge of the table just as Somerton reached out to catch her arm. His hand closed around her elbow and sent a shock up her spine.

“Are you well?”

Lillian had always held her master in the highest regard, but some part of her had feared him, as well. It was not only that her position depended upon his good graces, but he had seemed more than human to her. His presence was overwhelming and perhaps otherworldly; he had a spark of the infinite that suggested a link to the Divine. She could have easily taken him for a priest or a saint.

She had known he was objectively handsome; what she had not realized was that she thought he was handsome.

She felt her blush deepen and took a steadying breath. “Quite well, my lord. Forgive me.”
He frowned as he examined her face. “You look peaked. Join me for coffee.”

Somerton wanted her—Lillian Page, no, Virtue—to sip coffee with him in his private bedchamber? It was inappropriate, to say the least, but when she opened her mouth to object, all that came out was, “I only brought one cup.”

The Night of the Feast by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

As a spy deep in the heart of Revolutionary France, Michael St. John hopes to make amends for a wasted life his by helping the citizens of the Vendée stage a counter-revolution.

Jacqueline Archambeau, tavern owner and cook, accepts that life and love have passed her by. She never dreamed she would fight her own countrymen for the right to keep her customs and traditions.

When they plot together to steal plans at a regimental dinner will they risk their lives—and their hearts?

Excerpt 

Bonjour.” The smile on Jacqueline’s face was unexpected, as was the greeting and he found himself returning it.

Until he felt the unmistakable press of a gun barrel at his lower back. It seemed that Madame Jacqueline was not alone.

“Your knife, monsieur.” Jacqueline held out her hand.

Michael obliged, handing the weapon over hilt first.

“So, Jacques is really Jacqueline?” he asked, feeling like the world’s greatest fool.

“And I’ll take any other weapons you might have on your person,” she continued.

He hesitated, and the barrel pressed at his back became silently insistent.

“Please?” she asked as pleasantly as if she had simply asked him to pass the butter.

Michael raised his arms, threaded his fingers, and placed them at the back of his head.

“You’ve completely disarmed me, madam, but you are welcome to check for yourself.”

Hazel eyes clouded with mistrust. Jacqueline glanced to the person behind him as though looking for instruction.

“Who sent you?”

The voice behind him was that of another woman.

Michael gritted his teeth. He would kill Colonel Jeffers when they next met. The man knew his contacts were women and thought it amusing not to tell him. To further his bona fides, Jeffers had even made him memorize the first stanza of a poem, Ode To Him Who Complains, no less, by scandalous poetess Mary Darby Robinson.

The Umbrella Chronicles: George & Dorothea’s Story

by Amy Quinton 

Lord George St. Vincent doesn’t realize it, but his days as a bachelor in good standing are numbered.

He has a fortnight, to be precise—the duration of the Marquess of Dansbury’s house party.

For I, Lady Harriett Ross, have committed to parting with several items of sentimental worth should I fail to orchestrate his downfall—er, betrothal—to Miss Dorothea Wythe, who is delightful, brilliant, and interested (or will be).

If I have anything to say about matters, and I always have something to say about matters, they’re both doomed.

Did I say doomed? I mean, destined—for a life filled with love.

Excerpt 

Without a doubt, he made her breath catch every single time he looked her way, even if only looking past her, which was pretty much all the time and kind of pitiful. But who cared? It was another secret that was all hers.

Besides, she was undoubtedly not the only woman who struggled to breathe in his presence.

Dory clenched her hands into fists and reminded herself for the millionth time that she was more of the glasses and books type (of which there were far too few in the world) than the roguish smile and flirty type (of which far too many abounded). Hence, her easy slide into spinsterhood at the ripe age of thirty-one.

Yes. St. George was blond and slender and solidly built. And he was beautiful, somehow elegantly masculine, and gloriously tall. She wasn’t the only person that understood this. Everyone acknowledged these traits as if they were all a set of facts that could be found in any book on science. Or a math fact, a proven geometrical theorem.

Like the bluestocking she was, Dory imagined writing proofs over the theory of his gentlemanly beauty. Given George St. Vincent is taller than most men. Given St. Vincent has blue eyes the color of the sky and blonde hair the color of wheat. Given George St. Vincent has a blinding smile and broad shoulders. Prove George St. Vincent is the most swoonworthy man in all of England.

Dory chuckled to herself, though she felt on the verge of hysterics.

But all of that didn’t mean he was a worthy man for her affections.

A Malicious Rumor by Susana Ellis

Vauxhall gardener Alice Crocker has had to defend herself from encroaching males all her life, but the new violinist is a different sort. So when she discovers that he is the victim of a malicious rumor, she naturally wants to help.

Peter de Luca greatly admires the lady gardener, but this is his problem to resolve.

What will it take to prove to this pair that they would be stronger together as a harmonious duo than two lonely solos?

Excerpt

Alice found her feet tapping in time to the music of the orchestra rehearsal while she inspected the site for the new illumination, which would honor the new Duke of Wellington after his victory over Bonaparte at the Battle of Paris. If only the designer had included the measurements! It was difficult to decide how to arrange the plantings without some inkling of the space requirements. With luck, the fellow himself would arrive soon, since the spectacle was planned to open the next day.

Miss Stephens must be singing tonight, she thought as she found herself humming the tune of the popular Northumberland ballad about a brave lass who rowed out in a storm to save her shipwrecked sailor beau.

O! merry row, O! merry row the bonnie, bonnie bark,

Bring back my love to calm my woe,

Before the night grows dark.

She liked the idea of a woman rescuing her man instead of the other way around. It might seem romantic to be rescued by a handsome prince, but one could not always be a damsel in distress, could one? Alice knew from her mother’s marriage that there was no happiness or romance in a marriage where one partner held all the power. She herself had no intention of placing herself in the power of any man. She would be responsible to no one but herself—and perhaps her employer, as long as she was permitted to work for a living. She narrowed her eyes. She could work as well as any man, better than some, in fact. Why did so many men feel threatened by that?

Forged in Fire by Jude Knight

Burned in their youth, neither Tad nor Lottie expected to feel the fires of love. The years have soothed the pain, and each has built a comfortable, if not fully satisfying, life, on paths that intersect and then diverge again.

But then the inferno of a volcanic eruption sears away the lies of the past and frees them to forge a future together.

Excerpt

She was nothing to him. He was sorry for her, that was all. As he’d be sorry for anyone stuck in her predicament. She’d be better off staying in New Zealand, where Mrs. Bletherow’s malice couldn’t reach her. There was work in Auckland, in shops and factories. Not that a proper English lady would consider such a thing.

She could do it, though. She wasn’t as meek as she pretended. He’d seen the steel in her, the fire in those pretty hazel eyes.

The word ‘pretty’ put a check in his stride, but it was true. She had lovely eyes. Not a pretty face, precisely. Her cheeks were too thin, her jaw too square, her nose too straight for merely ‘pretty’. But in her own way, she was magnificent. She was not as comfortably curved or as young as the females he used to chase when he was a wild youth, the sort he always thought he preferred. Not as gaudy as them, with their bright dresses and their brighter face paint. But considerably less drab than he had thought at first sight. She was a little brown hen that showed to disadvantage beside the showier feathers of the parrot, but whose feathers were a subtle symphony of shades and patterns. Besides, parrots, in his experience, were selfish, demanding creatures.

 

Roses in Picardy by Caroline Warfield

 After two years at war, Harry is out of metaphors for death, synonyms for brown, and images for darkness. Color among the floating islands of Amiens and life in the form of a widow and her little son surprise him with hope.

Rosemarie Legrand’s husband died, leaving her a tiny son, no money, and a savaged reputation. She struggles to simply feed the boy and has little to offer a lonely soldier.

Excerpt

Are men in Hell happier for a glimpse of Heaven?”

The piercing eyes gentled. “Perhaps not,” the old man said, “but a store of memories might be medicinal in coming months. Will you come back?”

Will I? He turned around to face forward, and the priest poled the boat out of the shallows, seemingly content to allow him his silence.

“How did you arrange my leave?” Harry asked at last, giving voice to a sudden insight.

“Prayer,” the priest said. Several moments later he, added, “And Col. Sutherland in the logistics office has become a friend. I suggested he had a pressing need for someone who could translate requests from villagers.”

“Don’t meddle, old man. Even if they use me, I’ll end up back in the trenches. Visits to Rosemarie Legrand would be futile in any case. The war is no closer to an end than it was two years ago.”

“Despair can be deadly in a soldier, corporal. You must hold on to hope. We all need hope, but to you, it can be life or death,” the priest said.

Life or death. He thought of the feel of the toddler on his shoulder and the colors of les hortillonnages. Life indeed.

The sound of the pole propelling them forward filled several minutes.

“So will you come back?” the old man asked softly. He didn’t appear discomforted by the long silence that followed.

“If I have a chance to come, I won’t be able to stay away,” Harry murmured, keeping his back to the priest.

“Then I will pray you have a chance,” the old man said softly.