My True Love Gave to Me

by Barbosa, Jackie

  Epilogue

  The First Noel

  December 24, 1833

  Noel Langston found his mother at her writing desk in his parents’ study. Technically, he supposed, it was meant to be his father’s study, since the room had been designed as a sanctuary in which the vicar of St. Mary’s church could study scripture, review theological texts, and write his Sunday homilies. Nevertheless, for as long as he could remember, the paraphernalia of his mother’s reformist legal pursuits had occupied fully half of the room and occasionally more, for there were times when she had every horizontal surface strewn with copies of current laws, pending bills, and other books and documents as reference material to support—or condemn—whatever action she was currently contemplating taking up with the houses of Parliament.

  Today, however, there was but one item on the desk in front of her. Her head bent in concentration, she didn’t seem to hear him enter, and he heard her mutter to herself, “Nine years old and still working eight hours a day. Disgraceful.”

  That cued him as to what she was reading. “But at least it has teeth,” he said. “And a stricter limit on working hours than we initially asked for.”

  She turned to look over her shoulder at him, and he was struck—as he always was—by how little she had changed despite the passage of so many years. True, her golden hair was streaked with strands of white now and the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes were more pronounced than when he was a child, but all in all, time had been kind to her. Or perhaps, time had been kind to his memories, and the woman he saw before him had merged so effortlessly with the woman who had raised him from infancy that he simply could not see or accept that she had changed.

  He certainly had. Today was, nominally, his twenty-sixth birthday. Though he might have been born as many as ten days earlier, the family had always celebrated his birthday on Christmas Eve, which marked the day his sister, Jane, had left him in the vicarage stable in the hopes of finding him a good home.

  She had succeeded beyond her wildest imaginings.

  He was also one of the youngest sitting members of the House of Commons, having been voted into the Grange-Over-Sands seat in 1832 in the first election following the passage of the Reform Act. The achievement was not strictly his own, of course. His name—and his parents’ reputation in the community where his father had served as vicar for nearly thirty years—arguably had more to do with his victory over his opponent than his own positions or qualifications. Still, he had gone to Parliament with a long list of goals for reforms, many of them championed by his mother for decades, intended protect children, women, and the poor from the unscrupulous and abusive practices of factory and workhouse employment. The Factories Act passed in August, the text of which his mother was clearly studying, was the first of what he hoped would be many such bills.

  “Noel!” she gasped, her face lighting with surprise and pleasure at the sight of him. “You’re home. And for your birthday!” Leaping from her chair, she rushed to embrace him and then, in the manner of all parents, to hold him back and give him a once-over, thereby assuring herself of his health and well-being. Apparently satisfied that all his facial features and body parts were in the proper place, she said, “And you are correct. I am being greedy and asking for more than it was reasonable to hope for. But really, nine is still much too young to be working at all. The fact that they are limited to eight hours instead of the originally proposed ten is small comfort, though I suppose that is better than no comfort.”

  “We will get there, Mama. Little by little.” He squeezed her upper arm and smiled down at her. Whoever’s loins Noel had sprung from, he imagined at least one of his progenitors had been very tall, for he stood well over six feet and towered over most people, including his father, who was hardly a short man. “I know it is frustrating, but changing the attitudes of an entire country is bound to be a long and difficult process.”

  God, she was a fierce, clever woman as well as one of the most acclaimed beauties of her generation, and she had accomplished so much already, starting with the first Cotton Mills and Factories Act back in 1819. Not that her contributions to that or any later regulations would ever be recognized by history, but he knew full well that her letters, newspaper opinion pieces, and direct conversations with members of Parliament had been instrumental in moving that legislation forward. But it hadn’t been enough for her then, and the new Factory Act wouldn’t be enough for her now.

  He was so damn proud of her. So proud that she had chosen him, both as her son and as the bearer of her legacy.

  Her indigo eyes flickered with impatience, but she nodded her understanding. “All in due time,” she said agreeably. “Now, tell me, how is that you are here? We thought you would not come home for Christmas.”

  The entire family traditionally celebrated Christmas in London several weeks before the event in deference to Walter Langston’s need to be in Cumbria during the actual holiday season. This meant he had just seen his parents and most of his siblings—along with his aunts and uncles and a plethora of other relations—and had informed them that this year, he would not make the trip home so as to avoid the difficult return to London in time for the opening of Parliament.

  Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he guided her gently toward the door. “I changed my mind,” he admitted. “I realized that there is nowhere else I would rather be than with my family—on my birthday and for Christmas—and so, here I am.” Steering her in the direction of the parlor, he added, “Also, I have brought someone I need to introduce to you and Papa.”

  * * *

  Mildly perplexed by her son’s announcement, Artemisia stepped into the front parlor. Her husband stood in the center of the room, smiling with a certain bemusement at someone who was seated in the armchair that faced away from the doorway. Over the back of the chair, Artemisia could make out only the top of a blue and white bonnet and puffy sleeves of the same color.

  A woman, then.

  Her stomach did a strange little pirouette.

  Noel cleared his throat, and the woman started ponderously to her feet. “Mama and Papa, I would like you to meet—”

  Walter reached out a hand to assist the woman, and it was at this point in the introductions that Artemisia understood why their visitor was having so much trouble rising from the chair, for the unmistakable swell of her abdomen came into view. She was pregnant. Very pregnant.

  She was also stunning, with titian red curls and a face of such exquisite perfection that it would be impossible to say which feature was the most remarkable: the thick-lashed aquamarine eyes, the delicate nose, the sculpted cheekbones with their light dusting of freckles, the bow-shaped lips, or the strong, dimpled chin. Her expression was friendly but guarded. Tentative.

  “—my wife, Catriona Langston,” Noel finished.

  The End…or is it?

  Also By Jackie Barbosa

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  Coming in 2021-2022:

  The House of Uncommons

  A Bit of Rough (read blurb & excerpt)

  First Comes Marriage

  The Bedding Vow

  Better to Burn

  The Lords of Lancashire Series

  The Lesson Plan

  Hot Under the Collar

  A Matter of Indiscretion

  Sleeping with the Enemy

  The Ever Afters Series

  Carnally Ever After

  Wickedly Ever After

  Scandalously Ever After

  Sinfully Ever After

  All the Ever Afters (Complete Novella Collection)

  Author’s Note

  As I mentioned in the acknowledgments, I started writing this story at the urging of Joanne Renaud. When she first suggested the idea of a bonus epilogue to Hot Under the Collar, I wasn’t entirely convinced despite the fact that Walter is my absolute favorite of all the male protagonists I’ve ever written. But once I started working on this, I knew it was mean
t to be.

  What I didn’t expect was for this “bonus epilogue” to turn into a prologue for another series. But, as you’ve probably guessed from reading the last few pages, that’s exactly what happened. As soon as I started writing from the adult Noel’s point of view, I knew he needed his own book. And the fact that I’d made him a member of The House of Commons gave me the “hook” to build not only that book, but an entire series around. The House of Uncommons, set in the early to mid-1830s, features main characters who are—for lack of a better term—social justice warriors. Three of the four male protagonists are MPs (including Noel, of course) and the fourth writes and publishes an underground London newspaper. (The fourth is the hero of the first book, by the way, which I know is a little confusing!)

  The 1830s were pretty awful for the poor and working classes in Great Britain. Despite the qualified “win” for child labor represented by the Factories Act of 1833, the economy was terrible during most of this period and industrialization put a lot of previously skilled and well-paid craftspeople out of work (notably hand-loom weavers). There were also widespread crop failures in the early part of the decade, which as you can imagine led to both unemployment and hunger. Due to these factors, the cost of the welfare system rose dramatically, and Parliament passed the New Poor Law in 1834 in an attempt to discourage people from seeking assistance unless they were willing to enter a workhouse. With this backdrop, Charles Dickens wrote and published Oliver Twist. But I don’t want to say too much here, just suffice it to say that I’m excited to be writing characters who aren’t all wealthy aristocrats.

  That said, I’ve included the description and the first chapter of A Bit of Rough, which will be a longish—and steamy—novella and which you can preorder now. I’ve promised Amazon a release date of March 5, 2021,

  Now, you all know that I love digging a little more into the research behind a book in my author’s note, so if you’re not bored yet, I do have a few small things to mention.

  First of all, I was shocked to discover that in 1807, there were no laws limiting the age at which children could be apprenticed or otherwise forced to work. Realistically, of course, children under the age of about five were probably not useful enough to be put to work, and indeed, orphans and foundlings were generally placed in the care of a wet nurse until they were at least five or six. It was also fairly common for a wet nurse to have multiple young children in her care, to the extent that the practice of sending orphans and foundlings to wet nurses was referred to as “baby farming.” This was actually a fairly lucrative business from what I’ve read.

  Second, it’s true that a parish was responsible for the care of its own needy residents and its own orphans and foundlings. That’s why it made some sense to me that Walter was unaware of the existence of an orphanage in another parish; he would not have been able to send children there unless he used funds from his own parish to cover the costs.

  Finally, Noel’s election to the House of Commons follows on the heels of the Reform Act passed in 1932, a little over a year after the death of George IV (whom you’ll know as “Prinny” from your Regency-set historicals). Up until this legislation, the only people allowed to vote in Great Britain were men who owned real or personal property worth a minimum of £200. Needless to say, this meant that the electorate was relatively small. The 1832 act dropped the “price of admission” for voting to include most men who paid at least £10 a year in rent. The act also changed the boundaries of some districts and either reduced or increased the number of representatives for each district to better reflect actual population.

  The result of the act was an increase in the size of the electorate of about 250,000 people, though it still fell far short of granting the franchise to all adult males, to say nothing of women’s suffrage. This “oversight” was driven in large part by the belief of the people in power that giving the franchise to the poor would just lead them to vote for more handouts for themselves. (Sound familiar?) The Chartist movement, which called for the enfranchisement of the working class, began in earnest in 1838, but died out in 1857 without achieving its goals. It was not until 1918 that all men aged 21 and older gained the vote, and women did not gain full electoral equality until 1928.

  Thanks for sticking with me through yet another lengthy author’s note, and I hope you’ll enjoy The House of Uncommons series!

  —Jackie

  A Bit of Rough

  Unedited Blurb and Excerpt

  Blurb

  Lucas Delgado Guerrero’s skin is too brown for him to feel truly at home in England but returning to Mexico, which he scarcely remembers, is hardly a choice. So he remains in London, publishing an illegal newspaper devoted to reformist and revolutionary causes. One of his most popular writers is the intriguing and mysterious Polly Dicax, who delivers sharp, witty screeds by messenger every week.

  At twenty-five, Lady Honora Pearce is too busy writing seditious treatises to pay much attention to men. Especially when marrying would mean giving up the very rights she argues for in her fierce diatribes. She is, however, intrigued by the editorials written by one of her publishers. Here, at least, is a man with worthy ideas and ideals. Not that she ever expects to meet him, since both their identities must remain secret.

  Everything changes when circumstances force Honora to deliver her weekly column herself and, on the heels of her arrival at the printer’s shop, the police raid the premises. To protect the shopkeeper and themselves, Honora and Lucas must hide together in a small chamber. They shouldn’t have to kiss, but somehow, they do. And when Honora finds she can’t stay away, Lucas discovers he can’t refuse her, even if he can never be more than her bit of rough.

  (Honora is the youngest daughter of Freddie and Conrad Pearce, of The Lesson Plan. You met her for the first time—briefly—in Sleeping with the Enemy.)

  One

  “A woman’s only asset of monetary value, in the eyes of our society, is her virtue. Whether she guards it like a treasure or trades freely upon it, it is her one reliably salable resource.” – Polly Dicax

  London, March 22, 1831

  Lady Honora Pearce glanced furtively to her left and right before making the right turn onto Clerkenwell Street, where Rickert & Sons Printers was located in the center of the block.

  Dressed as she was in male clothing, she should not be easily recognizable as the youngest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Ormondy, but she would be foolish to take chances. Even with her long brown hair tucked beneath her cap and her figure mostly disguised by the clever cut of the jacket she wore over trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, there was still a distant possibility of encountering someone who knew her and her family well enough to note the resemblance of this “boy’s” face to members of the Pearce family. Her father’s square jaw in combination with her mother’s sapphire blue eyes were difficult to conceal. But she saw no one on either side of the street who looked familiar to her, and the sidewalks bustled with sufficient activity that she thought it unlikely anyone would take particular notice of a youth carrying a small envelope in the direction of the print shop.

  Despite her relative confidence that she was in no danger of being recognized, her stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation as she strode down the pavement, weaving through numerous the pedestrians who strolled sedately along and stopped every now and then to peer into a shop window.

  She was about the meet Luke Evangelista.

  Oh, she knew that was not his name, any more than hers was Polly Dicax, the nom de plume she affixed to the columns she wrote for half a dozen underground newspapers. No publisher of a paper like The Weekly Disciple, which not only advocated for radical causes and revolutionary reforms but did not pay the required stamp taxes, could afford to publicly acknowledge his identity. Any more than she could allow her true name to be printed beneath her own militant compositions.

  A portly gentleman in a top hat and bespoke suit exited the door of the shop adjacent to the printer and very nearly collided with her. Grate
ful for her trousers, which allowed for much greater mobility than heavy skirts, Honora managed to dodge him without his apparent notice, but her heart skittered as she realized how close a call it had truly been. The gentleman was none other of than Lord Van Allen, who sat in the House of Lords with her father and to whom she had spoken face-to-face on more than one occasion. Had he been paying the slightest attention, she had no doubt that he would have recognized in her a trice despite her disguise.

  This was why she had never before attempted to personally deliver a column to any of her publishers. She would not have done so today, either, had she any other choice, but the messenger boy who normally performed the task had failed to appear at the designated time and when an hour and more had passed with no sign of him, she had concluded that he would not come at all. Given that the only alternative to conveying the document herself would be violating her contract, she had chosen the lesser of two evils. While she did not depend upon the income she made from her essays for her living—her parents were both indulgent and broad-minded enough that they continued to support her without a hint of displeasure—she could not allow the publishers who paid for and printed her columns to guess that Polly Dicax was a person of independent means. Not to mention that she liked earning her own pocket money; it gave her a sense of power and of purpose. And should her parents ever tire of housing and maintaining her…well, then she had the means to provide for herself.

  Anxious to put Lord Van Allen well behind her, she quickened her steps and was within ten feet of her destination when a commotion rose up behind her. At the cries of distress and irritation, Honora glanced over her shoulder. A stone of dread formed in her chest. For there, pushing their way through the crowd and headed right in her direction—or more accurately, in the direction of the print shop—were three uniformed constables and a tall, aging man in a gray suit who could only be a magistrate.