Gay – Page 7 – A. L. Lester

Victorian Nurses in the British Army

The Quid Pro Quo is the second in the Bradfield trilogy, although it will stand alone. It’s set a few months after the end of The Fog of War and stars Sylvia’s friend Walter Kennett, and Simon Frost, a detective who comes to Bradfield to investigate a murder. It’s a gay, historical, paranormal, romantic murder-mystery with a m/transm couple set in rural England in 1920.

One of the things I researched when I was beginning to think about Walter’s background was exactly what training he’d have had as a nurse (or an orderly) in the British army. The answer to that question was ‘not a great deal’ in that Victorian army nurses seemed to have been expected to pick things up as they went along. Before the advent of Florence Nightingale and her cohort during the Crimean War in the mid-nineteenth century, nurses had all been men and they had been attached to individual regiments.

Outrage at the terrible conditions in the Crimea led to the development of a Medical Staff Corps in 1855, which recruited ‘Men able to read and write, of regular steady habits and good temper and of a kindly disposition’. This was renamed the Army Hospital Corps in 1857 and reverted back to being the Medical Staff Corps again in 1884*. Confusingly, the medical officers were known as the Medical Staff…and in 1898, the Medical Staff Corps and the Medical Staff were combined into Royal Army Medical Corps.

This is where Walter comes in.

In my head, he joins up as the two organisations are being merged together and he sort of slips through the gaps, staying hidden as a trans man with the help of the doctor who did his medical when he recruited him and possibly with a bit of a blind eye being turned by his army mates. He serves in the Boer War in South Africa and subsequently all over the British Empire before ending up at Sylvia’s hospital in France in World War One. By the time we meet him 1920, he’s forty and had served in the army for twenty-one years.

That brings me to a really interesting blog post about male nurses in the 1920s I found at This Intrepid Band-a blog dedicated to the history of military nursing. Nursing regulation was pretty slapdash until the end of the First World War. Hospitals trained nurses for between one and three years and gave them a certificate. But…anyone could call themselves a nurse even without that training.

After 1919, that changed. I won’t replicate all the qualifying criteria here, you can read it at This Intrepid Band if you want to…but Walter would have fallen under the ‘three years military experience’ criteria. However, as a man, he would have been singularly alone. Even in 1928, although there were forty thousand women on the new register, there were only two hundred men.

I don’t know whether there were any male nurses working at village practices in the early twenties; but I suspect it’s very unlikely. Most of the nurses in 1928 were in prisons or mental hospitals, presumably dealing with men who were considered dangerous and perhaps unsafe for women nurses to care for. Walter’s like Sylvia though, in that he feels that he’s done his bit keeping other people safe and looking after strangers. He wants to be part of a community and part of family as much as he can. So a small village, with his friends, suits him fine.

I hope you like his story!

The Quid Pro Quo

Village nurse Walter Kennett is content with his makeshift found family in tiny Bradfield. However, when a body is found floating in the village duck pond one midsummer morning, danger arrives too.

Between his attraction to detective Simon Frost, concealing Sylvia and Lucy’s relationship and not knowing how much to reveal about the paranormal possibilities of the murder, Walter is torn all ways.

The Quid Pro Quo is a 50,000 word romantic historical paranormal murder-mystery set in 1920s rural England where nearly everyone is queer and the main couple is m/transm.

Amazon : JMS Books : Everywhere Else

(Some of this post was published as a guest post at Addison Albright’s blog in November ’21)

Ofelia Grand and The Drunken Dog

Hello, everyone! Thank you, Ally, for letting me drop by again. I’m trying to remember when I was here last and what I talked about then.

Bragging was what I was doing 😁 (You’re always welcome anyway, Ofelia!)

I talked about how my alter ego, Holly Day, had written 12 stories in 12 months – we’re working on story number 18 in 18 months now. I submitted Holly’s May story – a story for World Naked Gardener Day, and it’s all Ally’s fault (This is actually true, sorry – Ally) – a few days ago, and I’m now working on the June story.

But just like last time I was here, I have a new story out, and it’s one of those either-or stories that JMS Books have every other month. This time the call was for either Sugar or Spice stories. I went with Spice.

In a way, I’ve messed up. Last time I was here, I talked about The Ruby Tooth, which was a Naughty or Nice story. This time I have The Drunken Dog. Both stories have shifters and fated mates, and both stories are named after pubs, but they’re not in a series. If I’d been thinking, I’d have turned them into a series, but I wasn’t thinking.

I have a super short story called Cup o’ Sugar. Cup o’ Sugar is a cafe where Sam works, and Sam happens to be Roarak’s mate. Roarak is the alpha of the Halfhide pack – a werewolf pack.

The Drunken Dog is about Zev, who also is a member of the Halfhide pack, though he’s not really a werewolf. The stories are very loosely linked, and I intend for all the stories I write about members from Roarak’s pack to be standalone.

In April, The Cake Shop will be released. It’s about York, another member of the pack, and The Cake Shop is a bakery. So, all the stories in this series are named after establishments, they’re all similar, and at a glance, you’d think The Ruby Tooth would be part of it, but it’s not.

I usually pride myself on having a plan, but… Hindsight is a bitch.

But enough about me nagging about what-ifs and regrets. Do you want to read an excerpt from The Drunken Dog?

I picked a part where Zev is at The Drunken Dog and talks to Otis, who is a vampire. I’ve thrown all kinds of monsters into these stories. Zev, for example, is a cú sídhe which is a mythological hound from Irish folklore. They’re huge moss-green beasts the size of a cow that bark three times – maybe I should’ve talked about that instead of ranting about titles LOL

Excerpt from The Drunken Dog

Zev pushed open the door to The Drunken Dog, breathing a sigh of relief when he found it mostly empty, but disappointment quickly followed. He’d hoped Otis would be here. The image of him twirling his glass and smiling at Zev had popped up in his mind more times than he could count, and he wanted to talk to him again, preferably without a crowd around. Otis wasn’t the only reason he’d come, though.
He grabbed the first stool he could find, placed his elbows on the bar, and rested his head in his hands.
It had been five days since he’d been there. It was the longest he’d been away since he’d found it, but today he needed a drink in the worst way.
He and Roarak had been building a carport when three wolves from the Bloodclaw pack who controlled the eastern part of the city had shown up. There had been taunts and posturing and when one of the Bloodclaws had threatened to take Sam—Roarak’s mate—the shit had hit the fan.
Roarak had clawed one of them, and Zev suspected there would be repercussions. When one of the Bloodclaws had gone for him, he’d flashed teeth. He hadn’t flashed teeth in years.
The way the wolf had backed away formed a knot in Zev’s gut. He shouldn’t have shown his teeth. Now he’d made their pack more of a target.
Roarak had clapped his shoulder and told him they had to go home to inform the others and set up a schedule to guard Sam. Zev always kept his distance from Sam, not because he disliked him, but Sam was a precog, and Zev feared he’d be able to tell things about him if he stayed close.
“What can I get you?”
Zev raised his head to meet Gerald’s gaze. “Whiskey.”
“Rough day?”
Zev sighed and eyed Gerald. Did he know about what went bump in the night? He most likely did. The way he’d told Zev he didn’t want any trouble made him think he did.
“The worst.”
Gerald tilted his head. “Anything I should know about?”
Ah, definitely someone aware of there being things going on in the city that didn’t show on the surface. Zev shrugged. “Nah, I think you’re fine.” He hoped.
The bar was in their area, or the area they considered theirs—the Bloodclaws didn’t agree.
“Internal or external problems?”
Zev grinned. “You surprise me, Gerald.”
Gerald raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
Zev snorted. “You’re human.”
“I am, but I’ve known Otis a long time, and I’ve owned this bar for a long, long time.” He poured Zev’s whiskey. “I should retire, but I worry.”
“About?”
“Otis. This is where he comes when he starts over. I don’t know where he’d end up if I closed.”
Zev frowned. Otis had lived far longer than Gerald had. “I’m sure he’d be fine.”
Gerald shook his head. “He doesn’t have anyone. He hides from other…” He looked around. “…of his kind, and—” He shook his head.
“And?” Hides? His heart beat faster. Was Otis in danger? He should come by more often just to make sure he was okay.
“I know he can take care of himself, he’s no fool, but he’s vulnerable.”
“You’re his dayman?”
“Dayman?”
“You’re not.” Zev took a sip of the whiskey.
“I don’t think he has one.”
“Then he is vulnerable.”
“Who is?” Otis swept in through the door and leaned against the bar next to Zev. Zev turned on his stool to invite Otis to come closer. “Good morning. You’re up early.” He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar. The sun had set ten minutes ago.
“I woke up thirsty. Rum, please, Gerald.”
Zev narrowed his eyes. “Should you start your day with alcohol?”
“You’re willing to donate something more substantial?”
For a second, Zev considered it, but one sip and Otis would know he wasn’t a normal shifter. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
Otis pursed his lips. “But you’re not repulsed by it?”
Repulsed? “Why would I be?”
“Shifters normally are. Killing cute, innocent bunnies when running around as wolf is fine and dandy, but taking a sip from someone’s neck or elsewhere—” He wiggled his eyebrows. “—is appalling.”
Zev chuckled and shook his head. Heat shot through him as he pictured Otis’ mouth on him. “Nah, you’re fine with me.” He shouldn’t have said that. “Are you sure you should be drinking rum before breakfast? Don’t you have a donor on your payroll?” He’d believed all vampires had donors at hand.
“Are you my mother? I have no memory of her, but I find it hard to believe she’d look like you.”
Zev shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
“No, I don’t think there ever will be one for me. We turn to ash, you know.”
Zev rubbed his forehead. He didn’t have the energy to keep up the banter.
Otis stiffened, and Zev instantly looked around the room in search of a threat.
“You smell wrong.”
“What?” Zev gave up on finding a threat by the empty tables and looked at Otis.
“You smell… Your scent is spicy or it was spicy the other day, now it’s woodsier.”
Stupidly, Zev pulled in a breath. “I’ve been working with wood.”
“No, that’s not it.” Otis’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been around wolves? Other wolves, I mean?”
“Well, yeah, I live with five of them.”

The Drunken Dog

Zev Nightfall has a secret. For two years, he’s been the beta in a loosely knitted werewolf pack, but he’s not a werewolf. He’s a crossbreed, part wolf, part fae, which is a death sentence in most packs. That’s not his only problem. One night he meets Otis, a vampire. Shifters and vampires aren’t friends, yet fighting is the last thing on Zev’s mind.

Otis Miller is in the middle of rebuilding his rockstar persona. Again. A hundred years ago, all he had to do was to move when people started noticing him not ageing. With cameras and social media, it doesn’t work anymore, and he isn’t sure he has the energy to start over. Then there is the shifter coming to the bar where he’s singing. He makes Otis want to jump off the stage and never look back.

Zev knows he shouldn’t get involved with a vampire; he has enough problems as it is. But Otis is alone and vulnerable, and it tugs at Zev’s heartstrings. Normally, Otis stays away from other supernatural beings, but something about Zev makes him want to curl up on his lap and forget about the world around them. But how would two people from enemy species make things work, and will Zev’s pack ever accept not only a crossbreed but a vampire as well?

JMS Books

Amazon

Everywhere Else

About Ofelia

Ofelia Gränd is Swedish, which often shines through in her stories. She likes to write about everyday people ending up in not-so-everyday situations, and hopefully also getting out of them. She writes romance, contemporary, paranormal, Sci-Fi and whatever else catches her fancy.

Her books are written for readers who want to take a break from their everyday life for an hour or two.

When Ofelia manages to tear herself from the screen and sneak away from her husband and children, she likes to take walks in the woods…if she’s lucky she finds her way back home again.

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Ellie Thomas: Spice of Life

Today Ellie is dropping in to talk about some of the research behind her new historical romance. She’s a regular visitor and you can catch up with her always-interesting past posts here!

Thank you so much again, Ally, for having me as your guest today! (Ally: You’re welcome, Ellie!) I’m Ellie Thomas, and I write Gay Historical Romance. In this blog, I’m chatting about The Spice of Life which is my story for a Valentine’s Sugar or Spice submissions call for JMS Books.

After lurking around the 18th century for a few stories, I thought it timely to return to the reign of Elizabeth I. My other Tudor tale, Stage Struck, is set in the world of Elizabethan theatre in 1590’s London. This is a topic for which I have a lasting passion and have read around and taught about for many years.

So I decided to set myself a challenge and get out of my comfort zone and place The Spice of Life a couple of decades earlier in the 1570s amongst the merchant classes and gentry of London. Then I promptly panicked and convinced myself I knew nothing!

That was the cue to reach for my overstuffed bookshelves and my go-to author about all things Tudor, Ruth Goodman. What makes this author so special is that she is a living historian. For television programmes and her independent research, she has spent much of her career living as someone would in the past, with Tudor times being her speciality. Her books are crammed full of detailed observations about how ordinary people lived. As well as giving the reader a wealth of knowledge, Ruth Goodman’s writing is always entertaining and often very humorous, so a fun read.

The two books I dipped into for my research were How to be a Tudor and the splendidly titled How to Behave Badly in Renaissance Britain. Fortunately, I had read them both before, otherwise, I would have got horribly sidetracked, and my story would never have been written!

Having chosen my main character Gregory to be a serving man, I was reminded about the Tudor custom of such employment. Unlike later eras, where being a servant was a job for life, this was a transitional role for young people, as working in a household was regarded as training for an independent future. The same goes for Gregory’s love interest, Jehan. As an apprentice, he would have expected to learn how to become a spice merchant in his own right. So when Jehan gets into trouble through no fault of his own, he has a great deal to lose!

I also learnt details about the pomander, an object which is pivotal to my plot. These canisters contained perfume to ward off noxious smells of the city streets and ranged from something as simple as a lavender bag to costly containers filled with expensive resin, like the one that causes all the mayhem in my story. My imagination was caught by Ruth Goodman’s gorgeous description of a pomander, when worn by a lady, releasing its perfume every time it knocked against her skirts with each step.

Also, her detailed description of Tudor underwear (or lack of it) and the ins and outs of the workings of codpieces were vital for the love scene between Gregory and Jehan. Essential knowledge!

As the story played out in my mind, I could picture Gregory scurrying around London, trying his best to help his beloved Jehan escape danger. It was a boon to have such a reliable source to check those little details of Tudor life to help my story come alive.

The Spice of Life

At twenty years of age, Gregory Fletcher is content with his life, biding his time as a serving lad for kindly, wealthy relatives in Elizabethan London. Sometimes, he wishes for a spark of excitement in his staid existence. The occasional glimpse of Jehan Zanini, the handsome apprentice of a local merchant, adds spice to his dreams.

Out of the blue, Jehan is accused of stealing from an aristocratic customer. Gregory fears he may never see him again and is concerned for Jehan’s liberty and even his life. When Gregory gets the chance to help Jehan escape his fate, he grasps the opportunity without hesitation.

Can Gregory engineer Jehan’s flight from London and the authorities? Might he even clear Jehan’s name? And will their adventure draw them closer or fling them apart forever?

Buy The Spice of Life

Extract:

“Do you have anywhere to go?”Gregory asked.
“Other than trying to reach my uncle in Southwark, no,” Jehan replied.
“Right, then. I can find you a place to rest up for the day, and we’ll make a plan from there,” Gregory said decisively. He attached the leads to the patiently waiting dogs, and with an encouraging smile at Jehan, he said, “This way,” and the ill-assorted foursome left the field.
The dogs had expended their spare energy racing around the field and were content to trot at Jehan’s slower speed, since his limbs were stiff after a chilly night lying on the hard ground. “Where are we going?” he asked tentatively as they walked into the city.
“My family home, at least that of my master, off Bishopsgate,” Gregory said briefly as they turned onto that thoroughfare and passed St. Helen’s church.
“Wait here,” he said as they arrived at the side gate he had unbolted for his morning walk with the dogs. He pushed it open and peered into the yard, which was still quiet and empty.
“Follow me,” he said to Jehan, and the men and hounds crossed the yard towards a cluster of outbuildings, some of which were much older than the house itself. At the back of these was a small barn, sometimes used as an apple store, but currently unoccupied. While mulling over the problem of where to hide Jehan, this seemed the perfect spot.
Gregory opened the door and was pleased that the shed was dry and sound. He jerked his head towards the half-loft. “You get yourself up there, and I’ll find you some blankets.”
Jess and Roamer were content to explore this new place quietly, snuffling around as Gregory went into the stables as stealthily as he could and found some old horse rugs that wouldn’t be missed.
He let himself back into the barn and climbed the makeshift ladder to the loft, where Jehan was waiting, looking slightly lost. “Here you are,” he said, spreading a blanket over the covering of old straw on the planked floor. Jehan lay down obediently as Gregory knelt, heaping the rest of the blankets over him. “I should be able to get some food for you at dinner time,” he said.
Jehan’s eyes looked heavy already, “All I need to do right now is to get some sleep.” Then he hesitated and asked, “Why are you helping me?”
Looking down at that drawn, vulnerable face, Gregory thought, because you’re handsome and charming, and I have a liking for you, so it pains me to see you brought so low. But instead of voicing his thoughts, he said stolidly, “Such a charge could be brought against any of us. But for the grace of God, it could be me.”
“Thank you,” Jehan said, seemingly satisfied with that explanation, his eyelids closing. Gregory was so close to him that he could see the sweep of those long, dark eyelashes over Jehan’s pale cheek. Gregory imagined he could still perceive a hint of intoxicating spices from Jehan’s body as it warmed under the blankets. He ached to run his finger down the elegant cheekbone or even steal a kiss. But he contented himself to put a comforting hand on Jehan’s shoulder instead.
“You get some rest,” he said gruffly.

Buy The Spice of Life

About Ellie

Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical gay romance.

Ellie also writes historical erotic romance as L. E. Thomas.

Website : Facebook

Secrets on a Train – Nell Iris

Hi everyone, hi Ally and thanks for inviting me over. You’re always so kind and generous. ❤️ (Ally: BLUSHES)

Today, I’m here to talk about my newest release, Secrets on a Train.

A few months ago, JM Snyder of JMS Books was writing with Ofelia Gränd, Ally, and me in the morning office, and she told us about an idea she had for upcoming submission calls. One of them, “Sugar or spice,” caught my attention. The idea was to write a short story (between 6000 and 12000 long) and incorporate either sugar or spice as a theme.

That submission call idea burrowed itself into my brain and refused to let go, and even though there was another project that should have gotten my attention, I pushed that particular story back and threw myself into sugar or spice.

And I’m sure it’ll come as a surprise to no one familiar with my writing, that I gravitated towards sugar since my stories don’t tend to be hot and sizzling, but sweet and emotional. My sugar story, Secrets on a Train, is no different. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told Ally and Ofelia that I’ll probably be roasted for Secrets on a Train because there’s not even an on-page kiss.

Gasp.

I know, I know! That’s a bit extreme, even for me. I usually get at least one review with every book I release lamenting the lack of heat, and now my characters don’t even kiss? What were you thinking, Nell?

But let me assure you there’s plenty of flirting and heated glances and pin-striped crotches in this story. Okay, only one pin-striped crotch, but what I’m trying to say is that the lack of a kiss doesn’t mean a lack of chemistry because the sweetness of this story is of the literal kind. Sugar. It’s two strangers in the silent car on a train connecting when one of them pours not one, not two, but three packets of sugar in his to-go coffee. And who can resist the allure of so much sweetness? Not Runar, that’s for sure.

Secrets on a Train

It’s the fountain pens that capture Valentin’s attention on the morning commute, not the perfectly imperfect man who spends his train rides using them. Not his pinstriped suits, his chin-length hair, or his perpetually raised eyebrow. But one morning when the man strikes up a written conversation, Valentin gives up all pretense. It’s not just the pens. It’s the man. Runar.

The conversations continue, and the men get to know each other better, sharing secrets they’ve never told another soul. The connection is powerful, growing stronger with every encounter, every scribbled conversation, every scorching look. But can secrets shared on a train be enough to build a forever?

M/M Contemporary / 9889 words

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

About Nell

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bonafide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.

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Excerpt from Secrets on a Train

He taps the espresso cup with a quirked eyebrow, and I shake my head. No, I didn’t put sugar in his coffee. He tears off the lid and tosses back the coffee, as though it was a shot of whiskey, making me shudder.
“Bleurgh!” My exclaimation makes the old lady—who’s also traveling on this train every morning and has appointed herself the security guard of the silent car—shoots me a poisonous glare, and I mouth I’m sorry to her.
Laughter dances in Runar’s features and I make an exaggerated wince, my silent way of saying either “ouch” or “oops” or a combination of both.
Runar has written something in his notebook.
Thanks for the coffee. It was great. But why?
I point at the window and fake a shudder, and he nods as though he not only understood what I was trying to say but agreed, too. He underlines the word thanks and I smile and give him a thumbs-up without taking my eyes off what he’s written.
That purple ink. I can’t get over it. So far, he’s only used black or blue ink, serious colors to go with a serious-looking man, making his handwriting almost ominous. But the purple ink softens the sharp edges of his writing—turning the angry-looking slashes into swoops and swirls—and of the man himself.
I grab my phone off the table and tap out a question. What’s up with the purple ink?
He draws a big question mark on the paper, but his quirked eyebrow already asked the question.
It seems so…bubbly. You don’t give me a bubbly impression, so it surprised me.
Bubbly?
I nod.
Ink can be bubbly? The corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s holding back a smile.
Today’s pen is as sleek as a samurai sword. Your usual black slashes would be more in style.
His eyes crinkle. You’re keeping track of my pens?
I nod. You haven’t used the same one twice since I started sitting across from you.
My admission—revealing that I’ve watched him every day for weeks—could’ve, should’ve, made him wary of me. Scared him even. But nothing in his demeanor suggests that’s the case. Instead, he relaxes back into his seat, crossing his legs over the knees, brushing out invisible wrinkles of his already immaculate suit, smirking as he catches my gaze following his every movement. He wiggles his foot, smirk widening as he gets the desired effect of my complete attention.
I tear my gaze away to ask him another question. How many fountain pens do you own?
He slides his calf down his shin, slowly. When his foot hits the floor, he lets his knees fall open and his hands land on his thighs. He might as well have drawn a huge arrow pointing at his junk and written LOOK THIS WAY! with his irresistible purple ink.
So I oblige him. I look at his long legs, his powerful thighs that not even the fabric of his pants can hide. And I look at his bulge, embraced and emboldened by pinstripes. Tantalizing, promising hidden wonders, making me want to fall on my knees and bury my face in the V of his legs and inhale him. Ingest him.
I run a trembling hand through my hair and let my eyes wander up his body and meet his gaze.
He leans forward to pick up the pen, his eyes never leaving me. More than fifty, he writes without looking, his words veering off the lines. I have to read it three times before understanding.
Oh right. Fountain pens.

Buy links: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read

Ellie Thomas: A Midwinter Night’s Magic and a Midsummer Night’s Dream

This week Ellie is here to talk about her new release, A Midwinter Night’s Magic!

Thank you so much, Ally, for having me as your guest today! I’m Ellie Thomas, and I write Historical Gay Romance. In this blog, I’ll be chatting about A Midwinter Night’s Magic, my story for JMS Books’ Christmas submissions call.

While I was deciding whether to pick either the Naughty or Nice option for my seasonal story, for some reason, the impishly naughty Puck, from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, popped into my head. At first, I dismissed this as too outlandish even for me, but in the end, I couldn’t resist the storyline of mischievous Puck meets sedate Regency country house party. So the theme is decidedly Naughty!

In parallel to a typical Shakespearean comedy, my main character, Matthew Lewis, is an exasperated victim of circumstances. He mistakenly agrees to attend a Christmas country house party, only to be trapped there by heavy snow and with the former love of his life, Crispin Marley, whom he now loathes. If that isn’t enough, he is obliged to engage in a play reading of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to be performed on Christmas Day. As you can imagine, he’s not a happy bunny!

It was a delight and indulgence to revisit the play as the research for my story. As I’ve been fortunate enough to teach it many times over the years, I could recall the key events sufficiently to rough out my plot based on my amateur actors’ rehearsals.

I had such fun casting my characters in the roles to reflect their romantic circumstances. Matthew, who has a heck of a temper where Crispin is concerned, is an obvious Oberon, King of the Fairies, as he rages at his Queen, Titania. In some modern productions, Oberon and Theseus, Duke of Athens, are played by the same actor to reflect the two contrasting sides of one person. Oberon embodies passion and drama, whereas Theseus is all chilly diplomacy. It seemed ideal for the seemingly controlled Crispin to be the detached Theseus to Matthew’s fiery Oberon, emphasising the couple’s former bond and their current emotional chasm.

Abigail, the bossy young lady of the house whose idea it is to perform the play, has a mild attraction for Crispin and plays Hippolyta, Theseus’ future wife, unaware of Matthew and Crispin’s past attachment. Ironically, she casts a woebegone neighbours’ son (who is secretly in love with her) as Lysander, one of the four Athenian lovers, with his sister to make up the pair as Hermia. The Boltons, a young disaffected married couple, are Helena and Demetrius. To echo the script, Mr. Bolton shows far more interest in Hermia than in his languishing spouse. Then we have the daftly comedic enchanted pairing of Titania and Bottom the Weaver, played by Mrs. Robinson, a neglected wife with an errant husband and Mr. Grace, the jovial local vicar.

How could Puck resist magically interfering with all these possibilities for romantic confusion?

However, any meddling proves to be benign, and as in the play, the silliest liaison lasts only as long as the effects of the love potion. But for the truly-matched couples, especially my star crossed lovers, Matthew and Crispin, magic can only trigger the spark for reconciliation. After the stardust has settled, the rest is up to them.

I hope readers find this a twinkly feel-good Christmas tale that reflects the happy ending of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And so to finish, I can’t resist quoting Oberon’s blessing,

“So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be.”

A Midwinter Night’s Magic

In late 18th-century England, when Matthew Lewis accidentally accepts an invitation to a festive country house party, he vows to stay only for as long as is polite. However, not only is there a heavy snowfall to detain him but also, the guests are expected to take part in a recital of A Midsummer Night’s Dream on Christmas Day.

If amateur theatricals are not enough to contend with, the unexpected presence of former lover Crispin Marley is sent to try his frayed patience. The pair has had no contact since Crispin abandoned him with no explanation four years previously. Matthew is determined to feel nothing but enmity towards his lost love. But the influence of the play can change everything. Can Puck sprinkle a little fairy magic to bring this warring couple back together?

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Extract

Before going upstairs to prepare for the evening, Matthew made an excursion into the dining room on the far side of the main hallway to fortify himself with a glass of port. He approached the substantial sideboard where trays of glasses and an array of decanters were placed for guests to help themselves. So he was not surprised to hear the door open and close behind him, assuming it was another gentleman with a similar intention.
But the voice that spoke his name had him whirling around so fast that the port nearly spilled over the rim of the glass onto the expensive carpet. Crispin stood before him, tall, dark, and slightly forbidding, his expression neutral.
“Firstly, I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about your father’s passing last year,” he began. As Matthew stared at him in shock, Crispin took a deep breath before carrying on. “And I thought since we are obliged to be guests here together, to avoid an unpleasant atmosphere, that we should have a talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Matthew spat out, finding his voice, incensed by Crispin’s presumption.
“We have not seen each other for a long while and I thought...” Crispin began.
Matthew's temper began to build. “What? You thought that I would oblige you by making amends? You thought that enough time had passed so I was sure to have absolved you for walking out on me without a word?”
The expression on Crispin’s face froze. “I wanted to explain...”
“Now?” Matthew’s voice almost rose to a shout. He controlled his tone with effort, continuing in a fierce whisper, “You want to apologise to me now! After four years of complete silence, you assume you can walk back into my life and all would be forgotten?”
“I beg your pardon. I have made a mistake,” Crispin said, backing away from Matthew, his voice glacial.
Matthew took a combative step forward, “Too damned right you have,” he hissed. “We were in love, we planned a future together and you left me without any reason. Oh, of course,” he said, his voice thickening with sarcasm, “I forget. You left a note. What were the words? Let me recall. I’m sorry but I can’t do this. After more than three years of being inseparable, that was all the explanation you gave me, you total bastard!”
Matthew was beside himself with rage, all those painful, long-buried memories stirred up by Crispin’s ill-timed intervention. He was almost ready to fling his drink into Crispin’s face, only held back by the reservation that it was a waste of good port.
His adversary did not rise to the raging words and searing emotion, his countenance remaining expressionless. Cold-blooded bastard, Matthew thought furiously.
“As I said,” Crispin began in that cool, contained tone that made Matthew want to punch him, “This was an error in judgement. If you’ll excuse me, I will leave you now.”
Undisturbed by Matthew’s ire, he had the presence of mind to perform a bow before making a swift exit, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Matthew was shaking with fury. He turned around to place the glass on the tray before his fierce grasp snapped the delicate crystal stem. He put both hands on the surface of the sideboard, leaning over, fixing the port decanter with a glare, muttering, “bastard, bastard, bastard,” under his breath. The fact that Crispin-bloody-Marley had the gall to approach him expecting clemency fuelled his agitation to boiling point.

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