This is the book I just finished reading. It was so inciteful. I love the beat sheet concept and how the author broke down several different novels into the beat sheets to show how they worked. It was also fun to read about these stories from a different perspective.

This book is going to help guide me through the edit of The Fatal Family Affair. This Lola book is a challenging book to finish so I’m going to try some new tricks I’ve been picking up. First, I’m creating a beat sheet for the story. Typically it’s used when developing the story, but I’m going to use it to guide my edits. It’s a new way for me to approach a revision and I think it has merit.

This is the book I’m currently reading:

I’m hoping to pick up new skills for when I start on the next Lola book. So far, the book is not only useful, it’s hysterical. I follow Chuck Wendig’s newsletter and have read a couple of his books and it is what drew me to this book. He’s clever and funny.

So that is where I’m at in my writing life—editing one story and developing another. I’m excited to start on the next Lola story. The research has been exciting and fun.

That’s all from me!

C. Jane

Which book did I sell the most of last month? The Lola Rose Mysteries Short Stories! If you purchased a copy, thank you! If you haven’t read it yet, won’t you take a look?

Take me to the book!

from The Fatal Family Affair

by C. Jane Reid

Lola prided her ability to keep up with nearly anything happening around or to her. She could make sense of the most inane activities or slurred speech. She knew how to follow conversations even when she missed the first part of it. She could surmise at a glance a person’s emotional state by their posture and clothing along with their expression.

Never in her life, however, had she met someone like Babsy.

“Oh do stay,” Babsy begged Gerald, who was inching his way from the two women. The three had moved from the club to the lobby where they could sit, though Babsy was too animated to stay seated for long. “You are a handsome fellow and it would be too cruel to deprive us, wouldn’t it, Lola? Do tell him to stay so we can at least look at him while we catch up. I still cannot believe I found you!” Babsy grabbed Lola’s hands again, which were becoming quite sore from the woman’s enthusiastic grip.

“Gerald has an early day tomorrow,” Lola said as smoothly as she could. She pried her hands free, lowered one to her side, and made a shooing motion to Gerald with it.

“Ah, yes, family business and all that,” Gerald said, taking a step back.

“Oh, family business? What business is that. What family? I’ve so wanted to come to London but Mummy always refused so I have too much to learn and I could start with one of Lola’s friends. Or is it something more than friends. Oh, don’t tell me, I’d be too disappointed. It’s Gerald, isn’t it? Gerald what?”

“Gerald needs to go now,” Lola said pointedly as much to Gerald as to Babsy.

“Yes, well, so good to meet you.” Gerald managed a smooth bow which delighted Babsy into a fit of giggles, then he quickly turned and hurried away.

“What family is he from? It must be someone well-off. He had very nice shoes and Mummy always says to judge someone by their shoes.”

That surprised Lola. It was what she tended to do, too. Maybe Babsy’s mother had more sense than her daughter.

Babsy’s mother.

If Babsy truly was Lola’s cousin, that would make her mother Lola’s aunt. Which might make her mother Lola’s mother’s sister. Or maybe the father, who would be Lola’s uncle, was her mother’s brother.

Lola was beginning to confuse herself.

“Why don’t we go to, er, one of the lounges.” Lola almost invited the young woman to her room where she might never be rid of her.

It was a ghastly thought, and then Lola was upset by her uncharitable thinking. Perhaps the girl would settle down once the delight of finding Lola wore off, and then Lola could get in a few questions of her own.

“Let’s! I’ve seen almost nothing of the hotel. Is it true you live here? How marvelous? Where is that?”

The girl hooked her arm through Lola and came close to pulling Lola along towards the main staircase from the lobby to the second floor. As they went, Lola gestured with her hand behind her back to one of the porters, who came over to them.

“Yes, Miss Lola?”

His sudden appearance caused Babsy to stop her relentless one-sided conversation.

“Can you see that the Salon de Rose is open.” The ladies’ salon was usually closing by this time of night, but Lola knew they would open it for her.

“Of course, Miss Lola.” He went off as Babsy picked up her conversation again.

“You can do that? How marvelous! Do you have the whole hotel to call on? It’s rather like a huge manor, isn’t it? Or a castle. How fine would that be.”

“I have a few favors I can ask now and again,” Lola answered when Babsy stopped for breath. She did not want the girl to think she had run of the place. Though, in truth, she probably could go just about anywhere in the hotel without being stopped. She was well known as one of the two permanent residents and Miss Edie’s personal friend and soon to be relation.

Interested in the other Lola books? You can find them here:

Lola Rose Mysteries

I thought I’d share a few photos from the last event we had in 2019. Ah, those were the days…

Those were exciting times. Lots of work but I loved it. I can’t wait to get back to doing festival again!

That’s all from me!

C. Jane

Would you like to see Laurinda’s designs?

Crochet Designs by Laurinda

And, as always, my plug to…

Buy my books on Amazon

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The recipe comes from Seven Hundred Sandwiches by Florence A Cowles, 1928, which I found on the Food Timeline sandwiches 1920 website. Lots of fun sandwichs on the site that will probably make appearances in the Lola Rose novels.

The Tiger Eyes Recipe from Ms. Cowles:

"Cut rounds of white bread with a cutter. Butter the bottom round and spread with seasoned cream cheese. Cut a small circle from center of top round. Place on bottom round and in the center hole fit half a suffed olive, cut crosswise.” (p. 88)

If you give it a try, let me know what you think. They are an easy sandwich to make, and you can use any seasoned cream cheese (I like the garden veggie one).

And that’s all from me!

C. Jane

Lola Rose Series

I love the yarn, which was one she’d picked up from somewhere, and the found deer antler buttons (former kit club members might recognize them from one of our kits). It’s also very cozy and will be nice to wear under my coat this winter.

This the first crocheting I’ve done in the past year and a half. I do have a shawl I’ve been working forever and now I’m going to get it out again to hopefully finish.

Honestly, I’ve been working on my writing so much lately during my free time that I haven’t had much time to do anything else (you should see all the dishes in my sink).

I’ve finished reading all my Lola Rose novels in anticipation of editing The Fatal Family Affair and once I finish transcribing all my notes and making the few corrections I found, I’ll be ready to start that edit. I’m so excited to share it with you!

That’s all the news I have to share this week!

C. Jane

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C. Jane's Readers group on Facebook

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From “Holiday Homecoming”:

Christmas Eve, 1923

London

Lola knew she took the corner a tad too fast when Willa squeaked in alarm.

“Lola, you do realize that is snow on the ground,” her friend said through clenched teeth, gripping the handle of the Napier Grand Touring car’s passenger door.

“Tosh, this isn’t snow. It’s more like runny mud.”

“And mud is also slippery.”

“There’s nothing to fear, Willa,” Lola told her with a grin. “Neville is perfectly up to the task.” She patted the dash of the Napier fondly.

“I can’t believe you named your auto.”

“I’ve always named my horses. Why not my car?”

“It doesn’t answer when you call it.”

Lola cast her friend a look. “Clearly, you haven’t much experience with horses.”

“I suppose you will be relieved to know it will remain where you park it.” Willa flashed her a smile, the delightful gap in her teeth on full display.

Lola scowled. “We agreed never to bring that up again.”

“Clearly, I have some experience with horses. Yours, at least.” When Lola rolled her eyes, Willa laughed. “You brought it up first.”

“Did I?”

Lola hit the brakes to avoid a collision with the Bentley in front of them. What passed for snow in England fell in wet clumps and she was pleased that her new car came with a windshield wiper. A few flicks of the wrist and the ugly snow was gone.

Her new car. Lola was still thrilled about her purchase. It had been a splurge, but she had the funds since she’d become half-owner of the Rim Rose Ranch, the cattle ranch her late father had owned with his late brother, her uncle. She grew up on that ranch in West Texas and had always thought she’d never leave. She’d also never thought of the ranch without her father or her uncle there, herding the cattle, breaking horses, laughing with the Mexicans and locals they hired, and occasionally having it out with each other. They were both gone, though, and she was sharing the family business with her cousin, Wyatt.

Except he was staying to run it while she returned home to London. Both were happy with the arrangement, though Lola still harbored regret at leaving her childhood home and leaving Wyatt to manage it all while earning from his hard work. But, as he had said that day when they were trying to find where her horse had run off to, he would rather she be a happy, distant partner than a miserable, present one. The arrangement that gave her thirty percent of the earnings to his sixty percent was also easily agreed upon, as was setting the other ten percent aside into a trust for the future. Her cousin was wise in that way.

Lola, however, had dipped into her trust, her inheritance from her father, while in New York. Waiting for the return voyage to London, she’d happened upon the Napier quite by chance when an elderly couple nearly ran her over. The man was beside himself with apologies and his wife quite agreed with him that it was time to sell the Napier. They had driven it a total of three times, the third being the occasion of her near injury, before declaring it too much vehicle for them on the busy city streets. Lola offered them cash on the spot and then drove them in the Napier to the bank to withdraw the agreed-upon money.

It was a beast of a car, as both her mother and Willa had commented when Lola introduced them to it, but Lola preferred it to a smaller one. She had wanted to find an auto large enough to fit all of her friends for a drive, and Neville was perfect.

Except that afternoon wasn’t for friends packed into the backseat but gifts, far more than Lola had realized. Boxes and bags were stuffed in every available space inside the car, along with her luggage, which she’d brought with her from the ship. Willa’s luggage had already been sent from the ship to the Maitlyn residence, where she was expected soon for a reunion and Christmas Eve dinner with her parents, The Earl and Countess of Cornick.

First, however, Lola had insisted that Willa accompany her to the Regal Rose Hotel where she intended to take a suite for, well, forever if Lola had any say about it.

“Lola,” Willa complained as Neville whipped through another turn, “we aren’t pursuing the Regal Rose. I assure you, we’ll find it right where we left it.”

“What? Oh.” Lola laughed. “I suppose I’m excited. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks!”

“I know. And I’m excited, too. The Rose wasn’t the same after you left it. But this auto, excuse me, Neville,” Willa amended at Lola’s sharp look, “is a monster. Add another level and we’d be on a double-decker bus.”

“Do you think I should have gotten one of those instead?” Lola flashed Willa an innocent look.

“London might never have survived that.”

“Willa, look!” Lola leaned forward and worked the wiper again to clear the view as she slowed to a stop. “There’s the Rose!”

The Regal Rose Hotel, the place Lola had called home for six months before the unexpected trip home to West Texas, stood in royal splendor on an entire city block. It was a jewel glistening among the smaller, older buildings housing law and business offices, banks, private clubs, and the odd pub. A few buildings blocked the lower portion of the Rose from view, but Lola could see the light spilling through the arched windows in the late afternoon gloom.

Lola grasped Willa’s hand and squeezed. She couldn’t speak, she was so overcome with joy. The only time she’d felt so much emotion for a place was when she’d returned to her childhood home, but that had been a visit tinged with bittersweet memories of her late father.

The sight of the Regal Rose wasn’t without a touch of grief. She had experienced a few tragedies when she resided there early in the year, but those memories couldn’t dim her excitement.

Her eyes fixed on her beloved Regal Rose, Lola put the Napier in gear.

“Will you get the same suite you had before?” Willa asked, caught in Lola’s excitement.

“It would be strange to take any other rooms.” Lola was picturing the Jewel Suite and how she would situate her belongings. Perhaps she’d order in new furnishings. Surely Sir Winston, the manager, wouldn’t mind. A touch of paint, new window dressings, she mused. She was caught up in redecorating fervor when a man stumbled from the sidewalk to the street in front of them. She stomped on the brake but missed the clutch entirely. The Napier lurched roughly, then sputtered as it stopped, sliding for a second until the tires caught the pavement, jarring the ladies and shifting the packages behind them…

You can read more in the Lola Rose Mysteries Short Stories, which contains twelve short stories about Lola and her friends.

Take me to the Anthology

First is Lola’s Napier Grand Touring automobile, Neville. I’ve gone back and forth on its name and finally decided on Neville, so I’m correcting it in the stories when I used Nigel instead.

Brandon’s auto is the first one mentioned in the stories, his beloved Vauxhall D, which he calls, secretly, Amelia.

Third is Arthur’s utilitarian Coupe. Fitting for a detective inspector.

Sir Winston, the manager of the Regal Rose, also has his own vehicle, a Bullnose Morris. It is fancy without being ostentatious.

The Regal Rose Hotel also keeps its own stable of automobiles, the lovely Rolls Royce, to take the guests out on the town.

I’m sure more vehicles will come into the stories. Dr. Tate and Vera need one. Willa’s family have one, too. Daphne has an auto but never drives it (as I recall, she’s thinking about disassembling it).

Vehicles are just one of many research topics I’ve enjoyed while writing Lola’s books. There are also foods and drinks, clothing, and jewelry. I’m sure I’ll touch on those at a later date.

And that’s all from me!

C. Jane

Do you know that there is an anthology of short stories from the Lola Rose Mysteries? Check it out!

The Lola Rose Anthology

Today’s excerpt is from The Sojourners. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One

October 28, 1720

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Colony

After weeks at sea, Elsie couldn’t take in all the sights and sounds of this strange new town. The noise and motion in the streets even in the dwindling daylight overwhelmed her.

“This was a mistake.”

“Not at all, dear,” Tavey Vance soothed. They walked next to one another, Mr. Vance on his wife’s other side, her arm around his. Elsie felt an absence next to her where Jacky would have walked.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Elsie said in a weak voice. It wasn’t only the ache of grief pulling her back, but the busy city pressing in on her. She thought being out of the ship’s berths would be a blessing, but she missed the security of the plank walls and the familiar sounds of those around her. Everything about this new town was alien and frightening, from the strangers wearing odd clothing and speaking in foreign accents to the hints of wilderness lying beyond the rough buildings along the edge of town.

“You need a good meal is all,” Tavey told her.

“The boarding house offers a meal. It’s only a street back.”

“Now, Elsie,” Tavey said, releasing Mr. Vance’s arm to take Elsie’s. The older woman looked stern but understanding. “There’s nothing for you at the boarding house. Here you’re amongst your friends.”

It was true. Nothing awaited her at the boarding house but grief and loneliness. She glanced behind to the faces of those she’d traveled with from Ireland, seeing people she’d known most of her life. They offered her gentle smiles and nods of sympathy.

“Won’t you take my arm, Elsie?” Mr. Vance offered kindly.

“I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense.” Tavey stepped aside, giving way to Elsie. “You walk with Bruce. I’ve a few words to trade with Iona.”

Reluctantly, Elsie accepted Mr. Vance’s offer. He led her down the wooden walkway and on to the damp ground, making observations about the town. She hardly heard him.

They stopped before a large structure. It might have once been a barn.

“This must be the public house Mrs. Royce recommended,” he said, trying not to look dubious. The landlady had been kindly, if a little scattered, and she’d named several public houses for the newcomers to try.

“But O’Ruddy’s Barn is the best,” she had said, nodding so vigorously that wisps of her graying hair escaped from her lace mobcap. “Best Irish food this side of Galway.”

Mr. Vance had refrained from telling her that they were Scots-Irish and not likely to think much of the fare from Galway. Instead, he’d thanked her and assembled the members of his congregation to choose where to go. So as not to make too much of a fuss by taking a large a gathering to one place, the group had divided among the public houses the landlady named. Mr. Vance had lead a handful of them to O’Ruddy’s Barn.

The public house had indeed once been a barn. The lamps outside were lit for the evening, though the sky was only beginning to darken. A raucous noise came from inside, Irish voices warring to be heard. Mr. Vance released her arm to pull open the wide door. Strains of music echoed from the rafters, and the pleasant aroma of bread and stew mixed with the unmistakable scent of stout came through the doorway.

“Galway food or not,” Iona said from behind them, “it smells fine enough.”

The others muttered in agreement, and even Elsie’s stomach rumbled in a rare show of hunger.

As Elsie entered, a voice rose over the others from near the trestle table that served as a bar. A hush spread across the crowd like a wave, and Mr. Vance stopped midway through the door. Elsie held her breath, afraid that she had somehow triggered the silence. In her moment of fear, her gaze met that of a man standing at the heart of the silence. He flinched as if startled by her sudden presence. He looked so familiar, as if all she had to do was call out his name, a name she couldn’t possibly know, and he would cross over to her. His black hair fell to the collar of his fashionable coat. He was clean-shaven with a striking chin and an expressive mouth. His eyes were as dark as his hair, giving him an intense, brooding gaze that held hers captive.

The burly man standing next to him slammed his tankard on the bar and the spell was broken.

“You’re daft if you think we’ll throw in with the English.” The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then thrust a finger into the handsome stranger’s chest. “We came here to escape all that.”

“We came here to build a home,” the stranger countered.

“And to be free,” the other man said, gesturing at the audience. Voices rose up in agreement.

“We have a chance here,” the stranger pressed. “We can build a country, one we have a say in. We can work with the English and the French and the Germans to make something new, something to be proud of.”

“I’m proud to be Irish. We stood fast and kept to our roots when the English would turn us into them. And you want us to work with the English?” The man spat on the floor at the stranger’s feet.

“If you’ll but listen—”

“No, you listen, brother. We’re of Ireland, and that’s not changing because we’ve left her shores.” Another round of cheers followed. “If you want to act the lackey to the English or the French or the Germans,” the man’s voice twisted in mockery, “then you go do that. For my part, I’ll be keeping my land, mine that I bought and own, for myself, and woe to any who tries to take it from me.”

Another round of agreement echoed his pronouncement. Elsie was shocked at the vehemence surrounding her. The stranger appeared aware his cause was lost. He set down a coin on the bar, gave his opponent a long, lingering look full of annoyance, and strode from the bar. Several men called jeers after him, but he ignored them.

The stranger walked to where Elsie stood and paused. She glanced up at him, not certain what to expect, and found him looking down at her with cautious hope in his eyes.

“Come, Elsie.” Mr. Vance chose that moment to take her by the arm.

The stranger’s expression twisted with disappointment and regret. Elsie was surprised by the openness of his emotions. She wanted to explain, though what she did not know, but he pushed past them through the doorway and was gone.

The public house broke out into noisy conversation once more. She spent the rest of the evening trying not to wonder at her reaction to the stranger. Her sudden connection to the man was as unlike her as could be, and guilt gnawed at her with each passing thought. She spent the evening trying to dismiss all thought of him.

Explore the Donaghue Histories

Like all the Donaghue series, The Sojourners started life in the Ficstitches Yarns Crochet Kit Club. The first cover sent out to kit club members was lovely, one of my favorites.

The second cover for the first release into the world was equally lovely.

And the third cover, with the full novel, not only had a new look but a new name and whole new half of the story, doubling the length.

The first cover was a limited edition. The second cover, another where I took the photographs with the backdrop a borrowed spinning wheel and the foreground of Josette’s Kerchief (the pattern in the book), I liked but again, was not sustainable.

And the third cover: I liked her pensive expression, as Elsie, the main character, is also often pensive. But this cover has the same difficulty as The Secret Stitch’s second release cover. It doesn’t say “Historical Fiction.”

So we made another new cover:

Now this, to me, is Elsie. Somewhat sad, as she is in the book, and pregnant. I don’t think the model herself is expecting, but the way she is posed suggests it, and that fits Elsie well, since she too is expecting in the story.

This will be the last cover update for this series as I feel more confident that I’ve captured the spirit of the genre now. They fit in much better with the rest of the series covers:

Which one is your favorite?

While the whole series is written, I still have three more to publish and three more covers to design. And Ned’s story, The Hooverville Happening, needs a paperback editiion still.

And those are my stories about covers. I hope you found it interesting. I enjoy learning behind the scenes of other authors so it seemed more fun to share the process than just go “Hey! New cover!”

Anyway, that’s all from me! As always, comments are welcomed.

C. Jane

Here is the link to Elsie’s story with the new cover. If you already have the ebook, it should update without any doing on your part. But in case you want to pick up a copy, here you go:

Take me to Elsie

Chapter Two

The Resolution was a tall ship with three masts and two raised decks, fore and aft. “That’s the forecastle,” Jacky told Elsie as the last of the crates was being loaded. I stood nearby, watching the couple but trying not to be obvious. Jacky was dripping sweat from hauling crates, and his lank brown hair was soddened and clung to the sides of his face where it had come loose from the binding. Elsie’s whole bearing had changed when he’d joined her, becoming relaxed and content, like a cat curled before a fire.

“And that’s the quarter deck,” Jacky continued. “And the fore and main and mizzen masts. They’ll have gun decks, too, I expect.”

“And a kitchen, I hope,” Elsie said with a fond grin for her husband.

“Galley,” he corrected. “Yes, but small.”

“And rooms for us all?”

Jacky gave her a smile. “No rooms. Berths.”

“Oh dear, that doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’ll see. Close, but we’re all friends and family.” His easy grin took in me as well. “Your man knows his way about a ship, I noticed. Done much sailing, has he?”

“I couldn’t say,” I admitted, a bit startled. Grahame had not spoken of any time at sea. Then again, he’d not spoken much of his life before I came into it. I’d have never taken him for a sailor, though.

“He won’t care for his height below decks,” Jacky said. “I walloped my head twice now.” He rivaled Grahame in height, though he was as slender as a reed.

“Mind yourself,” Elsie told him. “You can’t afford to be shaking loose any of the sense that remains to you.”

They chuckled, and I joined in. I was growing fond of the couple. We were close in age, if not experience. Jacky looked as though he’d never said a cross word in his life, and Elsie had such a gentle and welcoming manner that I couldn’t help but want to spend time with her. They were unlike anyone I’d called friend before. That was a small blessing.

Grahame joined us, looking none the worse for having helped load. “It’s time,” he told me.

“What about the animals?”

“They load after the women and children.”

“The captain will want the ship ready to sail,” Jacky added, “before the decks are crowded with beasts.”

“They’ll stay on the decks?” I was shocked at the thought.

“There’s a place in the hold for the chickens,” Jacky assured me. “The rest will shelter near the forecastle, I understand.”

“They’ll be fine,” Grahame said. “Come.”

I picked up my bag and followed my husband toward the ship, Elsie and Jacky trailing after. The hull of the ship towered overhead as I approached the plank that led up to its deck. The ship heaved with the warp and weave of the water, dipping down and then riding high. The plank was wide, but without rails or even ropes to grasp, nothing would keep me from pitching into the water between the pier and the ship should I misstep.

Grahame must have noticed my hesitation. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said, bending low to speak in my ear. His nearness was both foreign and comforting.

Grasping my bag close, I stepped onto the plank. It felt stable and stout, so I took another step. I could sense Grahame and his steadying presence behind me. The ship raised, and the plank with it. For a moment I thought I would fall, but I kept my balance. The ship settled and butterflies chased around in my belly. I laughed louder than I should have, but the sensation was so thrilling, a mixture of fear and excitement that left me breathless.

“See, Elsie,” I heard Jacky say from the pier, “there’s nothing to it. No need for nerves, my lass.”

I crossed the rest of the plank and stepped down onto the deck. I nearly skipped with pride. I found Grahame watching me and was surprised to see a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

Jacky guided Elsie across, holding her hand until they reached the ship and then lifting her down to the deck. Elsie was pale, but she tried for a wan smile to her husband.

The deck was thick with sailors and passengers. Men were leading the women and children through a narrow doorway set in the wall of the quarter deck as sailors scurried up masts and across yardarms, working with the ropes tying down the sails. Jacky was caught up watching the sailors, but Grahame ignored the bustle and led me to the entryway, gesturing inside.

The passage was narrow with a low ceiling and smelt of sweat, tar, and dampness with a pungent under scent I couldn’t place. We had to wait for the line of passengers to file down a sturdy but steep set of stairs. The children were thrilled and called out with shrieks and laughter. The women muttered about the closeness.

Two decks down, a long, low-ceilinged hallway spanned half the length of the ship. On one side hung cots one above another—not proper beds but sheets of canvas hanging between the beams with rope. No bedding, either. Oil lamps hung along the other wall, carefully shielded to keep the flames protected. Their light managed to cast more gloom than true illumination. It was like entering a wooden cavern, and the place felt confining and depressing. I heard one woman liken it to moving into a root cellar.

“We’re at the far end,” Grahame told me, his voice low in my ear. His breath across my neck chased an unexpected thrill up my spine, and I could feel the warmth of him against my back. We’d spent the last month alone together on his farm with only our wedding night shared between us. Why was I having these sensations now?

The last two cots hung at the far end of the berths near the opening to another passage. Steps branched from the passage, but where the steps led, I couldn’t say. The rank stench was worse at this end. It seemed that being made welcome by the group didn’t give us the option for a better position in the berths, but the worst of it.

“What is that smell?” I finally asked.

“Fish,” Grahame answered. “A shipment went bad. It will pass.”

Please, God, let it be so, I prayed, but I was dubious. My stomach knotted from the overpowering stench.

Grahame had been busy as a few of our boxes and bags were waiting for us. The boxes were tied to the beams and the bags hung from pegs. He had already assembled one of the small wooden stools he had dismantled and packed before our journey from the farm, a thoughtful gesture towards my comfort as there were no other seats in sight.

Grahame moved to one of the boxes, pulling out blankets for us both. “You have the top cot. The stool will help you. I’ll help, too, if it’s needed,” he added as a look of doubt crossed my face.

I glanced around. “Are there no rooms? For changing and the like?”

“We’ll hang a blanket,” he said.

The truth about what this voyage would be like began to dawn on me. The farmhouse had been small, much smaller than I was accustomed to, but Grahame had respected my privacy. On the ship, however, I would be cramped with over ninety strangers, including a husband I was only beginning to get to know, on decks that reeked of fish, with all my worldly possessions tied in a bag to the wall, for several weeks while we journeyed across the sea. Desperation hit me with such force, I had to grasp the cot to steady myself. The material was rough and unforgiving. Like this ship. Like my new life.

“Ailee—” Grahame reached for me, his tone odd. He took gentle hold of my arm.

I forced myself upright and took a deep breath, but the stench choked my efforts.

“We can go on the deck, can’t we?” I asked with a note of pleading I couldn’t suppress. “During the voyage?”

“When it’s safe.” He looked uncertain, as if wondering if I were going to faint. I tried to gather myself once more.

“Good. That’s good.” I struggled to regain some semblance of composure.

“Ailee,” he said again, stepping closer. He took hold of my other arm. With gentle pressure, he pulled me against his chest. My heart thudded, and with a swift burning of tears, I buried my face against him. I blinked furiously to keep from crying.

He didn’t offer me a word, simply held me until I had control.

Thank you for reading!

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And that’s all from me!

C. Jane

My first book, The Secret Stitch, has had two previous covers. Technically, I suppose five, since it was first released in three parts.

These were the very first covers, designed by me, using crocheted items from the book made by Laurinda Reddig. These are limited edition and only members of the Ficstitches Yarns Crochet Kit Club received them. I’ll write more on the kit club at another date, but if you were a member, I’d love to hear from you!

This is the cover for the first release. I took the photo of Beacham’s Cowl out at Fort Vancouver in Vancouver, WA. I do love this cover, but I realized that my taking photos for covers for twelve books was not going to be sustainable, mainly because I am not a photographer and had no idea what I was doing when it came to displaying crocheted items. This one was easy—take the cowl, hang it over a tree, find a good background, snap. But as the crochet grew more complicated, I had to give it up. But I do love this cover.

So my cover designer and I tried to come up with a “brand” that all the covers would follow: a model over a fabric background, the fabric being from whatever crochet project was foremost in the book. This one is still Beacham’s Cowl.

I love this cover. I love the model. She’s gorgeous and she reminded me of Ailee, the heroine of the story. We designed the fonts and the swirly graphic around my name, which we use on each book and is my “brand” for the Donaghue Histories.

I am not a student of marketing, however, and after several covers following this formula, I’ve realized that this first cover no longer works. It doesn’t say “historical fiction” like the later covers do. So, it was time for another change.

And introducing the latest, and hopefully final, cover to The Secret Stitch.

Now this one…this is Ailee. I couldn’t have found a better representation of her. She’s wearing period-appropriate clothing, is the right age, and is just, in a word, perfect. I think she captures the story better than anything I’ve come up with yet.

I hope this new cover will encourage more readers to give the book a chance.

I do still love that first release cover, though. Maybe I’ll do a special-edition print run of it for shows I plan to be at next year.

So which cover is your favorite?

That’s all from me,

C. Jane

This is where I ask:

BUY MY BOOKS!

Except from The Rose Garden Engagement:

Thursday, May 18th, 1923,

Regal Rose Hotel, London

“Hamish Seadale.”

Lola grinned. It was a perfectly ridiculous name, yet at the same time, she adored it. “Isn’t Hamish a Scottish name?” she asked.

“It is,” Eugenie answered from her place at her work table. The stout woman was piecing together scraps of fabric for a quilt, a hobby Lola had only recently learned that Eugenie enjoyed.

Lola collected her employer’s correspondence and tapped them on her desk to straighten them. “I cannot wait to hear why Hamish—” she grinned at the name, “—is writing to Miss Edie.

“What did you say?”

Miss Edie’s precise words came from the doorway to the room that was both Lola’s office and Eugenie’s sewing room. The slighter, older woman wasn’t at all tall, but she filled the doorway with her presence alone. Upstanding, regal in a way, and quite serious, Miss Edie—also known in a very small circle of people as Baroness Edwina, et cetera, et cetera—looked upon Lola with a pinched expression that honed her already sharp features.

Lola held up the envelope. “You’ve a letter from a Hamish Seadale.” She examined it. “I have no idea how to pronounce the place where it’s from.”

“Ilfracombe,” Miss Edie said without inflection.

Lola would have laughed, but Miss Edie was too serious. She crossed to the elderly woman and held out the envelope, expecting Miss Edie to snatch it up, but instead, she looked upon it as though it might be poisoned. Unfortunately, they had both experienced an annoying episode with poisoning several months back, so the expression was profoundly familiar.

“Miss Edie?” Lola encouraged, shaking the letter slightly.

Miss Edie drew in a deep breath and let it out before taking the envelope. She looked over the front carefully.

Lola’s patience only extended so long. “Well?”

Miss Edie’s gray eyes snapped up at her.

“And,” Lola continued before Miss Edie could respond, “I will not believe you for a single moment if you attempt to tell me that ‘it is nothing.’”

Her mouth twisting, Miss Edie gave Lola a familiar, chiding look.

Lola twirled her long strand of jet beads. “So out with it, please.”

“You do find yourself clever.” Miss Edie said drolly.

“Often. Tea?”

“I believe you mean coffee.”

“Yes, but you prefer tea and I mean for us to be comfortable while you tell Eugenie and me all about your mysterious Mr. Hamish Seadale and why you believe that envelope holds more than words.”

“Madame, you don’t need to have me here,” Eugenie rushed to say as she stood, putting aside her fabric scraps. “I’ll bring the tea tray along and leave you to it.”

Miss Edie’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and Lola knew she had won.

“Bring the tea,” Miss Edie told Eugenie, “and then I will explain to you both.”

They gathered in Miss Edie’s penthouse sitting room. Lola, as was her habit, kicked off her t-strapped shoes and tucked her legs under her on the sofa. She avoided wearing anything with fringe or beads for that purpose, instead having chosen an adorned cream silk blouse and a cream and black skirt with black stockings. Her nearly untamable red hair was tucked under a broad black band which swept the curls back from her face. It was one of her many ‘work outfits,’ as she’d come to think of them, that she wore when she was acting in her position as Miss Edie’s personal assistant.

Eugenie delivered the tea tray. Lola patted the space next to her. The older woman hesitated, then smiled and sank down on the sofa before fixing Miss Edie a cup of tea and handing Lola her black coffee sweetened almost to undrinkable, just as she enjoyed.

Miss Edie sipped from her teacup before opening the letter. She scanned the contents, then set the letter aside. Lola twined her beads round and round her fingers to keep from grabbing the letter.

“Eugenie,” Miss Edie said with a trace of reluctance, “please call down to see if anything has been delivered to me?”

Lola and Eugenie exchanged looks before the older woman rose and went to the telephone. After a short conversation with Gaspard, the chief concierge, Eugenie turned.

“Yes, Madame. A rather large crate.”

Miss Edie rubbed at her temples. “Have it brought up.”

Eugenie made the request and returned to her seat.

Lola was near to bursting with eager curiosity.

“What is it? In the crate?”

“We will see soon enough.”

“And the letter?”

Miss Edie glanced at it. “News from the son of one of the late baron’s closest friend, Mr. Phineas Seadale. He has died.”

“I’m so sorry.” And Lola was. She didn’t know if Miss Edie had many people left from her old way of life as the wife of the Baron of Alwick.

Miss Edie merely shrugged. “We were not close. He was an unusual man, but he suited my husband, and for that I was thankful.”

Lola cocked her head in question.

Miss Edie sipped from her teacup again and sat back. “My marriage to Robert was one of an arranged nature. We were friendly towards one another beforehand, but it never went beyond that during our marriage. We both spent most of our time apart unless it was expected we attend a function together.”

Lola winced.

“It was for the best,” Miss Edie assured her. “It made those times we were together more enjoyable. If we spent more than a week under the same roof, we quickly grew annoyed with the other.”

Lola wasn’t sure what to say, then it came to her. “I’m glad you found happiness with Michel.”

Miss Edie smiled one of her rare, full smiles. “As am I. Though I would not have wished harm to Robert for it to be so.”

“No, of course not.” Lola paused. “You never said how he died.”

“An illness caught during one of his many trips. I was not there, unfortunately. A fact I have regretted, but it is what it is. I know Robert did not think harshly of me for it.”

Lola thought that sounded awful, but Miss Edie stated it as fact.

A knocking on the penthouse door drew Eugenie away once again. Lola stood, too eager to stay seated. Miss Edie, with a sigh, also rose.

One of the porters wheeled in a long, narrow crate. Eugenie directed him to an empty place in the sitting room.

“Shall I open it, Madame?” he asked Miss Edie.

“I suppose we must.” She sounded as excited as if she were receiving a crate of smelly cheese. Even Miss Edie’s expression was pinched in distaste.

Lola couldn’t wait to see what was in the crate.

About the book:

There is nothing quite like an engagement party in a lovely garden, especially when that garden is on the rooftop of the Regal Rose Hotel. At least until the groom-to-be goes missing, leaving only a pool of blood the perfect shade of a crimson rose. As a witness to a crime that nobody saw, Lola is once more up to her strand of ruby beads in the investigation. And against the express orders of Detective Inspector Arthur Blythe, Lola enlists the help of her dear friends to learn what befell the groom.

Their search takes them from the elegance of the rooftop gardens to the dark recesses of the hotel’s lower levels. When questions begin causing rifts between Lola’s friends and family, the need for answers becomes even more dire. Can Lola navigate the prickly maze of old traditions? Or will she lose herself in the garden of modern ideals?

Thank you for reading!

C. Jane

Read The Rose Garden Engagement

Did you know I have a Facebook group? Have a look, won’t you?

C. Jane's Readers

C. Jane's Readers

Secondly, this past Saturday I attended the first-ever Book and Craft Fair hosted by Bethany Vineyard and Copper Bell Bookshop in Ridgefield, WA. It was a sweet little event with lots of variety, including authors! The venue at Bethany Vineyard was amazingly beautiful. Here are a few photos I took at the event.

I still have a few more events I’m planning on attending, and next year I hope to have tables at them! Which reminds me…who would like to see the Lola Rose Mysteries in print?

And that’s all from me,

C. Jane

Which Lola Rose book have you read?

I hope you enjoy it.

C. Jane

Metamora, IN

April 1880

Lucy gave old Patch a pat on the neck before running the brush over his swayed back. Flecks of winter hair swirled into the air, coating her arms and landing on her blouse. She’d be a mess when she was finished, but Lucy didn’t care. It was the last time she’d be able to curry the old mule. She figured she could brush off most of the white and brown hair during her long walk to Laurel.

“This is it, boy,” she told the old mule. “I’m leaving.”

He lipped the grass and twitched his long ears at the sound of her voice.

“I’m going to see cities, Patch. Big ones with cobbled streets and fancy folks who go to fancy places in fancy carriages with not a mule in sight.”

Patch raised his head and swung it around to look at her with a cloudy eye. Lucy’s chest tightened. She threw her arms around his hollow neck, heedless of the dust and hair that would coat her blouse.

“I’ll miss you, boy,” she told him with a choked voice.

Leaving the farm was harder than she thought, but she forced herself onward without a glance back.

It’s time. I’m ready.

Her parents would fret as parents did and wonder where she’d gone.

I’ll send them news as soon as I’m in Louisville.

By the time the letter reached Metamora, it would be too late for her dad to follow after, not with the spring planting and the lambing upon them. He might find out she’d gone to Laurel, but from there she could go in any direction and he’d be hard-pressed to follow. She and Stead had a plan. And Stead was waiting for her.

Lucy’s heartbeat raced when she thought of Stead.

She’d met him in the evening four days ago when she was working for her grandma at the hotel. She’d been helping hot-iron the linens when Grandma found her.

“Can you take the drinks tray to the back room, Lucy?” she asked in an anxious voice. “There’s some trouble upstairs and Otis needs my help.”

A thrill raced through Lucy. She’d never been allowed to go into the backroom before.

“Of course, Grandma.”

“You just set it inside and scoot right out,” Grandma warned. “Don’t you go lingering. Nan wouldn’t thank me if she knew I was letting you go in there.”

Mom wouldn’t be at all happy to know where I’m going.

“I won’t, Grandma,” Lucy promised.

She took off her apron and hurried to the kitchen. She smoothed down her skirts and pulled her black hair from its twist and shook it out, letting the waves fall freely across her shoulders and down her back. There was a stranger in the back room, newly come to Metamora, and she’d heard the women talking about how handsome he was.

Maybe he’ll notice me.

She was tired of the awkward attempts the farm boys made to entice her into sloppy kisses. Or the way the local widowers looked her over as if appraising her usefulness. She wanted to know if she was more than a marriage prospect of convenience.

The door to the back room was open slightly. She could hear a few muttered words in low, male voices but didn’t immediately recognize any of them.

She pushed the door open with her hip, careful to balance the tray of drinks her dad would disapprove of. A round table took up most of the room, studded by playing cards and holding a small pile of paper money in the center. The eight chairs were filled with barge pilots and mule-drivers and a couple of farmhands. She knew them all by sight. All but the black-coated stranger seated across the room.

The stranger looked up from his cards and those dark eyes pinned her in place. His gaze swept the length of her with a slow, speculative look that made her knees weaken. She forgot where she was, staring at his handsomely cut face and polished hair and carefully shaved jaw. His coat was brushed and looked new from the tailor next to the dusty, grimy farmhands and worn, patched canal drivers.

Her heart pounded. She couldn’t move under the careful study he was making of her. No one had looked at her that way, like he was drinking in the sight of her and wanting more.

He slowly quirked a sideways smile that turned his thirsty look into a warm welcome.

“Can I help you with them drinks, Luce?” Billy Cohen asked, standing from the table. The farmhand gave her the same eager, hopeful smile he’d been giving her since the time they’d both turned fifteen. Five years of his awkward courting had been five years too many, but she’d endured it politely for the sake of the town’s expectations.

Not tonight.

“No, thank you, Billy,” she said with a dismissive tone. Billy’s expression fell, but she wasn’t remorseful. She’d been letting him hope for too long as it was.

She glanced at the stranger and found him still grinning at her, this time with a gleam in his dark eyes. Answering that smile with one of her own, she carried the drinks tray to the sideboard along the wall. She could feel the stranger watching her.

“We playin’, Stead, or we window shoppin’?” one of the barge pilots asked, drawing the stranger’s attention back to the game.

Lucy’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but she forced herself to stroll to the door, wishing she could lay into that barge pilot. She wasn’t going to let a little discomfort chase her off like a frightened schoolgirl.

“Well, this isn’t much of a game,” she heard the stranger answer with a slow drawl in his voice that sent shivers up her spine. “But I suppose we should finish it.”

As Lucy pulled the door closed, she dared one last look inside.

The stranger was watching her with curiosity. And question.

She gave him a daring smile and shut the door.

It was impossible to concentrate on her work after that. All she could think of was his intense study of her and the fact that he was sitting in the backroom only yards from where she worked.

The next day she made some excuse to go into town. Her younger sister begged to go with her, but the last thing Lucy wanted was an eleven-year-old pestering her the entire time, so she’d sent Hannah away to help fold the linens, promising to wait for her, and left as soon as she was out of sight without a second thought.

Lucy thought to try the hotel first. It was still early enough that guests would be taking their breakfast in the parlor if they slept late.

He must probably be one of those, she thought, and the image of him twined in blankets on one of the narrow, hotel beds quickened her pulse.

But as she neared the hotel, she heard that amused drawl coming from the docks.

He stood with one of the barge pilots in conversation. He was turned just enough that Lucy could take all of him in, from his brushed black coat and string tie to his silver belt buckle and silver-tipped boots. And was that a pistol strapped to the belt? She couldn’t quite tell with the way the long coat fell, but just the thought of it made her breath hitch with excitement.

His hair was once more polished into place except for a stray lock that fell across his forehead. He was as clean-shaved as the night before, and his jaw was chiseled and strong. He looked out of place on the docks of the canals, like a black thoroughbred among plodding draft horses.

He glanced her way and his smile made her mouth go dry.

A quick handshake with the pilot and then he was moving toward her with long, lean strides. She stood frozen in place, her breath coming quicker as he neared. She noticed he carried a black hat, its brim just wide enough to curl upwards on each side, with a hatband of silver conchos. As he reached her, he lifted the hat in greeting as though pulling it from his perfect hair and half-bowed to her.

“Good morning, miss,” he said with that lovely drawl and knee-weakening smile.

“Sir.” She wanted to dip in a curtsy like the ladies in the dime novels, but she’d never done so before and knew she’d make a mess of it.

“Stead,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “Stead Sanders.”

“Lucy Donaghue.” She took his hand carefully and found it warm and secure. He wrapped his long fingers around her hand, enveloping it, and she thought for a moment he might lift it to his lips, but then he released her. He was watching her with a knowing look as if he’d read her thoughts. Her cheeks warmed and she hated how easily she blushed.

“A pleasure, Miss Donaghue.” His gaze fixed on her and she couldn’t look away. The rest of the town, with its folk hurrying down the street on some errand or other, fell away.

“Lucy, please,” she told him in a moment of daring.

His smile turned into a grin. “Lucy.”

The sound of that drawl around her name sent shivers through her.

“I’ve newly come to your quaint, little town,” he said, grinning still. “Could you recommend any sights I shouldn’t miss?”

The way he said it made Lucy think that he couldn’t care less about the town. She smiled.

“I could show you a few if you like.”

“I’d like that very much.” His gaze was intense and she flushed. She glanced away shyly, only to find most of the townsfolk watching them with a mixture of expressions ranging from curious to disapproving. Lucy stared back at them defiantly, which sent most of them hurrying about their business as if they hadn’t noticed a thing, but she knew that before the day was out, all of Metamora would know that Lucy Donaghue had spoken alone to the handsome newcomer.

The damage was done. So it was with the same defiance, and a pressing need to spend more time with Stead, that Lucy showed him around town. She took him first to the grist mill where he glanced at the water wheel before gazing back at her again, sending her pulse pounding once more. They walked to the aqueduct, which caught his attention a little more, but not for long before he turned back to her. He asked questions about the town as they walked as if to keep her talking, and she answered just enough to encourage him to ask more questions.

When there was nothing more she could show him of the town, Lucy confessed that she should return home.

“Perhaps,” Stead said before she left, “there are a few places outside of town that I should see?”

Lucy flushed, but this time she didn’t turn away. He looked amused, but the glimmer in his eyes was full of meaning.

“I can think of a few,” she answered breathlessly.

About the book:

Lucy, you can’t trust a man like that.

Lucy Donaghue can’t get out of Indiana fast enough. The meandering pace of her hometown where everyone knows everybody else is about as exciting as watching the mill stone turn. She wants a crowded city with fascinating strangers and a chance to become someone new. The tiny town where she ends up is nowhere she’d choose.

I’d stay clear of that lady.

Omer Pierson is done with wandering. Exploring the west holds more discomfort than excitement anymore, and his gun arm is tired. He turns his exhausted mustang toward West Texas with a dream of living a quiet life. Finding conflict and threat in the little town he calls home makes returning to the trail more appealing.

When feisty Lucy encounters the stoic Omer in Castanola, Texas, the town, and the two of them, will never be the same.

The Lady of Castanola, set in 1880 Texas, is the sixth book in the saga of the Donaghue family. Each book follows the next generation of the family against the backdrop of the developing United States and features historical detail, strong individuals and their craftiness, and a crochet pattern by designer Laurinda Reddig.

Get the Book on Amazon

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I’d like to say I wrote while sitting around between nurse and doctor visits, but honestly, I scrolled Instagram when I wasn’t trying to catch a few minutes of sleep. It was all my brain could focus on.

But there has been writing happening in my world. Mostly during breaks at work when I write in an email to myself. After a week or so, I save what I’ve written into my Scrivener file for that story. It works well for me, as usually by evening I’m too brain-fried to write, and as my breaks are around the same time each day, I have a nice routine going.

I realize I haven’t shared any story excerpts for a little while, so I’ll do that later this week. Any story in particular you’d like to see? Historical or Mystery?

And that’s all from me,

C. Jane

Books by C. Jane Reid

The Lola Rose Mysteries — 1920s Cozy Mysteries

The Donaghue Histories — Family Epic starting in the 1700s and going to Current Day

Errand of Fools — A compilation of historical and fantastical short stories and vignettes, followed by the fantasy novella, “The 8th Day”

The Soldier Poet — A WWI novella featuring war poet Alan Seeger

C. Jane Reid's Amazon Page

C. Jane Reid's Books2Read Page

Please consider leaving a review for any of my books you have read! Thank you!

Me in line for a book festival.

I love Hera’s orange stripes.

Wesker cuddling my daughter’s arm.

A few of my books on writing.

A few of my Breyer horses, which I collect.

Just a few photographic slices of my life.

And that’s all from me!

C. Jane

Which book series have you enjoyed of mine? I’d love to know. The Donaghue Histories or the Lola Rose Mysteries or both? Which series would you like to see more books?

And if you have a little time, please consider leaving a review. If you have already, thank you!

You can find me on:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

First, this is where I’ll be this Saturday, checking out the Northwest Book Fair and Media Fest. One of my writing friends, Amanda Shelley, will have a table there. I’m thinking next year, I might start selling direct at book fairs and festivals. I miss it. So I want to see how this book fair is.

In writing news, currently I’m working on developing the next Lola story. Which is where you come in. I’d love any name ideas you might have. I need several and I get hung up on finding the right ones. This time I’m trying something new and coming up with the names before I develop the characters. I usually do the reverse.

So if you have any you’d like to share, please pass them along and I’ll add them to the list to consider.

And that’s all from me!

Happy reading!

C. Jane

Books by C. Jane Reid

The Lola Rose Mysteries — 1920s Cozy Mysteries

The Donaghue Histories — Family Epic starting in the 1700s and going to Current Day

Errand of Fools — A compilation of historical and fantastical short stories and vignettes, followed by the fantasy novella, “The 8th Day”

The Soldier Poet — A WWI novella featuring war poet Alan Seeger

C. Jane Reid's Amazon Page

C. Jane Reid's Books2Read Page

Please consider leaving a review for any of my books you have read! Thank you!

Today I’m sharing a scene from The Lost Soldier, book three of The Donaghues Histories. I hope you enjoy it!

Excerpt from The Lost Soldier:

“What have you gotten yourself into, Ferny boy?”

Deirdre watched the lamb twist, a bramble branch caught firmly in the tight black curls of his wool. Tsking, she knelt down and put a gentle hand on the orphan lamb. “Don’t be daft. You’ll never be rid of it that way.”

Deirdre pulled the little scissors from the huswife tied to her skirt and clipped the bramble out of the lamb’s wool. She raised her arm to toss it away, then thought better.

“Most likely run right to it again, won’t you?” she asked the lamb. He looked up at her with trusting brown eyes and bleated. Grinning, she gave the lamb a pat and stood, putting the scissors away before tossing the branch as far as she could.

“We’re not getting many bayberries picked this way, you silly little goose,” she told the lamb as she picked up her empty bucket. “Don’t make me regret bringing you with me.”

The lamb bounded away, his tail bobbing with each hop. At least he was heading away from the branch. Sighing, Deirdre followed him down the trail leading past the collection of broken crockery and animal bones that served as the village rubbish heap.

If she was lucky, she’d find enough myrtle berries in the thicket to make more candles. Great Aunt Clary had complained that they were nearly out of bayberry candles, and Great Aunt Clary did not like running low on supplies.

Deirdre understood why. They hadn’t always had regular trade ships to the island when Great Aunt Clary was a girl. And in the past couple years with the war on, the ships had come much farther apart, too, like they had in early years. The islanders would be lucky to see a ship in a six-month.

This year had been better. They had iron for Conor’s forge, and they had sugar again. Joseph said that was the most important supply to return, but her cousin had about the widest sweet tooth on the whole island.

The myrtle thicket was on the far side of the rubbish heap, just before the hog marsh took over along the river. Joseph wouldn’t like that she’d gone without him, but she wasn’t worried about the wild hogs. It was late enough in the day that the beasties would be taking to shelter.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Joseph would have said to her if he were there.

“I know because I listened to Uncle John, and he says they take to shelter when the sun hits the lowland trees,” she would have answered back, and the discussion would end. Joseph wouldn’t dare nay-say anything Uncle John had told her. Her uncle frightened him too much.

Of course, Joseph was a Donaghue, and Uncle John didn’t hold with Donaghues. Except for her, but they were family.

Anyway, she’d have the berries, what she could find of them, and be back at the village before Joseph returned from the oyster harvest with his brothers.

“I could go oyster hunting,” Deirdre said to the lamb gamboling ahead of her. Ferny stopped on rigid little legs to stare back at the sound of her voice.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she told the lamb. “I could do it. I don’t see what all the fuss is about not letting us women out on the boats. Just because Grace fell out and nearly drowned doesn’t mean I will.”

Ferny gave no answer.

The towhees and thrashers were beginning to roost for the evening. Several of them jumped deeper into the thicket as she neared.

“You keep back, Ferny,” she told the lamb. “I’m not going in there after you if you get stuck like last time.” But the lamb seemed more inclined to pull at the tall grass nearby.

What berries were left this late in spring were deep into the thicket. She pulled off the lacy summer mitts running from her thumb to her elbow. Great Aunt Clary hadn’t liked her going out without her short skirt, but it was a warm day. Deirdre had conceded to her great aunt’s demands that she wear her fingerless gloves.

“You don’t know what’s hiding in the brush,” her great aunt had told her sternly as Deirdre pulled on the hook-stitched mitts. Her great aunt tied a stitched kerchief, still smelling of wool oil, around Deirdre’s neck and shoulders. “No fool ever died from being cautious.”

It was her great aunt’s favorite saying, borrowed from a saying of Deirdre’s Great Grandmother Ailee: “Being cautious rarely gets you killed.”

Deirdre preferred her great grandmother’s way of saying it. She didn’t think of herself as a fool, but then Great Aunt Clary tended to think that anyone younger than herself was closer to being a fool than not. And only three people on the island were older than Great Aunt Clary.

“An island of fools,” Deirdre said to Ferny, “that’s what we are.” The lamb flipped his tail a couple of times in answer. Deirdre chuckled.

She tucked the mitts into her skirts and parted the branches to reach deep into the thicket. No thorns, at least. She worked for some while, not finding as many berries as she hoped but enough to scent a handful of candles. Aunt Daisy loved to make candles, so there’d be no difficulty asking her for help. Deirdre could surprise Great Aunt Clary with them next week just when they were using the last of what they had left. She’d have to put up with her great aunt’s complaining about the emptying candle box until then, but that was easy enough when she knew it was a matter already remedied.

And Great Aunt Clary was the best person on the island to surprise. She went from sour to sappy in a heartbeat.

Deirdre set the bucket down and pulled a few loose myrtle leaves out of her hair. She should have braided it back, but she’d given it a weekly washing, and it hadn’t dried.

Bare-armed, bareheaded, no kerchief, oh, yes, Great Aunt Clary had hit the rafters when Deirdre had tried to leave.

“And she thinks I’m with Deborah and Rosa. As though listening to Deborah moon over Marcos or Rosa go on and on about little Aileen was a pleasant evening spent. Much better to be out in a thicket.”

Ferny made no answer.

“I think that’s done it, Ferny,” she said, looking for the lamb. Ferny wasn’t there.

Deirdre heaved a sigh. “Ferny, where’d you get to now?” She circled the thicket, looking for the little black lamb among the meadow grass. “Joseph was right. I should tie a bell to your tail.”

The lamb bleated from the far side of the thicket. Deirdre shook her head and hurried for him. “If you’ve got yourself caught again—”

Words failed her in the face of three unkempt, bearded men. One of them held Ferny by his wooly scruff. The burliest was leaning on a stout stick. The third held a musket.

She’d never seen them before in her life, but her amazement burnt away into outrage when Ferny bleated in fear.

“You put him down!”

The man looked startled, or at least she thought he did under that dark beard. “We meant him no harm.” His accent was odd.

“Sure we did,” the burly man with the reddish beard said. “We meant to eat him.”

Deirdre stepped toward him, knowing the moment she did so that it was a stupid thing to do.

Fool, Great Aunt Clary would have called her.

Thank you for reading! That’s all from me!

C. Jane

Books by C. Jane Reid

The Lola Rose Mysteries — 1920s Cozy Mysteries

The Donaghue Histories — Family Epic starting in the 1700s and going to Current Day

Errand of Fools — A compilation of historical and fantastical short stories and vignettes, followed by the fantasy novella, “The 8th Day”

The Soldier Poet — A WWI novella featuring war poet Alan Seeger

C. Jane Reid's Amazon Page

C. Jane Reid's Books2Read Page

Please consider leaving a review for any of my books you have read! Thank you!

I remember my transition from high school to college. I quite literally matriculated across the street as the high school was next to the college. My daughter is doing something similar as she’s been taking high school through a state program at the college and in the fall will start at that same college for her degree. She’s literally going from one building to the next.

All this talk of schools and graduating had me wondering something I hadn’t considered: did Lola go to college? There was a college in West Texas that she could have attended (I actually graduated from it), but I can’t quite see Lola in classrooms. I know she had a tutor for most of her childhood because her mother would have insisted. She and her cousin, Wyatt, shared one, but instead of college, Wyatt joined the army and Lola . . . I’m actually not sure what Lola did after finishing what would have been high school and before going overseas.

I suppose I should discover that. Maybe a short story is in order!

That’s all from me!

C. Jane

Books by C. Jane Reid

The Lola Rose Mysteries — 1920s Cozy Mysteries

The Donaghue Histories — Family Epic starting in the 1700s and going to Current Day

Errand of Fools — A compilation of historical and fantastical short stories and vignettes, followed by the fantasy novella, “The 8th Day”

The Soldier Poet — A WWI novella featuring war poet Alan Seeger

C. Jane Reid's Amazon Page

C. Jane Reid's Books2Read Page

Thank you for reading! You are a rockstar!

C. Jane

From Chapter One of The Second Floor Murder, book two of the Lola Rose Mysteries:

March 23, 1923, Regal Rose Hotel, London

As Lola looked at the body crumpled on the stairwell landing in front of her, she wondered how this had happened a second time in her life.

Why had she not taken the lift?

Because it had been crowded and she hadn’t wished to wait. She knew she could catch the lift empty if she waited on the second floor. But she’d been halted on the landing between the first and second floors.

Lola twined her fingers into her jet beads, fighting to rein in her wayward thoughts as she stared hopelessly at the body. She needed to alert the chief of hotel security, who would no doubt summon Dr. Tate, and who would also likely call the local bobby on patrol.

Please let this only be an accident.

Even as she knew she should find help, Lola didn’t want to leave the poor girl alone, though the girl was beyond caring of such things. Lola knew what that unnatural angle of the neck meant.

Even more sickening, she knew who it was.

She closed her eyes, marshaling herself, then carefully walked back down the flight of stairs she’d come up and left the stairwell through the door on the first floor. She couldn’t stomach remaining in the stairwell, knowing what was on the landing above her, another second.

The floor was quiet, all the lounges and event rooms closed for the night. Steeling herself, she walked to the grand staircase leading to the hotel lobby, resolutely not looking to the base of the second half of those elegant stairs where she’d seen a body lay months before.

The lobby was busy as the jazz club patrons left and hotel guests returned from their nighttime foray into London. The guest clerk on duty, Jerone, was busy handing out messages and keys for late-comers. Lola waited at the end of the wood and marble desk, trying not to fidget, her fingers firmly trapped by the beads she’d wrapped around them. She barely felt their pinch.

Finally, Jerone noticed her. He gave her a nod in recognition, finished with the final guest at the desk, and approached.

“Miss Rose,” he greeted, the typically polite expression on his dark face turning into one of pleasure. After three months of staying at the Regal Rose Hotel, Lola was well-known to many of the staff, especially the night staff.

“Jerone, would you please send word for Mr. Abernathy?” Lola’s voice was breathless, as if she’d run the entire flight of stairs from her suite on the fourth floor rather than only two.

Jerone studied her with concern. “Is everything all right, Miss Rose?”

Mutely, Lola shook her head.

That was all he needed. He was on the telephone in a trice to the security office. She heard his part of the conversation.

“Mr. Abernathy is requested by a guest in the lobby.” Pause. “I realize he is off duty—” Jerone raised his voice, “—but it is the policy that he be available whenever the situation demands.” Another pause. “Would I be requesting him if it did not?”

After another pause, Jerone returned the telephone to its cradle and rejoined Lola. “He will be here presently, Miss Rose. Can I bring you anything? Tea? Something stronger?”

Lola had drunk enough ‘something strongers’ so she shook her head. “I believe I will sit,” she said weakly. As he nodded, she retreated to one of the comfortable chairs positioned under the glass partition bisecting the lobby.

She couldn’t relax, her leg bouncing across her opposite knee, her fingers grasping the beads wrapped around them. She couldn’t draw a full breath either, as though she was wearing a corset instead of a drop-waist dress.

Lola was trembling and annoyed by it. She was not a shrinking violet in need of coddling. She had seen death before, only months ago in this very hotel, but this time it was different.

Mr. Abernathy appeared from behind the partition, moving with that eerie silence that such a large, broad man should not be able to use. She bolted upright at the sight of him, impeccably dressed in his dark suit, his short, dark hair immovable, with the only sign that he’d been woken the stubble on his jaw.

“Miss Rose,” he said in that disapproving tone he had mastered, “what might be the trouble.”

Lola froze, her mind a blank. She wanted to explain all of it. She wanted to let him find out himself and have nothing more to do with it. She knew she didn’t have the fortitude to do either, so instead, she walked to the grand staircase.

With a huff of annoyance, Mr. Abernathy followed.

When she reached the stairwell door on the first floor, she gestured mutely at it.

He eyed her and whatever he saw had him opening the door and entering the stairwell. Lola did not follow.

She had lost all concept of time, so when the door opened, she squeaked in surprise. Mr. Abernathy took hold of her arm as though to steady her.

“Come with me, Miss Rose.”

The strand of beads broke as she tugged them one time too many as he escorted her away.

Books by C. Jane Reid

The Lola Rose Mysteries — 1920s Cozy Mysteries

The Donaghue Histories — Family Epic starting in the 1700s and going to Current Day

Errand of Fools — A compilation of historical and fantastical short stories and vignettes, followed by the fantasy novella, “The 8th Day”

The Soldier Poet — A WWI novella featuring war poet Alan Seeger

C. Jane Reid's Amazon Page

C. Jane Reid's Books2Read Page

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!