Victorian Slang of the Week

Applecart—upset the apple cart—to knock violently to the ground, to spoil things. It seems to be used most often in terms of a fist fight—“Say it one more time and I’ll upset your apple cart, see if I don’t.”

Lotta Crabtree

The miners in the Sierra of Northern California were used to the loneliness, dirt and disappointments that came with the search for Gold, but Gold of another sort appeared in 1853 to ease this routine and her name was Lotta Crabtree. The tiny, red-haired, six-year-old jigged and danced to their clapping hands, while they showered her with nuggets and coins which her mother hastily collected in her apron.

Born Charlotte Mignon Crabtree in 1847 in New York City to John Ashworth Crabtree, a bookseller and Mary Ann (Livesey) Crabtree, an upholsterer, both of English stock, Lotta was exposed early to the life of the theater and its inhabitants in San Francisco when her father left New York in 1851, looking for gold.   Lotta began traveling to all of the mining camps performing ballads and dancing for the miners. In 1856, the family moved back to San Francisco where Lotta toured the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys, added the banjo to her repertoire and became frequently in demand in the city’s variety halls and amusement parks. By 1859 she had become “Miss Lotta, the San Francisco Favorite”. Lotta occasionally developed a case of “stage fright” but with a little coaxing from Mary Ann, once on stage became a professional. Mary Ann was not only the quintessential stage mother but also a shrewd business woman. She did not trust banks nor paper money and carried all of Lotta’s earnings (nuggets and coins) in a great leather grip. When this became too heavy, it was transferred to a steamer trunk. Considering all of the valuables they carried around, it is amazing they were never robbed.

Victorian Slang of the Week

Baby—sweetheart, darling—1869.  I wouldn’t have thought this; “baby” to me seems more of an 1970’s thing, but it was used in direct address as early as 1869, and appears to have been used in written word quite often in the latter part of the period

Guest: Clover Autrey

Yep, Grenades

While I was doing research on the American Civil War for The Sweetheart Tree, I learned that there were ad hoc hand grenades used in the conflicts and I knew that had to be included in my story.

There were many variations on these improvised early grenades, some little more than modified artillery shells while others looked like bloated darts with aerodynamic fins and plungers that had to be hit on the nose for detonation. The version I went with for my story was little more than a metal ball filled with explosives. The wounds inflicted were horrific.

Unfortunately, these first grenades were as dangerous to the person throwing them as they were to the enemy. If they didn’t hit just right on the detonator, they could be grabbed up and hurled back to the enemy.  Union and Confederate soldiers could lob these back and forth until finally the grenade went off. Some ingenious soldiers even used blankets to catch them and toss them back.

When The Sweetheart Tree’s hero, a Confederate Lieutenant ends up with the only grenades for miles around and his new love interest, a time-traveler from the future insists that it is those grenades that spares The Mill from Sheridan’s rampage across the Shenandoah Valley, well, let’s just say that there’s an explosive ending. 
The Sweetheart’s Tree available in e-book from The Wild Rose Press.

Excerpt :

“Ware’s death rallies the men?” He looked completely stunned.

“Don’t you see, Caleb? It doesn’t matter. Just stay out of it. I can’t bear to find out you’d been . . .”

He touched her cheek. “Sabrina, when you get back to your time, I’ll be long buried.”

“No, don’t say it.”

He didn’t say anymore, didn’t need to. All at once his mouth was upon hers, a strong firm pressure coaxing, taking, memorizing. She opened to him, filling the greedy need that streamed through her, down to her toes.

She didn’t know when he pulled back, both shaken. “I’ve been needing to do that since I first saw you.”

She could hardly string together a coherent sentence.  “You thought I was a boy.”

He grinned. “All right. Maybe just a little later. Sabrina, I’ve got to get you back. Or I’ll never have the strength to let you go. Here, I have something for you.” He winced a little as he searched for something deep inside his pocket. “It was my ma’s. She thought it was pretty.” He unfolded his hand and Bree’s hand flew to her breast.

“It’s the one, isn’t it?” He said it almost hesitantly. “The stone you told me about.”

“Yes.” Her voice was thin.

“It belongs with you, then.”

Her fingers curled over it, feeling the cold of the stone, the warmth of his palm. “It was your mothers? What does this mean?” She turned away from him. He’d had it all along, a momento from his mother. “Caleb, do you believe in destiny?”

“I believe you can make your own destiny, if you want it bad enough.”

If you want it bad enough.

Stunned, she turned back to face him. Everything was dropping away. All she could see was him, framed by sunlight, his face in shadows, and he was setting her away. He curled her fingers around the topaz and shifted back, watching her intently.

Cupping the stone to her chest, Bree tried to concentrate. If you want it bad enough . . . Nothing. She glanced at Caleb and her heart melted. This blasted rock would never take her back because what she wanted most was sitting right in front of her.

But she also wanted her family. And modern plumbing. Grocery stores. Movies. She’d give her right arm for a Diet Coke.

Guest: Cat Lindler

Victorian Cannibals

If you read my last book, Kiss of a Traitor, you probably noticed I like adventure. I love chases and battles and storms; the sounds of swords clashing, bullets whining, the hoofbeats of horses galloping; and the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and blood. Therefore, when I began writing Starlight & Promises (April 2010, Medallion Press) ,which involves the search for a living saber-toothed tiger and is set in the Pacific south sea islands, and naturally I thought: CANNIBALS.

However, my books are also historically accurate; so first, I had to find out if there actually were cannibals in the south seas during the time of the novel: 1892. Research, research, research, my favorite part of writing historical romance, though I sometimes get so wrapped up in it I fall behind in my writing. I’m one of those people who wanders through library sales and leaves with bags of books on history, geography, and anthropology; thus, research often becomes a frenzied search through the over 7,000 books in my collection. This time I came up with three, in particular, The Last Cannibals (Jens Bjerre) and Conversations with the Cannibals (Michael Krieger), Cannibalism and the Colonial World (Francis Barker, Peter Hulme & Margaret Iversen), and a spate of articles. I even (if you can believe it) found a Cannibal Map of the World.

Did cannibals exist as late as 1892? The answer is yes…and no. It depends on the source. Most agree that historical cannibalism before 1800 was a part of many south sea cultures, particularly around New Guinea, Fiji and the islands near to them. Most will agree that no (or little) cannibalism now exists in that modern-day part of the world. The gray area falls between 1800 and 1900. The two arguments are as follows (from Cannibalism and the Colonial World):

“Cannibalism marked the world beyond European knowledge and was, by the second half of the twentieth century, in places like New Guinea and the Amazon, though it elsewhere might remain below the surface, ready to appear when civilizational influence showed signs of waning…The counter-narrative is sometimes proposed: Cannibalism is merely a product of European imagination, it was never practiced anywhere, it was a calumny imposed by European colonizers to justify their outrages, it had its origins in the disturbed European psyche, it is a tool of Empire.”

Because the island in my book is fictional (and uncharted), I decided, of course, to have cannibals. At first, I got really wrapped up in the idea and wrote too much about it. Then I decided it pulled away too much from the main story, and took it out. Unfortunately (contrary to my current practices), I failed to keep the deleted scenes (primarily one about funeral practices and the cooking and consuming the flesh of the natives’ enemies. Gosh, I wished I’d kept it!). However, for your delectation, here is an excerpt from Starlight & Promises that prominently features cannibals.

Setup: While on a search for Samantha’s uncle, Lord Stanbury, and his friend, James Truett, Christian Badia (the hero) and his ward, Garrett Jakes, have been taken prisoner by cannibals after their ship wrecks on a south sea island, and are being held in a reed aerie high above the jungle floor.

Excerpt from Starlight & Promises:

 “From up here,” Garrett said, “I can see little of significance. They haven’t removed anyone yet, are feeding us, and have seen to our injuries. Surely that’s an encouraging sign.”

Christian gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps their purpose is to fatten us for a feast in which we’re the featured guests.”

Garrett returned the smile. “I must admit that’s a possibility I hadn’t wished to consider. Now that you mention it…”

“Assuming we come up with a plan, how many men are well enough to attempt an escape?”

“If I’m to count you, whom I’m sure you mean to include, five, maybe six. But we have no weapons; they stripped us of our knives and guns before they carted us up here. We even eat with our fingers. If we’re to have any hope of arming ourselves, we’ll have to take weapons from the men below.”

“Who’s our best climber?”

“Cullen.” Garrett grinned. “Unfortunately, you failed to foretell our predicament and left him in Hobart.”

Christian scowled at Garrett’s attempt at humor.

“Among the ambulatory men, I suppose I am,” Garrett said with a sigh. “I have the least severe injuries, and I’m pretty agile.”

Christian arched a brow. “I would imagine from climbing out windows when husbands return unexpectedly.”

“Actually, I was thinking about my second-story work with the gang in Frisco. Though I haven’t had the occasion to use my skills for some time, I still remember the fundamentals.”

“Neither are you twelve years old any longer.”

“But I’m younger than you, old man.”

Christian threw a glance at the tree branches overhanging the open hut. “Think you can climb up there and swing over to another tree? I’ve watched the parakeets climbing about. Surely you’re as nimble as they are.”

Garrett directed his gaze upward. “Perhaps. I’d have to attempt it in the dark, find the ladder, steal weapons, and break down the door. And, of course, I’d have to complete these tasks in utter silence amongst a hundred natives, thirsting for my blood and breathing down my neck. 

“You have a problem with that?”

“God, you’re a hard man to please, aren’t you?”

“The dark of the moon comes in two weeks,” Christian said with a sharp nod. “If we should manage to hold on to our heads that long, up and out you go.”

“By all means,” Garrett replied with a sickly smile. “Up and out and into the stewpot.”

The night was moonless, and once the sun’s light vanished and the sky was at its darkest, Christian hoisted Garrett onto his shoulders and boosted him high enough to grab a branch above the hut. Garrett swung his legs until he gathered momentum. Releasing the branch, he flew across the dark space to a lower branch on a neighboring tree.

His position allowed Garrett to view the entire encampment. Though the night lay as black as the lava sands, cook fires still burned below, and men reclined on pallets around the fires. Silence, broken only by the rusty screeches of nightjars, reigned over the village. When a suggestion of movement in the forest ringing the open space caught his attention, he scrutinized the area, where shadows were creeping out of the trees toward the sleeping men.

“Chris, something’s happening,” Garrett whispered from his perch among the foliage.

“What?” Christian called out in a low voice.

“Shhh, I believe we’re in for some excitement. Men have surrounded the village. It doesn’t look as if it’s a friendly visit.”

When the village erupted in war cries and weapons clashing, Christian shouted up to Garrett, “Come down!”

“No,” Garrett said, his gaze fixed on the melee below. “This may be my only chance. While they’re busy slaughtering each other, I can slip through unnoticed and find the ladder.”

Christian yelled, “Garrett!”

But Garrett was already making his way down the tree toward the ground.

Garrett dropped from the last branch and looked about. He was too exposed, too far out in the open. Warriors careened past him or wrestled in combat. Clubs split skulls and broke legs and arms. Darts whistled past his head. After dodging a warrior intent on stabbing him with a wooden dagger, he sped to the forest verge, paused to hug the trunk of a sandalwood tree, and sidled around the bole, casting his gaze about the clearing for the ladder.

With his attention riveted on the mayhem beyond the trees, Garrett tripped over an obstacle. Looking up from his sprawled position, he stared directly into a pair of blue eyes and blinked in slack-jawed amazement when the man sitting on the ground extended his hand.

“Hello,” the man said as calmly as if they were meeting at White’s on St. James Street in London. He grasped and shook Garrett’s hand. “James Truett. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Who are you, and what in the name of Zeus are you doing here?”

What do you think about books that feature strange practices and exotic locales? If you would like to leave a comment about cannibals, or have read or written a book that contains exotic places or unusual elements, and would like to expound on them, I’d love to hear from you. Two lucky respondents will win a signed, print copy of Starlight & Promises, which will be available in March.

Kiss of a Traitor: Amidst the storms of the Revolution War, in the low country of South Carolina and with a relationship that begins in deceit, can Willa and Ford discover what really matters: freedom, trust…and love?

Barnes & Noble
Amazon.com

Starlight & Promises: Through the dangerous waters of the south sea islands and the wilds of Tasmania, Samantha and Christian find passion and love as they carry out a search for Samantha’s uncle and the possibility of a living saber-toothed tiger, being thwarted at every turn by an old enemy, who will stop at nothing to exact revenge on Samantha’s family and claim the tiger as his own discovery.

Guest: Caroline Clemmons

ROMANCING HISTORY

History is not merely dry facts and dates. History is people involved in romance, creating adventures, meeting danger, surviving heartbreak, and overcoming obstacles. Properly written, historical romance makes history come alive while giving the reader a heartwarming or edge-of-the-seat suspenseful romance. Not dry facts. For instance, if I spent time going on and on explaining about the potato famine of 1842-45, the numbers who died of starvation, the numbers who emigrated to the U.S., you’d soon be yawning. But if you read how some people, although fictional, reacted to the unexplained potato blight in their remote community, perhaps history will come alive for you. Let me share the prologue of my time travel, OUT OF THE BLUE, to be released June 4^th as a Faery Rose selection from The Wild Rose Press:

Ireland, 1845

Deirdre Dougherty crept from the brush twenty yards behind her cottage. Gray clouds hid the sun. Tufts of fog drifted close to the ground, but too thin to hide her.

Hurry.

Careful.
Don’t make a sound.

Icy fingers of fear squeezed around her heart. Breath froze in her chest. She forced herself to exhale and move toward the road. Toward safety, escape, and freedom.

“There she goes!”

She recognized Eogan’s loud yell. Merciful heavens, they’d spotted her. She broke into a run. Eogan’s long legs put him in the lead of those who gave chase.

She pleaded, “Saints Brigit and Brendan, give me strength.”

“Stop, witch!”

Foolish people. If only Deirdre were a witch, she could fly far away.

She changed direction and climbed over a low stone fence. Clutching her precious carryall to her body, she ran across the field.

Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Gasping, she pressed her hand against the pain in her chest and kept running. A rock hit her back and she stumbled, regained her balance, and glanced behind her. Flames and smoke billowed from her cottage. She had nowhere to hide, no hope of help. No one would stand up for her against her life-long tormentor Eogan Balor and his mob.

Eogan, the bully, picked up another rock and hurled it. It thudded against her shoulder, but she didn’t stop.  Her carryall’s weight slowed her, but she refused to leave it behind. Already too much had been lost.

Escape. Run. Escape. Don’t fall. Escape.

But where to go? They’d blocked her from all sides. Eogan was gaining on her. Only one route remained.

The cliff.

She reached land’s end and teetered on the rim. Ma had insisted Deirdre learn to swim, but she’d never dived so far. She feared breaking her body against the jagged cliff face before she reached the water. No doubt underwater rocks waited to batter her. An undertow might swirl her away.

But the mob was gaining on her.

No choice.

Jump.

“Blessed Saints, I need your help as never before.”

She looked back once again. A large rock struck her forehead and she fell, almost sliding over the edge.

Scrambling to her feet, she backed up a few yards to gather momentum for her jump.

Eogan held a large rock in one giant fist and reached for her with the other. He grabbed her arm in a crushing grip. She whirled and poked his eyes with her free hand, gouging deep.

Screaming in pain, he released her and covered his eyes. “You’ll pay for that, witch.”

But Deirdre wouldn’t let him catch her again. She dug in her heels to launch. “Saints Brigit and Brendan, I beg you. Deliver me into the arms of your love.”

For a few seconds her giant leap propelled her forward. Briefly, she experienced the elation of freedom, almost as if she really could fly.

Guest: Emy Naso

This is from the 5 part series “Slaves of Desire” set in Victorian times. Emy Naso has written many novels set in the Victorian/Edwardian area. Emy Naso was British and wrote erotica, poems, essays and other work for magazines. He has forty novels with two main publishers and also left some twenty works that we are still getting ready for publication.

For all the work of the late, great Emy Naso:
http://shop.renebooks.com/SearchResults.asp?Cat=118
http://samhainpublishing.com/authors/emy-naso
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/emy_naso_erotica

The driver bored him. It was a never ending string of small minded talk. Ever since picking up the Doctor from the railway station at Norwich he’d gone on about the countryside.

“And the ice age formed the cliffs along by Sheringham and Cromer,” he prattled on. “Isn’t that where you are staying, Doctor Calvani?”

“Yes.” It was a one word terse answer. But it didn’t stop the flow of tedious tales.

“You’ll love Cromer. Can be a cold and bitter place when the wind turns and comes from the North East. Straight across the sea it blows. Look, Doctor, the church in the center of town. Almost there. Pity, I‘d have loved to tell you more about the place that is to become your home.”

Doctor Calvani tried to smile at the driver. He never had been a particularly jovial man when he’d lived in London. Attempts to show amusement usually ended up as a grimace. That was about all the driver got.

They clip-clopped along by the cliff, the noise of the sea at least smothering the drivers voice.

“Hold up there, boy.” The loquacious driver pulled on his reins, bringing the two horse buggy to a juddering halt.

“Nice house, Doctor. All it needs is a competent gardener to tame those trees and bushes, and the sun will be shining on you…and the house.” The driver laughed. He appreciated the joke, even if the Doctor didn’t.

“Carry your bags in, sir?”

“That would be…required.” Doctor Calvani thought about saying ’good’ but resisted the word. It was not that sort of experience in the long driver from the station. He should have been pleased that the railway from London, with it’s branch line to Norwich, had been completed the year before, otherwise it would have been a two day coach journey from the Capital to this remove part of Norfolk.

“The door is open,” the driver said supposedly to himself, making a show of the heavy cases, angling for a large tip.

“Down there will do,” the Doctor churlishly said, pointing to the middle of the dark hall. He was beginning to grow openly weary of the driver.

“As you wish, Doctor. No doubt you’ll have servants to take care of them.

The truth was Doctor Calvani had engaged three staff when he’d come a month before to view the house and rent it from an absent Earl, the rich nobleman owning much land in the area, but who had not visited it for over ten years.

“Well, then Doctor. That will be…” the driver hesitated. They’d settled the price of the journey when Doctor Calvani got off the rain at Norwich. The driver stood, smiling, shuffling on his large feet.

Doctor Calvani wanted him gone. He searched around in his cloak pocket, found the right coins, looked at the expectant face of the driver, and added, grudgingly, a few more copper coins.

“Erm, thank you, Doctor.” The facial expression and general demeanor of the driver strongly suggested he thought the money disappointing. Doctor Calvani cared nothing for the man’s feeling, hurrying him out of the door.

Now there was silence. The Doctor liked it. He stood perfectly still, his thoughts on all that had happened in London and the necessity to leave and find a home and sanctuary in Cromer, a small fishing town on the north Norfolk coast.

The dingy tranquillity of the hall was broken. From the gloom a portly man waddled across the hall. His sideway movements were almost as much as the forward ones. He was a broken human crab.

He nodded his head. It looked more like an affliction than a greeting of respect.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said, the voice heavy with the Norfolk accent.

“Yes, will you take my bags to my rooms, er…”

“Greaves, sir.”

“Yes, I…well, Greaves.” It was obvious the Doctor had forgotten the name of his butler and general handyman. They’d only met once before. A local solicitors who handled the Earl’s estate and rented the property to Doctor Calvani also made arrangements for the staff to be interviewed. Calvani now wondered why he had approved this decrepit crustacean.

“Would you like to see the other members of the establishment, sir?” Greaves hovered with the bags. He swayed to the left, where he carried the heaviest, tilting him like a badly loaded cargo ship..

“Yes, let’s get that out the way,” Calvani sighed, anxious to be alone.

Doctor Calvani had not meant to sound so brusque, yet it was the way he felt. He did not relish human contact. Not on these terms, anyway. He disliked most people but had predilections toward certain others. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind. That was London. Now he was away from all that. He hoped.

Greaves rolled away with his unusual gait, put the bag at the foot of the stairs, toddled unsteadily over to a row of switches, pressed two and gave the Doctor a bad impression of a smile. Both men were ill at ease.

A short time elapsed, the loud ticking of a long case clock in the hall echoing as the pendulum swung on its ever monotonous journey, back and forth for all time.

“Here they are.” Greaves broke the silence. “Mrs. Morton, the cook, Doctor. And you remember, Alice…the maid.”

Doctor Calvani grunted a greeting. He didn’t recall Mrs. Morton. She was a stout lady, her chubby face ever in motion, even when not speaking. Her graying hair severely tied back with a black ribbon. However he remembered Alice.

At the initial interview of the staff in the solicitor’s office he could picture the moment she walked in. There had been three young women applying for the position as maid. The other two had more experience. Doctor couldn’t say, or admit, why, but it was Alice who made an impression. One that had returned often to his mind.

Looking at the young woman now he hoped he’d not engaged her for the reasons all the difficulties started in London. She was twenty, an outwardly slim woman in her plain long white apron and black dress. Yet the Doctor had watched her move at the solicitors office. He detected that under her austere servant’s uniform there was a shapely body. The shabby outward clothes hid crowning femininity waiting to be discovered.

“Fine. That will be all. Greaves, take the bags upstairs. I will eat in my room tonight.”

The instruction were curt. Doctor Calvani abruptly shook his thoughts, pulling them away from Alice.　

Here are just two of Emy Naso’s poems

I am

I am your dream
Where love arouses
Our shared senses

I am your life
Together we ‘oft dally,
In craving, human arms

I am within you,
And never without
Our fire of sensuality

I am your passion,
Giving all of myself
Whatever you demand

I am the ever constant
Light in your existence,
The flame of all desire

I am your heart
Beauty in great joy,
Holding in flesh pain

I am your sorrow
When you watch
My dying body

I am your spirit
Now you weep
At my grave　

I am still there
So speak to me
In my eternity　

I am yours alone
So do not forget
My love was real

　

For My Love

Let me inside, not to invade
But furl my spirit in your heart,
The being of your memory
Slumbers in this troubled mind:
Let me comfort, now I hold the key
Between this realm and far beyond,
Tenderly waiting, always with you,
Called by the power of your love:
Let me gently reside in each thought,
Living in this world forsaken now,
Guiding in truth, holding in desire,
Gone but for a temporal moment:
Let me whisper in the deep sorrow
And hold your hand through the day,
Resting by your side when night comes
In the years and tears of separation.
Let me not drift too far, my love,
We shared, we cared, time went,
Fear not the valley of lost souls,
I have returned to hold you near.

Isabel Roman

Russian history. It’s bloody, scandalous, deceitful. Passionate. Never forget passionate. You may think cold temperatures equals cold hearts but that’s far from the truth. The poet Alexander Pushkin is a perfect example. He died on a cold snowy day in a duel protecting his wife’s honor.

Nineteenth century Russia appears a whole lot steamier than I expected. Isabel Roman’s Kiss of Scandal is an action packed and evocative thriller. ~Snapdragon’s 4 star review from LASR 

See? Steam, it’s all about the passion. Well, that and the romantic suspense elements—gotta have plot! I have political stories, like Kiss of Scandal, and carefully weave in that aspect into the romantic plot to create external tension between my couple. Which then creates internal tension between the. And then there’s tension everywhere!

A good romantic suspense takes you on a ride with more than just the actual romance of the couple. It weaves you through a mystery or thriller type path, taking you on a suspenseful journey as to what’s going to happen next—and how it’ll effect the couple. Most times, romantic suspense has a specific pace to them. Really, really fast pace, or very slowly like a mystery with clues and red herrings for the reader to stumble upon. 

In Kiss of Scandal, I used the Tsar’s Royal Court as the backdrop, but chose to use the glamour and opulence of the court, but the same type of story can be set in a diner in Topeka, Kansas. Because when it comes down to it, it’s about the interpersonal relationships. Someone wants to harm the hero or heroine, or envies them and sets out to destroy them.

Amongst the suspense story, there’s always my couple’s story. Their emotions individually and for each other, are wrapped in the same journey. For me, whether I’m writing a paranormal historical, just an historical, a contemporary or a combination thereof, I prefer to create the story as a romantic suspense. To me, they’re the most intriguing reads.

Here’s the book video I did.

This is the opening scene:

St. Petersburg, Russia
January 21, 1855
Georgian Calendar

Bastard.

Count Peter Andreiovitch Orlov pounded his silver tipped walking stick on the roof of the carriage. His heart pounded in time to the quick clatter of the horses’ hooves, yet they moved too slowly.

“Faster!” he bellowed to the driver. Gusts of wind and snow howled around the carriage impeding their rapid movement.

His hand drifted to the case on the seat beside him, checking once again his proof lay safe. He’d long suspected something these past years, perhaps a bit of smuggling or tidbits of information passed to the enemy. But nothing as deep-rooted as he’d found.

The Tsar will crush his family.

The metal sled suspending the carriage tore through the heavy falling snow blanketing the streets. Jerking the curtain back to check their progress, Peter stared past the frost as the glowing lampposts blinked by his view. At this speed, they should reach the Winter Palace within minutes. With impatient fingers he opened his pocket watch and noted it was almost two in the morning. There’d be a delay in waking the Tsar, the attendants would try to block his visit. Hell, they’d scream murder before waking the Emperor.

Tapping the case once again, though it could not have disappeared, Peter nodded to himself. “He has to know now.”

Leaning forward as if by sheer will he could move the carriage faster, Peter thought of his family and the politics of this untenable situation. The Tsar’s temper would flare uncontrollably, but they’d have to consider the nobility. This must be handled with utmost caution.

      Peter jerked up, he’d heard a distinctive noise through the howl. A pistol shot. Wiping the fog off the window, he peered out once more. 

      The carriage veered sharply to the right, away from the palace route. “Driver!” he yelled. “Stay on course!”

Looking out the window he saw two other horses, both with single riders, alongside the carriage. His driver screamed something he couldn’t make out as the carriage rocked violently from the sharp turn.

Opening his case, he removed several of the more important papers. Detailed expenses, a travel itinerary, and a small leather book listing accounts. Without a second thought, he knelt on the floor and separated the seat from its frame with a hard yank. Stuffing the papers into the hollow gap, he pushed it back. Retaking his seat and bracing his feet on the opposite bench for more leverage, Peter pushed the edge with his walking stick, wedging the frame into place.  Glancing around the interior to make sure nothing was amiss, he snapped the lid of his case shut.

Peter pulled out his revolver and braced himself on the seat. With the erratic rocking of the carriage settling, he opened the door just in time to see one of the riders throw something at his driver. He tried to block the onslaught of snow hitting his face with his left hand, and leaned his shoulder against the door frame to steady himself.

Over the winter’s storm, the horses cried and the carriage came to a jolting stop. Peter jumped from the velvet interior into the whipping snow, gun held high before him. With a steady pace he approached the rider he could see. There were two, but he dared not look for the second man.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Dismount immediately!”

The man jumped off his horse, face covered with heavy winter garb. Peter noted, in the dim light from the lamppost, he dressed as a gentleman.

“I was trying to help,” the rider screamed through the biting wind. “You were about to race into an overturned carriage. There is an accident down Nevsky Prospekt, near the palace.”

“Where’s my driver?” Peter kept the revolver aimed squarely at the stranger’s chest.

Looking around, as if the driver lay buried in the snow bank, the man gestured for Peter to lower his weapon. “He must have dismounted from the other side.” The stranger pointed. “There, behind you, your driver.”

Keeping aim on the stranger, Peter turned his head and was met with a strike to the temple. He collapsed, but didn’t lose consciousness. He felt groggy, as if struggling to wake from a dream. Blinking, he searched for his pistol, bleary eyes focusing enough to see someone snatch it from the cushions of snow.

“Don’t leave any blood on the ground.” He heard one of them yell as they picked him up to move him back into the carriage.

4 Cups of Coffee from Coffee Time Romace: This remarkable story paints a vivid picture of life in the Russian court with all its intrigues and dangers. The characters are well written and their emotions are brought to life. The action is fast paced and believable. You will enjoy this story.

4 Books from LASR: The life and love of Katria is the heart and soul of the story. She is a young woman determined to get some control of her own fate….the story remains compelling and fresh throughout. Try something a little different; Kiss of Scandal is well-worth reading.

Leave a comment to enter to win a free copy of the e-book of Kiss of Scandal.

Guest: Cheryl Pierson

HELL ON THE BORDER

 It was said, “There is no Sunday west of St. Louis–no God west of Ft. Smith.” 

Indian Territory. A perfect haven for outlaws of every kind. They could run west of Ft. Smith where lawlessness reigned, where there were no consequences for any crime–until Judge Isaac Parker and his U.S. Deputy Marshals took charge. 

By 1870, the Indian Territory had become a hellhole not fit for honest citizens. The last civilized gateway into the territory was in Arkansas–Ft. Smith. 

The Five Civilized Tribes (Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek and Seminole) who had been relocated to Indian Territory, had their own judicial system for the Indians of the Nations. But their courts had no jurisdiction over intruders who found their way into the Territory. 

In 1875, President Grant appointed Judge Isaac Parker to what later became the Western Judicial District of Arkansas, including not only several counties in Arkansas and a strip along the Kansas border, but all of Indian Territory as well. The total area of the court’s jurisdiction was nearly 74,000 square miles, with Indian Territory accounting for over 70,000 square miles of that area. 

The lawmen, or the “Men Who Rode for Parker,” numbered less than 200 at the outset. Only one carried the title, “U.S. Marshal.” The rest were deputies. The marshal’s salary was $90 per month. the deputies received no salary at all. They could arrest for any crime committed in the 74,000 mile area–with or without a warrant. They earned usually no more than $500 per year. Up until 1898, a fee system was in place that allowed a deputy to collect $2 for each arrest he made. In addition, he could receive 6 cents per mile for going to the location of the arrest, and 10 cents per mile for himself and his prisoner to return to court. 

No arrest meant no payment, and if he should happen to kill a suspect in attempting the arrest, the deputy was expected to pay for the suspect’s burial. 

After all the deputy’s expenses were tallied, the U.S. Marshal deducted 25 percent from the total before he paid the deputy the remainder. 

During the 21 years of Judge Parker’s tenure, over 65 deputy marshals were killed in the line of duty. Some references list the number as high as 100. 

Being a U.S. Deputy Marshal was even tougher in real life than Hollywood could ever portray. The lonely existence these men led, riding out in search of desperate criminals over vast areas of land for a $2 arrest fee, is unimaginable today. The turnover rate was high due to the danger, the low pay, and the enormous amount of territory they had to cover. Weeks of separation from their families was also a deterrent. 

But the facts show what those deputy marshals did to bring Indian Territory back under the law again. Judge Parker tried over 17,000 cases during his time at the Western Judicial District of Arkansas–and there were never more than 200 men on the payroll to accomplish these arrests. Order could not have been restored without these men, willing to risk their lives to bring justice back to the wild borderlands of Arkansas, Kansas and Indian Territory. 

I love to write about these lawmen—my stories are fiction, of course, but with as much realism as research will allow. It doesn’t hurt that I have lived in Oklahoma all my life, so the research has been easy and lifelong. In my novel, TIME PLAINS DRIFTER, Marshal Rafe d’Angelico finds love in the most unusual place—the future.  

FROM TIME PLAINS DRIFTER:

Substitute teacher Jenni Dalton is flung backward in time 115 years with seven of her students when a comet passes close enough to Earth to rearrange the bands of time. They find themselves in 1895, Indian Territory with no way back to 2010.

U.S. Territorial Marshal Rafe d’Angelico was murdered, along with his brother, sixteen years earlier, in 1879. Now, he finds himself a reluctant angel, brought through time to help Jenni Dalton and her students escape the Dark One who is after one of them. But which one? And for what evil purpose?

Rafe only knows he doesn’t want to be an angel, now that he’s found the woman he wants to spend his life with. Keeping one step ahead of Satan’s man who’s teamed up with Rafe’s murderer proves to be the hardest thing he’s ever faced–until he’s forced to choose between saving the woman he loves and spending eternity in a Hell of his own making.

Will love be strong enough to save the TIME PLAINS DRIFTER? My second novel, TIME PLAINS DRIFTER, was released through Class Act Books on December 1st.

In this excerpt, Rafe has prepared himself to be honest with Jenni and tell her who and what he is, fully expecting her to reject him. But she surprises him with her understanding and acceptance, and he realizes he’s fallen a lot harder than he ever intended. 

EXCERPT:

He closed his eyes, letting the pleasurable feel of her wet mouth on his body wash over him, along with her voice. “Some things never change,”she’d said earlier. Her Oklahoma accent was a slow waltz to his mind, its lilting cadence urging him to accept what they had between them. Still, he couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t ever be dishonest with her, of all people.

“Don’t you want to know—”

She stopped him, placing two cool fingers across his lips, smiling at the tickle of his moustache against her skin. The smile faded as she absorbed the worry in his expression, the smoldering fire in his eyes, and made it her own.

“Not now, I don’t. You asked me—earlier—if I felt it. Whatever it is between us. I do.” Debating with herself, she hesitated a moment before coming to a decision. “I want you, Rafe,” she murmured. “I trust you.” She nuzzled his neck.“It doesn’t matter now, who—or what—you are.”

His hand closed in a fist around the shimmering satin of her copper hair, his chest filling with a sweet peace at her quiet words.

Dead…alive…Mexican…American…man…ghost…angel…

His mind churned as Jenni kissed him once again. Accepting him, for whoever he might be. She loved him. She hadn’t said it yet, but he knew it by the gentle way her lips grazed across his, then claimed his mouth completely, as if that was the only way she had to let him know how she felt. They breathed together, as one.

He answered her wordlessly, his tongue going into her mouth, fingers splaying and tightening against her scalp as he pulled her to him.

She came across his bare chest, the stiffness of the material of her own blouse gliding with gentle abrasion across his nipples. He groaned in pleasure and felt her smile against his mouth. She made the move again as she lifted her lips from his, emerald eyes sparkling into his searing gaze.

“We’ll talk later,” she assured him.

“It’ll be too late to change your mind about me then,” he said, half-jokingly.

“I won’t change my mind, Rafe.”

The sweet sincerity in her voice and the promise in her eyes reassured him. He pulled her down silently. As their mouths melded once more, he rolled, taking her with him, changing their positions so he lay atop her.

She gasped, yielding to him, her cool palms sliding over the fevered heat of his skin, across his chest and shoulders. He began to unbutton her blouse as he kissed her, his fingers moving deftly. He pushed away the first layer of material with his customary impatience, then started on the stays of her corset.

She twisted beneath him at the loosening of the undergarment. He pulled her upright momentarily, whisking blouse and corset over her head, dropping them in a heap on the floor.

In silent invitation, Jenni lifted her hand to him. She touched his side, and he flinched slightly as her fingers lingered over the very place the Bowie had gone into him earlier that day. Even though a red scar marked the spot, there was no pain for him, and he saw no puzzlement in her eyes…only concern.

“Does it hurt?”

It was as he had suspected. She’d seen what had happened, how bad it should have been…but wasn’t. And she had accepted it, unconditionally. They would talk later, as she’d said, but somehow, he felt he would find the words he needed to explain things to her. He shook his head slightly. “No.”

A vulnerable uncertainty crossed her face for a moment. “Well, then, Marshal—what’re you waiting for?” He unfastened her skirt and petticoat, then made short work of the stockings and underpants.

God. Rafe swallowed hard, reaching to trace the faded tan lines across her shoulders. He moistened his lips, his teeth sinking into the lower one momentarily. His pulse raced as his gaze moved over her face—then lower, to her breasts, her flat belly, and the triangle of soft hair, below.

 “Pierson’s fresh, well-crafted novel pits some unlikely heroes against evil incarnate. The characters are vibrant and tell a story of courage in difficult circumstances. An open thread invites a sequel.”   ~~Romantic Times Magazine~~ 4.5 Stars

I’ve enjoyed being a guest here at Slip Into Something Victorian and want to thank Isabel for inviting me over today.  To order Time Plains Drifter, Fire Eyes, or my short story, A Night For Miracles, see the links below.  Thanks so much for having me today!

Visit my website
Visit my blog
AND the historical blog

~Cheryl

 A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES is available at The Wild Rose Press: Widow Angela Bentley takes in three children and a wounded gunman one snowy Christmas Eve.  Will she find love on this, A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES?   

 I also have another Christmas short story, a FREE READ, available there, UNTIL THE LAST STAR BURNS OUT  

My debut novel, FIRE EYES:  is also available at The Wild Rose Press: Marshal Kaed Turner is given a rare second chance at love with the mysterious woman the Choctaw call “Fire Eyes.” But can he quiet the ghosts from his past and protect the love that was stolen from him once before? There’s only one way: Kill outlaw Andrew Fallon, along with the murdering band of men he leads.

 

Victorian Slang of the Week

Anxious—on the anxious seat, restless, eager: 1839—“He was on the anxious seat, waiting for the verdict.”