Review: The author deserves high
praise for her ability to capture the reader's attention and engage one in both
the mystery and the romance of this delightful story!
Margaret
Faria
InD’Tale Magazine
Nominated for the RONE Award
Approaching the 20th Century, life was changing for British aristocrats. It was becoming increasingly difficult to afford to run a huge house full of servants. When Vanessa Ashley arrives at Falconbridge Hall, there is no butler or footmen to greet her.
This excerpt comes from WHAT THE BUTLER WINKED AT, Being the Life and Adventures of Eric Horne, Butler by Eric Horne. It set after the Great War, but highlights the changing landscape of the late Victorian and early 20th Century aristocracy. Shades of Downton Abbey here.
"Now that Old England is cracking up, as far as the Nobility is concerned, who are selling their estates, castles, and large houses, which are being turned into schools, museums, hospitals, homes for weak-minded-things entirely different from that they were built for-it seems a pity that the old usages and traditions of gentleman's service should die with the old places, where so many high jinks and junketings have been carried on in the old days, now gone for ever. The newly rich, who filled their pockets while Tommy was fighting-many of them have bought these fine old estates-are a poor substitute for the real thing...They may spend their money in giving fetes, parties, balls, and use every device to get into Society, or what is left of it, but all their doings will only be a sham, a poor substitute. You cannot make a silk purse out of a sourced mackerel, neither will they command the same respect; it is simply so much work for so much money, and there the matter ends. "
Here's a taste of THE FOLLY AT FALCONBRIDGE HALL
Blurb: Vanessa Ashley felt
herself qualified for a position as governess, until offered the position at
Falconbridge Hall. Left penniless after the deaths of her artist father and
suffragette mother, Vanessa Ashley draws on her knowledge of art, politics, and
history to gain employment as a governess. She discovers that Julian, Lord
Falconbridge, requires a governess for his ten-year-old daughter Blyth at
Falconbridge Hall, in the countryside outside London. Lord Falconbridge is a
scientist and dedicated lepidopterist who is about to embark on an extended
expedition to the Amazon. An enigmatic man, he takes a keen interest in his
daughter's education. As she prepares her young charge, Vanessa finds the girl
detached and aloof. As Vanessa learns more about Falconbridge Hall, more
questions arise. Why doesn't Blythe feel safe in her own home? Why is the death
of her mother, once famed society beauty Clara, never spoken of? And why did
the former governess leave so suddenly without giving notice?
Excerpt:
Vanessa
Ashley planned to arrive at her destination cool and composed, but she felt
like a wilting lily. She dabbed her handkerchief at the sweat trickling into
her collar as heat gathered beneath her chip-straw bonnet. Clapham High Street
Railway Station was a noisy and smelly hub of activity, luckily the residence
that was to be her new home lay in the countryside.
A short, bearded man approached her and politely
touched his hat. “For Falconbridge Hall, miss?”
“Yes, I’m Miss Ashley. Thank you . . . Mr.?”
“They just call me Capstick, Miss Ashley. This way.”
He led her to a trap. After he’d loaded her trunk and her bicycle on board, they
seated themselves. He slapped the reins and told the horse to walk on. “You’re
the new governess?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Another one,” he muttered and shook his head.
Startled, Vanessa stared at him. “How many have there
been?”
“A few. They don’t stay long.”
“But why?”
Capstick declined to comment. He just grunted and
shook his head.
“Well, I intend to.” Vanessa straightened her
shoulders. It was true she had never wished to be a governess. Even though she
was still quite young, her wish for children of her own now seemed unlikely, and
if this was to be her fate, she intended to make the best of it. A person
without funds, indifferent looks, and a lack of grace had no other course open
to them.
“Good luck to yer, then.” Capstick grinned at her,
revealing a large gap in his front teeth.
With reassuring skill, he negotiated around a
horse-drawn tram as they passed the bandstand on the common and then drove down
tree-lined avenues. Villas were soon replaced by streets of gracious homes set
amid beautiful gardens. A sign, reading Clapham Park Estate, appeared, followed
by larger country houses on acreages.
They passed the last of the houses and were out in the
countryside now. Green fields crisscrossed by hedgerows stretched away to a
line of forest in the distance. The trap followed the road beside a high brick
wall for about a mile until they came to a pair of impressive wrought iron
gates with Falconbridge Hall emblazoned on them in gold lettering. Capstick drove
through, and a house appeared above the trees. Many chimneys rose from the
massive slate roof.
Ahead of them, a stocky dark-haired man rode a
magnificent bay horse across the lawn and vaulted a hedge. Vanessa had a
glimpse of dark, gypsy eyes and a white smile beneath a black moustache. Before
they drew level, he turned the animal and rode towards the woods.
“Who was that?” she couldn’t help asking, watching him
disappear into the trees.
“That’s the groom, Lovel, exercising the master’s
horse.” Capstick shook his head. “The gardeners will not be pleased.”
The gravel drive bordered by lime trees curved around
through formal gardens to the front of the house where he left her,
disappearing with her trunk and bicycle toward the rear entrance and, she
presumed, the coach house and stables.
The sprawling red brick house had sandstone trim
around the windows and a tower at one end, ivy covered its walls. It was older
and far bigger than those they’d passed on their way from the station. The
house had settled into its surroundings, and she had the feeling it had been
here for a very long time while the urban sprawl of Clapham edged ever closer.
Conscious that she looked rumpled and untidy, Vanessa
smoothed the skirt of her olive green linen dress and straightened the limp
white collar with travel-stained cotton gloves. She picked up her bag and
stepped up to the paneled door flanked by stout white columns.
Before she could knock, a maid wearing a mobcap and a
white apron over her grey floral dress opened the door. “Miss Ashley? Please
come in.”
Surprised not to be met by a butler in such an
establishment, Vanessa stepped into the wide entrance hall. One of those new
inventions, the telephone sat on a table. A fine Persian carpet ran the length
of the parquet floor, pale green satin papered the walls, and fringed and
tasseled emerald velvet drapes hung from the windows. Potted ferns clustered in
corners, and a gracious staircase led upward. Despite fractured light filtering
down from a stained-glass window above the stair, the house was so gloomy inside
dusk might have fallen.
“The master’s in his study, miss. Please wait here
while I announce you."
Vanessa sank gratefully onto the edge of a straight-backed
chair. It had been hours since she’d had a drink, and her mouth was horribly
parched. Now her knees had developed a worrying tendency to tremble. To
distract herself, she studied the remarkable flesh tones on the naked woman’s torso
of the oil painting hanging on the opposite wall. A François Boucher if she was
not mistaken. More flesh than was decent, surely.
Her father had preferred the sea and boats as his
subjects. He considered the naked body to be soft pornography and not fine art
but altered his opinion after nudes became an important asset to any wealthy
man’s collection and began to fetch high prices. More than once, Vanessa had
come across nude models posing in his studio, barely covered by drapery and,
sometimes, wearing nothing at all.
Labels: Historical Romance, Maggi Andersen, The Folly at Falconbridge Hall, Mystery, England, Victorian Romance, Viscount, Victorian explorer.
