Sunday, July 26, 2015

ROAN ROSE ~ Love Comes to Rose

It's more than loyalty for Rose. There's love, too.

My flat girl's chest pressed against his wool and linen padded jousting jacket. Even through thirty layers of fabric, I swear, I could feel his heart beat.  I could smell him, too, the sweat and horses of the tilting yard, his dark, sun-warmed hair. Strawberries spilled into the grass. In that instant, with strong boy's arms locked around me, my life changed forever.


            And why should this have been so important? I have plowed and planted beside a prudent, hardworking husband. I have borne and raised children of whom I am devilishly proud. I have healed the sick of every kind, and soothed the passage from this world of those I could not save.

            I have taught the lore of herbs. I have brewed a famous ale, to the benefit of my family. Why should a kiss, a mere trial by a royal boy, be so perfectly remembered?

Juliet Waldron
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ISBN:   978-149224158X


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Friday, July 17, 2015

ANGEL'S FLIGHT ~ Beginning the Round Robin

Angel's Flight now on $.99 sale

The bluebird quilt, the heart of the story, is inspired by a single piece.

“Here. Before I forget.” Minerva broke into her thoughts. Slipping a long, fair hand into a pocket, her friend removed a single, neatly pressed rectangle of printed calico.

“Oh! Just look!” The print—destined to be the center of a quilt Angelica and her friends had planned to sew round robin—was a distraction. On an ivory background, a pair of bluebirds flew on either side of a brown nest containing a clutch of eggs. It was a triumph of the most modern method of textile printing, executed by a craftsman who had used a Dutch nature print for his inspiration.

“This is from a Philadelphia shop,” Minerva replied. “Even my William allows it is as handsomely done as any English piece he’s seen.”

“What a wonderful choice for our center! Such a sweet scene— and so many nice colors to work with!”

~~ Juliet Waldron
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Friday, July 10, 2015

ANGEL'S FLIGHT ~ Angelica's American Revolution ~

~A dangerous war time journey awaits~
 Now on sale $.99 at Amazon:


"Such dull clothes on that extremely good looking Mr. Carter!  Like a Boston merchant." Aunt Laetitia had been the first to bring up the mystery man.

Swaying in the cold darkness inside her aunt's coach, Angelica had replied, "Minerva Bradford says he has retired from the army, but he carries himself like a military man."

"Quite. His Excellency received Mr. Carter with great civility. In conversation, he was most charming, but he does not look like the Dorset Carters at all. I knew that family very well, and they are always brown," her Aunt said with decision. "Quite brown, eyes, skin and hair. The Carters all have freckles, too. Carter cannot possibly be his name."

"But, Aunt Laetitia, it seems most unlikely that the Governor would have received Mr. Carter without knowing exactly who he was. He told me he was going to some family land by Kingston."

"Yes, so he said when we were with Lady Tryon," her aunt replied. "'Tis a bad time for a visit north."

"Exactly what Minerva said."

"Those dirty rebels will no doubt try to execute him on some trumped up charge. A terrible pity, for he is obviously a gentleman of good breeding."

"I have an idea," Angelica replied, "that Mr. Carter knows how to take care of himself."

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~ Juliet Waldron ~

Friday, July 3, 2015

NIGHTINGALE ~ Friday Freebit

To Klara's delight, her musician sweetheart is also a cat lover.
“My grandfather is a keeper of cats,” Akos spoke into the silence. “Ever since I was small, I’ve always had one of my own. Actually,” he said with a smile, “as you perhaps know, a better description of the situation might be that I belong to the cat.”

Klara smiled. His interest in Satz was not feigned.

“And what is your cat like?”

“In my case, I am owned by a queen cat, a lady of many colors. Her name is Zuzanna. She is a good mother and a fine mouser.”

“What happens to all the kittens?” Klara knew that was another thing Max hated about cats, their fertility.

“Zuzanna is populating the Prince’s palace thoroughly, but her kittens are beautiful and find homes.”

“Fortunate for them,” said Klara. She knew that surplus kittens were generally given to servants to drown. She’d be hard pressed to give such an order herself.

“Cats are discriminating about whose life they enter. If a cat trusts you, it is a great compliment.”

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~Juliet Waldron ~
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Friday, June 26, 2015

ROAN ROSE ~ Friday Freebit

A peasant girl's life will change forever.

"I observed your apprentice."
The Countess looked better. As her lady-in- waiting had suggested, she had called for mother early the next day. She did not, however, speak of herself, but seemed inclined to other matters.

"She is my daughter, your ladyship."

"She is young."

"It is never too early to study the craft, Milady."

The Countess nodded. Her great gray eyes turned thoughtfully upon me.

"You wish her to follow you."

"I do hope and pray she will, Milady of Warwick, God willing."

"Her touch hath healing. How does she in your garden?"

"Well, Milady. She is my eldest, obedient and clever."

"Come here, child."

I did as I was told. Sunlight fell precipitously through a window, a sudden break in the eternal galloping clouds of spring. I was walking, although I did not know it, into another world.

The Countess stretched out a long-fingered white hand. I had never seen so many glistening jewels. They danced before my eyes like blue and red stars.

"Give the Countess your hand, child!" From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered a jab between my shoulder blades. Thus prompted, my small freckled fingers met the elegant hand of the lady.

"Such beautiful eyes!" Hers met mine and I knew that her spirit was exactly as hard and as brilliant as those jewels upon her fingers.

"What is your name, child?"


"Rosalba—White Rose."
The name made her smile and once more I was astonished. Unlike most breeding women of our village, she had all her teeth....

~ Juliet Waldron
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Friday, June 19, 2015


  Betsy travels home with a sick child, leaving her husband alone and at work for the government in Philadelphia.


It had been warm for the past few days, an unpleasant echo of the city from which she’d fled, but today those welcome cloud castles were once more on the prowl. Under the shade of an ancient apple tree red cows ruminated, flopping their tails against the flies. Betsy moved quickly, but as she passed beneath the original decrepit denizens of the orchard, with their thick trunks, a childhood memory gave her pause.

Looking up, she found that she’d come beneath the same tree she’d climbed into all those long years ago. It was scarred and had lost limbs, but it still stood, much as she remembered. She thought of the terror she’d felt imagining more Indians lurking in the woods behind the potato patch, scalping knives sharp.

Gone forever!
No more would brown half-brothers arrive from the forest to collect manhood presents. At Albany there were hardly any Indians anymore, the great tribes shriveled to almost nothing by war, white man's incursion and disease. Their cruelty and their kindness, their knowledge, their mystery—all vanishing from the land along with their totem brothers—the moose and the beaver, the bear and the wolf.

A gust of wind caught her attention. Aroused by the sight of black clouds west, Betsy lifted her arms to the sky. Her sleeves fell back and there was her own brown skin, green veins, the pulse and whisper of the new life she carried in her belly.

Had that love of place, the compulsion that always drove her home, come from an unknown ancestress, a woodland woman whose child some Dutch ancestor had brought home?
Or is just that I was born and bred here, and the food which fed me in childhood came from this earth, drunk through the roots of Papa's fields and fruit trees? This land, here by this river--it's is part of my flesh, too.
~Juliet Waldron
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Friday, June 12, 2015



Betsy thought Alexander had been busy before, but since the new government of the United States had formed, it seemed as if weeks passed with little more than a peck on the cheek, or a body which crawled into their bed in the middle of the night and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Happily, Angelica arrived from England for a visit. Her arrival was like a whirlwind. She gathered Betsy beneath her wing and they sailed away from the preoccupied husband up the river to their father’s house. Mrs. Church’s children were stowed at schools in England, but Betsy’s brood came with their mother.

Their parents were delighted to see them and soon it was as if they were girls again. Betsy was relieved of child care. There were servants, doting grandparents, and two aunts young enough to be playmates for the little Hamiltons.

Angelica and Betsy slept together, as they’d done as children. Lying in late at night or early in the morning, they whispered to each other, confidences about husbands. Angelica hinted that in the fast society in which she’d been moving in France and England, she and John had both had lovers. Those tales of amorous hide-and-seek, of midnight entrances and hairbreadth escapes were incredibly wicked, but exciting, too.

Angelica spoke of a world Betsy could hardly imagine, tales of gambling parties with Dukes and Princes where fortunes were won and lost, of operas and night-long balls, of champagne theater parties and trips to the races. Her long-fingered hands, gesturing extravagantly, glittered with jewels. Her conversation was liberally larded with French.

Angelica had got what she’d always wanted, an escape from the dull Dutch Hudson, from the life of a “Provincial.” She had seen the French Court, had been presented to the Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, at a formal levee. She and John had visited the famous Mr. Jefferson, now ambassador there, had dined and hunted with the Marquis de Lafayette and his wife.

In England, she’d dined and danced in company which often included “Prinny,” the Prince of Wales, the Duchess of Devonshire, and the highest society. Nevertheless, her old restlessness seemed undiminished. Somewhat to Betsy’s surprise, Angelica often spoke dismissively of her handsome husband and displayed a dissatisfaction which Betsy found hard to understand.

One morning while Angelica slept in, Mrs. Schuyler remarked to Betsy, “Our Angelica hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Yes, and why is that, Mama? She has everything she has always wanted—and more.”
“Unlike us, my dear, she was born restless. She will never change.”
Angelica Schuyler Church, infant and maid, painted by Joshua Reynolds
~Coming soon~
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