by Darcy Burke
What is true about this scene is Gregor McGregor’s role in causing the run on stocks in London, with spillover to New York and Latin American markets. MacGregor issued bonds for a fictional country called Poyais and declared himself “Cazique,” or prince. It was all an elaborate lie.The BBC has a terrific article about this colorful charlatan.
Considering the wild characters of the 19th-century financial world, writing a woman who trades under a fictitious name seems downright reasonable!
Speaking of investments, tobacco, cotton, and other imports relied heavily on slave labor, and would have made Richard and Howard very uncomfortable. I have tried to allude to this reality while acknowledging that many business people at the time did engage in this kind of trade.
A second point of fiction is the crossing of the Atlantic. While it was technically possible to complete the voyage in four weeks or so, as Richard, Miriam, and Lizzie do, the average crossing from New York required 6-8 weeks, and could take as long as twelve. As this would have been tedious for readers, I sped things up for the sake of the story. You can read more about the history of packet ships and transatlantic shipping at the Smithsonian’s website.
Finally, I was astounded to discover that the first recorded successful C-section in the British Empire was conducted by Dr. James Barry, sometime between 1815 and 1821, in South Africa. Dr. Barry was born Margaret Ann Bulky in Ireland. Margaret assumed the identity of James Barry as a teenager and lived as a man until her death in 1865. Dr. Barry served in Cape Town, South Africa, for 10 years. It is during this time he successfully performed the operation. (I use “he” as that was his preferred pronoun in life.)
However, according to the U.S. National Library of Medicine, there had been reports of indigenous people performing successful C-sections well prior to D. Barry’s arrival. Wine was used to semi-anesthetize the mother and sterilize the incision site. Notably, these procedures were successful well prior to Western surgeries. For comparison, no woman is recorded to have survived a C-section in Paris between 1787 and 1876, due to poor sanitary practices and misunderstanding of female physiology.
More in London Scandals Series
Twelve Nights of Ruin
Holly Mayweather bet on the wrong beau - and scuffed her glittering reputation as one of London’s wittiest sophisticates. To save herself from ruin, she accepts betrothal to a soldier she’s never met.
Reynard Sharp’s battle scars run deep. He has resigned himself to a loveless marriage. But one look at his new bride leaves the stoic soldier's heart pounding…and their first kiss sends him reeling.
They delay their nuptials in a bid to find common ground. Can Holly let down her defenses long enough to get Rey to trust that there is more to her than glib remarks and a pretty face? Or will he let his need for control and discipline sabotage their chance for happiness?
Twelve Nights of Ruin first appeared in the Haute Ton Reader Society’s bestselling anthology, Once Upon a Twelfth Night. The anthology is a 2021 RONE Awards finalist.
Twelve Nights of Scandal
A Christmas Conspiracy
Mr. Finlay Weston braves deep snowfall to attend a tedious Christmas party in the countryside for one reason—he intends to take a wife. Miss Stanton is the obvious choice. Her father’s property neighbors his estate. He has already sought her father’s permission. Yet it is her cousin, Amity, who tempts him with her sparkling wit and pretty eyes.
A New Year’s Wish
Amity doesn’t resent her cousin for living in her childhood home. It’s not Holly’s fault that her branch of the Mayweather family inherited after her father’s death. Of course, Amity will help Holly avoid her unwanted suitor’s proposal for a fortnight. But Amity is unprepared for the wholly inappropriate longing that her childhood friend stirs in her…
Dreams Do Come True
When Holly abruptly changes course, Amity must decide whether to claim the unexpected love blossoming between her and her brother’s best friend—or to step aside and preserve her close friendship with Holly. Finn won’t be cajoled into proposing to the wrong woman. He’ll have Amity—no matter what his choice costs him.
This is a brother's best friend, love triangle Regency romance. Always a happy ever after and no cliffhangers!
The Wild Lord
Becoming Lady Dalton
The Duke's Stolen Heart
About Carrie Lomax
Carrie Lomax writes steamy contemporary and historical romance. Carrie was a finalist in the 2018 Virginia Fool for Love contest for her historical romance, To Win a Wicked Widow. After a stint teaching English in France, she moved to New York City for 15 years, where she acquired a pair of graduate degrees, a husband and a career as a librarian. She lives in Maryland with two budding readers and her real-life romantic hero.
Once a Fallen Lady
Eve Pendle
She can’t say no to him but can’t say yes to love . . .
Lydia Taylor’s roof is leaking, her chickens have run amuck, and the rent is due. When her daughter falls ill, she faces it as she does all challenges—alone. The last person she needs at her door is proper schoolteacher Alfred Lowe. His disapproving gaze seems to penetrate her façade of a respectable widow and capable mother.
To achieve his dream of his own school, Alfred Lowe needs to marry a wealthy lady. But from the moment impoverished Lydia Taylor fell at his feet, he's been inconveniently attracted to her. What begins as a duty to aid his ill pupil's mother soon becomes much more complicated. Maybe even . . . love?
But amongst kisses, tears, and savory pies, the past creeps into the present, casting a long shadow. If they risk love, they both could lose everything they’ve ever wanted.
Heat level: medium
Content Notes: https://evependle.com/index.php/2019/11/10/cw-for-once-a-fallen-lady/
Tropes: secret relationship, fluffy, soft feels, cinnamon roll hero, stolen kisses
Chapter 1
25 April 1873, Sussex
Lydia extended her stride and mud flicked up onto her dress. Her daughter dragged on her arm as they walked, sleepy and chuntering about daffodils.
Annie would be late for school again, and Lydia knew it was because of her failing as a mother. The leaking roof had kept Annie awake, the porridge had burnt, and–oh it hardly mattered. The teacher, Miss Moore, would show her disapproval of tardiness with all the charm of a disgruntled sow.
“Let’s race,” Lydia said as the idea caught her. If they ran the last couple of streets, Miss Moore might still be waiting outside. That would avoid having to send Annie into the already filled schoolroom. Lydia picked up her pace and lifted the hem of her skirts with her free hand. Reluctantly, Annie started to run, letting go of Lydia’s hand to use both hands to grab her dress.
A giggle rose in Lydia’s throat as they chased down West Street, but she repressed it, flanked as the street was with workers’ cottages. They turned into School Lane, with its avenue of chestnut trees, the branches adorned with white pyramid-like flowers after the long winter.
“Nearly there.” The wall of the school loomed ahead, though the road was a quagmire. “I’m going to beat you!” Lydia grinned as she turned her head to check how far Annie was behind her but kept running forward.
“No, I’ll win!” Annie laughed and picked up speed.
Annie took the other route around a big puddle and Lydia watched her as she ran, heedless of her own footing. Annie, in her haste, almost allowed her hem to drag. “Pick your skirts up higher,” Lydia called.
The ground slid under Lydia’s boot. She lurched, everything fluid where it had been solid. Toppled but weightless, she flung out her hands. Briefly she thought she might save herself, her stomach clenching under her corset. Too late. Her outstretched palms slammed into icy mud.
Agony cracked across her hands and upward. Her arms crumpled at the elbow and her breath was smashed from her chest. Mud splattered her face. Cold, hard, and biting, the fall stole her breath. The implications shuddered th
rough her like a second blow. If she was hurt, who would look after Annie?
The pain in her arm receded, leaving grit stabbing at her palms and wind tugging her hair. Lydia regarded the waterlogged ground, shiny and pockmarked with gravel. Freezing mire seeped through to her knees, the tops of her thighs, and her elbows.
She wasn’t hurt beyond scrapes and bruises, but Annie would definitely be late for school. By striving to be respectable Lydia had caused herself more delay, work, and humiliation. Her dress was soiled with thick mud and people would notice and whisper as she walked back through the village. It would take her hours to launder it, and wash day had been only yesterday. Pinpricks threatened behind her eyelids.
“Mama?” Annie sounded small and alarmed.
Words caught in Lydia’s throat and she screwed up her eyes. Miss Moore’s lip would curl into a spiral when she saw Lydia. It would shame Annie to have a mother like her. As if she weren’t already.
“Are you hurt?” asked a voice as deep, smooth, and tempting as butter on crumpets. A male voice.
She lifted her gaze a little. Dark gray woolen trousers partially covered large black leather shoes, good quality but not fancy. Further up he appeared strong and wiry. Her stomach flipped. She raised her chin and looked straight past his matching wool waistcoat and coat, broad shoulders and a green cravat. His face held serious eyes and a concerned expression, a hat partially covered lustrous dark brown hair.
He held out a solid hand to her.
“I’m all right. I’m fine, really.” She didn’t take his hand. Men as handsome as him were nothing but danger, even when one was lying in the dirt. Scrambling to her feet, she instinctively wiped her hands on the back of her skirt. The fabric was thin beneath her fingers as she smeared mud on the only clean part of her dress. She was acutely aware of her worn cuffs. At least they were wet and splattered in mud, so he couldn’t see how poor she was.
“Thank you–” She stopped. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met.” She drank him in. He had a strong jawline and heavy brows. He was the sort of man any lady would want to examine like a beloved trinket.
She must have been staring, because his face shuttered into polite acceptance. “I’m Mr. Lowe. The new teacher.”
“Oh. Miss Moore will be pleased.” The school had been without a second teacher for some months, since the school board had dismissed Miss Barnes after her marriage.
Mr. Lowe’s mouth tugged into a droll smile. “Perhaps.” He turned to Annie. “What’s your name?”
“Annie Taylor.” Annie’s eyes were wide. She scuttled over to Lydia, grasping out for her hand. Not finding it, she gripped onto Lydia’s dress. Her dirty dress.
“Annie, shall we go in?” He looked up at the last of the other children filing into the schoolroom. “Your mother will want to go home and get dry. Good day, Mrs. Taylor.”
Lydia felt an unwelcome flush run through her. He’d assumed she was married, as of course he would. Exactly as she wanted everyone to think. In time he’d hear she was a respectable widow who kept herself to herself.
He strode away without waiting for a reply. Lydia dropped to her knees to kiss Annie on the cheek.
“He’s very stern,” Annie whispered as she kissed her back. “Do you think he’ll shout?”
“I’m sure he’ll be nice,” Lydia said with more conviction than she felt. “Now off you go.”
Annie ran after Mr. Lowe and caught him up at the school door. Lydia watched as Mr. Lowe indicated for Annie to go ahead of him, then turned before following her. Their gazes locked. She had the disconcerting sensation he could see through all her pretense, to her failure as a bourgeoisie lady and the disgrace she had become.
He tipped his hat to her as if they were meeting in the park, her bedecked in fine silks and him a deferential gentleman. Then he disappeared into the school, closing the door behind him.
A spot of rain hit Lydia’s cheek, frigid as reality. Then another on her drenched sleeve. She spun on her heel and began to walk home. There would be no let-up back at the cottage. No comfortable chaise or servants at the ring of a bell. Her dress needed laundering, the bucket under the holes in the roof needed to be emptied, and to dry clothes she would need to build the fire with coal she could ill afford. Within seconds the drops came down faster and harder until she was soaked, heavy, and aching, not just from her fall but the wet. The April shower was in full force, streaking her vision and hitting her with tiny stones. It was only what she deserved.
Chapter 2
15 March 1875, Sussex
The morning was grey and cool, not very promising, but at least the relentless rain had stopped. Lydia called up the stairs to wake Annie, stirred the porridge on the range, then slipped outside to check the chickens. She watched the birds stretch their wings and puff out their yellow-orange feathers. They rushed to peck frantically at the handful of corn she threw down.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of blue. A solitary magpie, its black and white feathers as daring as its raid, darted in to eat grain. Lydia shooed it off and watched it fly away, stark against the cloud. She collected up the few early eggs, brushing off the straw and the less pleasant deposits. It was best to pick up the eggs quickly if the magpies were around, as otherwise they were easy pickings.
Back in the house she took the kettle off the fire and poured the water into a tea pot, soaking the lime flowers. No Indian tea for them, too expensive. The flowers, gathered from a tree just outside the village, made acceptable tea. She saved her only-once-used and dried afterward Indian tea leaves for visitors. Pouring two cups of tea, she listened for Annie’s footsteps. There was only the muffled sound of clucking from outside and the fire crackling. Too quiet. Annie ought to be out of bed and dressed by now.
“Annie!” Lydia turned toward the stairs. “Blooming girl.” She smiled with affectionate exasperation. They’d be late for school if Annie didn’t get up soon. That or she would go without breakfast. And Lydia definitely didn’t want her to be late. Again.
There was no response. With one last stir of the oats, she moved the pan to the cooler edge of the range and ran upstairs. She poked her head around her daughter’s door. “Porridge is ready, darling. There is honey too.” A rare treat.
“Hurmm.” Annie barely opened her eyes.
Lydia sat down on the edge of her daughter’s small bed. “Come on, it’s time to get up.”
“Mama, I don’t feel well.” Annie’s voice was reedy.
Lydia touched Annie’s forehead. It felt clammy and warm. Nausea flew through Lydia.
Annie closed her eyes again.
It was just a common cold. Annie was trying to avoid going to school. Except... Annie loved school. Her blue eyes shone when she talked about her lessons. She practically worshipped her teacher, Mr. Lowe, regardless of his penchant for gravity.
“Isn’t there Geography today? If you get up, you can learn about Siam.”
Annie stirred, her little face turning up, pale but full of longing. “I can’t miss that.” Slowly, she rolled to the edge of the bed and heaved herself upright. Swaying, she pushed onto her feet. “I can go to school—”
Lydia lunged as Annie collapsed, catching her before she banged her head. “Perhaps not, darling.” She eased her daughter’s slight body back into the bed, re-covering her with the blanket. “You rest. Mama will take care of you.”
Annie’s breathing was labored.
How could she deal with this? She hadn’t been able to save enough money for a doctor, and Annie needed one. The price of bread increased constantly. As did the rent. That blasted rent…
“Papa.”
“What?” Panic shot through Lydia. “What did you say?” But her little girl’s eyelids had closed.
She stared at Annie’s wan face and dismissed the word, Papa. She must have imagined it. Because of all the things Lydia hadn’t given her, and could never provide, a father was top of the list.
Lydia would have to call a doctor. She trembled a l
ittle. The cost would eat into her meagre savings. The roof needed to be re-thatched again before winter, as it had started to leak in her bedroom despite the repairs she’d made two years ago. She could ask her sister for more money, but given she was already reliant on her for her “widow’s pension” it was a further humiliation to beg for more. She loathed depending on charity.
She would watch Annie today and if she hadn’t improved by tomorrow, she’d find the money somehow. It would only be a couple of days, and Annie would recover, Lydia told herself. Looking at Annie’s pale face, Lydia knew she wouldn’t leave her side until she was well. There was barely any food in the kitchen, but they’d make do.
A memory of being ill as a child flitted through Lydia’s mind. She’d had scarlet fever. It was a vision of being tended by gentle hands in a warm room. Low voices and little segments of fruit tempting her to eat. Chicken soup and soft bread when she began to improve. None of that would be available for her daughter.
Her life was a cautionary morality tale. Lydia could visualize it in those sets of prints for three pennies each, or a shilling for the set of twelve. It would be the tale of the downfall of the vain and proud young woman. The first images would be her, aged seventeen. Reckless, flirtatious, covetous. Beautiful, but not as lovely as her sister. Her dress in the highest fashion, but probably not (in hindsight) the best taste. The meeting between the anti-heroine and the rake, with coquettish glances and maidenly blushes. A picture of gaiety, couples dancing, ankles on show, him foppishly handsome. An illicit liaison, passing notes, and a stolen kiss. A small dog watches on disapprovingly from the corner of the picture. Then an image of the coupling—always important to get a bit of titillation into a series of pictures—their lips pressed together and his hand holding up her skirts, exposing her thigh. Revelation, with her red-faced Father disowning her and Mother pleading for it not to be true. The downfall. Alone with a newborn baby, making herself a new life under a mendacious alias. An image of attempted redemption, where she would be pictured as a pious widow, trying to scratch a living by selling eggs and care for her daughter. But to no avail. The sins of the mother are visited upon the daughter, made white and still in her bed. Then wasn’t there always justice? Herself weeping over a pauper’s grave for her innocent child. The implication being that she would have condemned her daughter with loose morals, eventually. Divine retribution. Death.
