Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
I’m writing this during a good portion of the pandemic. It was easy for me to get lost in the research. We humans will believe, or want to believe, anything if it promises a cure. History does repeat itself, especially when it involves human nature.
Fortunately, there were talented healers like Gemma who kept track of successful recipes, handed down one generation to the other—especially when it came to women’s health, which is a relatively new specialty. There were also enlightened doctors like Ned who had suspicions about the spread of disease, without understanding the true cause. Germs would not be discovered for several decades. God bless the fastidious who washed their hands. Humanity might not have survived otherwise.
In truth, all medicine is trial and error, observation and intuition. Keep in mind, so many of the medical tools we take for granted, such as the stethoscope, weren’t available to Ned. It wasn’t invented until 1816, a year after our story takes place.
Well, enough of this—yes, there is another book coming. Clarissa is in the hands of Mrs. Emsdale. Will it be an adventure or a nightmare? And someplace in the world is the hapless Duke of Winderton. Hopefully, he is growing up a bit.
And let us not forget Mars, who may be in need of a recovery meeting or a sharp whack against the side of his head. We’ll see.
I hope you enjoyed Gemma and Ned’s story. I value your support and pray you all stay happy and healthy until we get together again.
All my best,
Cathy Maxwell
Buda, TX
July 31, 2020
An Excerpt from His Lessons on Love
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
His Lessons on Love
By Cathy Maxwell
Coming January 2022
An Excerpt from His Lessons on Love–Chapter One
“Women do have their place in society . . . although I’m not quite certain where.”
—Book of Mars
The moment Mars had charged into Mrs. Warbler’s house and handed his infant daughter off to Miss Taylor, he wanted to collapse with relief.
Dora was safe. She was here with women. They would know what to do. For the first time since this baby had been dumped on him by an angry mistress, he could breathe.
Of course, he would rather Miss Taylor not be here. He didn’t have the patience, especially right now, for her self-righteous huffing and puffing. Oh, she was easy on the eyes with her golden hair and well-endowed figure. Possibly one of the loveliest women in several parishes around—but then she would open her mouth and a more rigid, narrow-minded soul Mars had yet to meet. Wasn’t she supposed to be off being a companion to some old, rich hen in London? Isn’t that what he’d heard?
Well, apparently she had returned and was sipping tea at Mrs. Warbler’s table along with Reverend Summerall’s wife. Damn his luck.
Miss Taylor held Dora up. The two of them seemed to have a good look at each other, and then the corners of the baby’s mouth turned down. Mars had already learned this was a precursor to a soul-rattling cry. He braced himself by reaching for the only bottle on a table covered with teacups. He had missed his strong tea and port this morning and he dearly needed it. “Please tell me this is port?”
“Sherry,” Mrs. Warbler answered.
“Her nappy is soaking,” Miss Taylor declared as if this was news to Mars.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.” He’d felt that soaked nappy against his chest all the way to Maidenshop. She’d been so wet, it had gone through the thin blanket he’d wrapped her in. “She needs a dry one.”
“And with all due respect, my lord,” Mrs. Warbler said, “is this a social call?” He understood her suspicion. There wasn’t a soul in the village who didn’t know that he avoided the Matrons of Maidenshop. They were barely on cordial terms and yet here he was.
“Do you have a dry nappy?” Miss Taylor demanded as if he would deliberately withhold a nappy from her.
“Sherry will have to do,” he muttered to himself just as Dora broke down into tears—again. He turned to the maid. “I need a cup of very strong tea.”
The maid glanced at Mrs. Warbler who, thankfully, nodded her assent. Mars didn’t know what he would have done if his request had been denied. Probably tipped the bottle right in front of them, and that would have outraged their feminine sensibilities.
Then he remembered he owed answers. To Mrs. Warbler, he said, “This isn’t a social call but a desperate plea for help.” To Miss Taylor, “No, I do not have a dry nappy. Or even another wet one.”
She shot him a look that said clearly, What is wrong with you? followed by a glance in the direction of the other women as if to say, Isn’t he a disappointment?
He was.
Mars didn’t know about nappies. Or what to feed babies. Although, to find the answers, he’d braved putting himself into the center of the coven known at the Matrons of Maidenshop. That must count for something. It also made his daughter’s crying easier to take now that he wasn’t the sole one in control. He hated feeling inept.
“Did you even bring a sucking bottle?” Miss Taylor wondered.
“A sucking bottle?” he repeated blankly. “Yes, that is what she needs. She’s hungry. But what to feed her?”
“Where is her mother?” Mrs. Summerall asked.
“Gone.” He wasn’t going to tell them that Jane had foisted the baby on him before she went off to accept another man’s protection. Or even make the excuse that he was a responsible lover who always took precautions with his partners, because quite obviously, he had not been completely successful.
No, he’d keep all of that to himself because poor Dora didn’t need any more counts against her than being abandoned. He’d seen what Miss Taylor had endured over the years. His daughter would be treated better.
Miss Taylor shifted the baby into her arms with a practiced ease and did something he would never have thought of doing—she crooked her finger and offered the baby a knuckle. Dora latched on to it as if desperate. “She is starving. When did she last eat?”
If he didn’t have nappies or a sucking bottle, Mars didn’t understand why Miss Taylor thought he’d have a clue about Dora’s eating schedule. Before he could frame an answer, the maid returned to the room holding a cup and sauce and a pot of tea. He could have cried at the sight. She sat the dishes on the table in front of him and poured the steaming brew into cup. He uncorked the sherry and topped the cup off. “Bless you,” he whispered to the maid and the world. “Bless you, bless you.”
“Well, I’m so pleased that we have met your needs, my lord,” Miss Taylor said.
“You don’t sound pleased.” He took a swallow of tea. The sherry wasn’t half bad and his body wanted to groan with the pleasure of it. “And I wish I could answer your questions, except I don’t know the answers. Dora has been in my care for all of—what? An hour? Maybe a bit more?”
There was a beat of silence, and then Miss Taylor said, “Who in their right mind gave you a baby?”