Life Update

 

Where to start?

This past April (2025) I became quite ill, not knowing why or how to deal with this great unknown. May 10th saw me admitted to the emergency ward before being whisked to the eighth-floor surgical ward. After seventeen days in the hospital, I returned home with the diagnosis of Diverticulitis and eight inches of my large intestine removed along with the 'stricture' my body had built, creating a full blockage of my colon. We now know the blockage was 'completed' back on April 8th, so for a full month no nutrients were absorbed by my body and no waste was being emptied. I was malnourished and full of stuff no one wants to be full of.

The good news is that as of this date, June 13, 2025, I am on the road to recovery. I will have to watch my diet in order not to inflame my upper and lower intestinal tract, but I think that's a good thing. We all should eat more healthily - yes?

Now, onto my writing.

When I fell ill, I was working on 'A Rose by Any Other Name'. Sadly, my writing had fallen by the wayside. I'd felt too ill to work on anything, and my self-appointed release date of May 19th came and went with me in the hospital. This past week saw me going over what is already written, smoothing out some of the timeline issues, and making bullet point notes on future scenes. This book will not be set for publication any time soon, but I would like to have it ready before Christmas. Cross your fingers with me that this happens.

In other news, I have contracted voice actor Harry Frost to read 'An Unwitting Compromise'. He is slated to begin recording in October, so... I might have a new audiobook releasing at the same time as 'Rose'. Wouldn't that be fun?

Weekend Writing Warriors #90

 

I thought I had completely missed joining this blog hop, and had a bit of a panic moment. Almost a 'my bad' moment. Life has a funny way of intruding and before you blink twice, the week is almost over. Ah, well, if that is the only thing I can complain about, I have a pretty good life.

Anyway, we shall continue with an excerpt from A Rose By Any Other Name. We left off with:

Father found me injured and bedraggled in the river Derwent and claimed me as his own. That is, until… if… we ever find my true family. He had been riding his estate, of which the Derwent flows through a vast portion. Thank goodness it was a beautiful sunny day, or I might not have survived, because the sun glinted off my amber cross necklace and that is what drew him to the river’s edge, whereupon he discovered me draped across a large log which had gotten snagged on an exposed root of a willow tree.

Continuing with:

He waded into the river, forever ruining his favorite Hessians - to his valet’s eternal disgust - and carried me up the bank. With the help of his son, Eric, he managed to not only wrap me in his jacket but hoist me onto that great beast he calls a horse and - as he said - rode like the hounds of hell were on his heels to bring me to the manor house, called Briwood.

I have no memory of the next few weeks, but I have been told it was very unsettling as I had a raging fever and the doctor feared I might fall victim to a putrid lung from the amount of water I had ingested and inhaled. Thankfully, I pulled through, and though I felt as weak as a proverbial kitten, my strength and health returned, my memory did not.

Despite sending out riders and flyers throughout the region, no one stepped forward to claim me as their own. My clothing was of good quality, indicating that I was either the daughter of a gentleman or a wealthy tradesman, and - here I must blush at revealing such intimate details - Mother thought me to be about fourteen years of age. She based this determination on my body showing signs that I was on the cusp of womanhood. During my recovery I had… well, suffice it to say, she had to call for some linens for me to use discreetly. I later discovered this also sent a wave of relief through my adoptive parents, as the advent of my courses indicated there were no repercussions from a violent attack, of which the doctor feared I may have been a victim.

Shall I whet your whistle further?

Father and Mother, Lord Conrad and Lady Patricia Grantley are the Viscount and Viscountess Hughson, and until I was found in the river, they had only one child, Eric. At the time of my discovery, he was eighteen preparing to enter Cambridge at the start of next term. 

As I could not remember my name, my parents decided to call me Rose because, etched on the back of my necklace, was a single rosebud in its first bloom. They have loved me as their own and I have never hesitated to return that love tenfold. Father was pleasantly surprised to discover I have an avid interest in books and languages. ‘Tis funny how the mind works, I cannot recall my name or family, but I remember lines and verses from different passages of great novels and poems as if I had read them only a few minutes before any discussion. Mother has teased that maybe I was a French spy in training as my French is more than passable for conversation. I am mediocre on the pianoforte and have been told my singing voice is lovely. Father already has plans for me to study with the Master when we make our way to Town.

I know many of the popular dances, even though I am not of an age to attend any balls or assemblies, I can embroider but find it dreadfully dull and take some solace in painting tables, although I detest netting purses. Ugh… I would rather go back into the river than net a purse. However, my greatest love is being outdoors, whether I walk the park around our estate, or ride with Father, I feel at peace when I am outside, marveling at the beauty of creation.

Rules of engagement for Weekend Writing Warriors:

Weekend Writing Warriors is a fun blog hop where authors share eight to ten lines from a Work in Progress. If you'd like to check out some of the other author's writing, please click on this link: WeWriWa

WEEKEND WRITING WARRIORS #89

Hello friends, I am starting a new story and I am thrilled you are here for the first of many snippets prior to publication, which I hope will be sometime this Autumn. Without further ado, here is the opening of A Rose by Any Other Name.

Excerpt:

The first memory of my re-birth was of mind-numbing cold. It settled into my bones. Into my very soul, and I could not stop shaking. The second memory was the voice of Father, calling for someone to help him pull me from the water. How I got into the river is still a mystery, as is my name and where I am from.

Let me start from the beginning as I know it.

Father found me injured and bedraggled in the river Derwent and claimed me as his own. That is, until… if… we ever find my true family. He had been riding his estate, of which the Derwent flows through a vast portion. Thank goodness it was a beautiful sunny day, or I might not have survived, because the sun glinted off my amber cross necklace and that is what drew him to the river’s edge, whereupon he discovered me draped across a large log which had gotten snagged on an exposed root of a willow tree.

Rules of engagement for Weekend Writing Warriors:

Weekend Writing Warriors is a fun blog hop where authors share eight to ten lines from a Work in Progress. If you'd like to check out some of the other author's writing, please click on this link: WeWriWa

Tidbit Tuesday

Spring has sprung, the grass is riz... I wonder where my writing is?

For those of you patiently waiting, I am writing again! Winters are very hard on me. I have a skin condition (dishydrotic eczema) that precludes me from writing as I wear moisture gloves nearly 24/7. However, I began taking hyaluronic acid a month ago, which maintains and helps keep moisture in the skin, and the gloves are off - as are the moisture socks I've worn for over twelve years. Hallelujah!

Also, our granddaughter is thriving after her major surgery, so another load off my heart and shoulders. I am so thankful. Now I just have to get my brain back into writing mode and finish The Wager (which is nearly complete, only a few more chapters to go) and then I shall work further on the little piece of fluff I began on a lark - A Rose by Any Other Name.

Today I am sharing from Chapter Four of my Rose story and I hope you like my heroine's sense of humor. She's a tad snarky and a tad opinionated. We know her as Miss Grantley but can you guess her true identity? Let me know in the comments.

1811 London

There are times when I am dressing, or walking by a pier glass, that I sometimes startle at the person I see reflected. Do not think me mad. I know it is me, but I still do not recognize the lady who stares back, if that makes any sense.

I stand at five feet four inches, which is about two inches shorter than Mother. In my previous life, that is what I call my time before Father found me, I wonder if I have siblings and where I fit in the midst of them. I am not beautiful in the classical sense, but flatter myself that I am quite pretty and Mother says I have a lively playful disposition. Father calls me his ‘impertinent Miss’, but always with a gentle smile so I know he does not mean it in a spiteful way.

My figure is light and pleasing, which makes the modiste extremely happy. That, and the bonus Father pays her to finish my order promptly. I have dark blue eyes, giving a hint of a Nordic ancestor, framed by ridiculously long lashes. Mother has never seen the likes. My eyebrows frame my eyes satisfactorily, thank goodness. Penelope Hardcastle has her maid pluck unwanted hairs from between her brows and also to thin them. Danvers once plucked an errant strand and it was unexpectedly painful. I would not wish to have to do that regularly.

My nose is not too large and my mouth… well, other than my hair which is a luxurious mahogany, it is my favorite thing. Lusciously plump is what Wickham whispered in my ear at Lady Creighton’s ball before I tamped my heel down hard on his toes. I believe that is the only time I left a dance partner standing, or limping alone on the ballroom floor. For some unknown reason, that trumped-up son of a steward believes he has carte blanche when it comes to society functions. I am still angry at him. The way he leaned over and whispered in my ear in front of society’s prolific chin-waggers could have led to a disastrous compromise, and I have no intention of having my choice of husband taken from me. I have lost too much already in my life.

My internal musings were cut short by our butler informing me that Mrs. Louisa Hurst and her sister, Miss Bingley have presented their cards and wish to know if I am home to visitors. I hesitated briefly. I met them six months prior at a tea held by Mrs. Carmichael, a close acquaintance of Aunt Lucinda and now the sisters dogged my steps at every function we happen to attend at the same time. Lately, they have upped their pursuit and make a point of attending our townhouse weekly for tea.

Mrs. Hurst is a compliant lady. She does not say much and when she does, it is usually to agree with whatever her younger sister blathers on about. Miss Bingley is an avid social climber and at this moment in time, she believes my marriage portion along with my family name, is a rung in her ladder and she hopes to increase our connection by me falling in love with her brother, Mr. Charles Bingley.

That will not happen. We are a mismatched pair.

Please do not misunderstand me. I am not a society maven. For all I know I might very well be the daughter of a wealthy tradesman as easily as the daughter of a gentleman. My clothing from my previous life, which Mother preserved very carefully, indicates a gentle upbringing. So, it is not like I am thumbing my nose at Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst because I believe I am better than them, it is just that their brother… he is… I sighed. He is an adorable puppy. Amiable, fun-loving, wanting everyone to get along. He is a wonderful dance partner and when I am seated next to him at a ball or dinner party, I am tempted to pat him on the hand and praise him for being a good boy. When I meet the man I wish to marry, I definitely do not want to give him a lolly and tell him to go play with his toys in the next room.

At times, I do not believe he wishes to become leg-shackled to me either. For one, he has not once called me an ‘angel’. It is his favorite attribute to any lady he fancies himself in love with. Clarissa Hornblower comes to mind. I truly hope she marries soon and retires that name to her marriage lines and the family Bible, poor girl. Mr. Bingley was mad about her for at least three weeks before he discovered another golden-tressed angel, Tiffany, or was it, Theodora? They have all blended into a mish-mash of fair beauties over the few months in which I have made the acquaintance of Miss Bingley. Regardless, I welcome his friendship as it is unassuming and I know my honor is never in jeopardy with him. I think he would rather swallow his tongue than compromise a young lady. Unlike that toad, Wickham.

Goodness, I truly am angry with that… that man. I refuse to call him a gentleman. Firstly, he does not behave as one and secondly, he was not born into the station nor has he the funds to purchase an estate. I believe he thought my marriage portion of thirty thousand pounds, along with being the sole heir of Father’s estate and holdings, would pave his way into the card rooms of Boodles or Whites. The only place I see him residing, given his penchant for gambling and carousing, is debtor’s prison. I have no idea where he has gotten the funds to wine and dine society’s elite, but however much he had in his pocket at the beginning of the year, it has been lightened quite substantially. I overheard some gentlemen talking about the high-stakes card game he lost back in March and still shake my head at the thought of a thousand pounds flowing through his fingers over the course of a few hours. This would explain his unwelcome attempt to woo me on the dance floor. I shudder to think what would have happened if he had stumbled across me in an alcove, or when I stepped outside to cool my cheeks on the terrace.

Mother is correct. I must be aware of my surroundings at all times, much like now. Our butler awaits me patiently as I hesitate over whether I am home or not to the Bingley sisters. As it is threatening to rain, curtailing my walk through Hyde Park, I tell Pritchard I am home to the ladies and ring for tea.