The Christmas Wedding
#1 Little Creek
by Dilly Court
Historical romance, women's fiction
HarperCollins UK, HarperFiction
17 Oct 2019
The village of Little Creek, the long winter of 1867 The first flakes of snow are falling when Daisy Marshall, secretly engaged to her master's son, finds herself jilted at the altar. Heartbroken, Daisy flees to the small village of Little Creek, nestled on the coast of Essex. There she is warmly welcomed – but the village is poverty-stricken, suffering under a cruel Lord of the manor. And when cholera hits, the villagers are truly in dire straits. Determined to help, Daisy makes new friends in earnest doctor Nicholas and dashing smuggler Jay – but also dangerous new enemies, who threaten to destroy everything she’s built. Can Daisy save the village and find happiness in time for Christmas?
So what do you do if you are brought up as a Lady, and don’t
have any skills other than keeping house? Or maybe, being a Governess.
The perennial problem facing young women back in the – well
most centuries before women went out to anything other menial work.
And when you lose what little income you have, you fall back
on your family – if you have one.
And this is the story that we follow here, but we have a
dashing pirate – well smuggler, as so many were along the British southern
coast (as my husband’s family can testify!) and a villainy lord of the manor –
all good gothic elements for a romance story.
Nicely told with some good historical facts and descriptions
of the poverty that so many villagers lived in where huts were basically mud
floors and mostly mud walls and roofs..
with rents and work under the control of the local lord – even in the 19th
Gentle and cosy by the fire reading because it all works out
in the end – as it must.
Romance , Women's Fiction
HarperCollins UK, HarperFiction
Pub Date 16 May 2019
The new novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author.
As the wind whipped around her, dragging strands of hair from beneath her bonnet and tugging at her skirt, Nettie left behind the only home she’d ever known…
London, 1875. Taking one last look around her little room in Covent Garden, Nettie Carroll couldn’t believe she wouldn’t even be able to say goodbye to her friends. Her father had trusted the wrong man, and now they would have to go on the run. Once again.
Well I think Nettie wrote her own
Gothic novel in this story with its ups and downs and the frequent villains and
flitting from police and and and…
It seems that top artist fakes are now too easily found so
people are copying the work of lesser known artists. But when this novel is
set, fakes of well known artists were much rarer. Amusingly earlier this year
it was discovered that what was thought to be a fake Botticelli was actually
So Nettie lives in dire poverty in reality with almost no
protein and in the slums of London with a father who is profligate yet without
earning much at all.
To find out a little more about Victorian life, wages and
cost of living I did a little exploring. I found the following quote from Dickens:
There are several grades of lawyers’ clerks. There is the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who goes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk—out of door, or in door, as the case may be—who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his Personal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter, and think there’s nothing like ‘life.’ Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers,1836