Hey all. I hope you have enjoyed sharing my anglophile obsessions, but as my books continue to sell wildly and I have more fan mail to sort through, and trying to stay focused on writing my latest book, I am going to have to close British Missives. But you can still stay in touch with me at www.theresestenzel.com and if your wanting to become part of my favorite readers loop and get free copies of my books, read the first chapter of my next book, be asked your opinion on a book title or a chapter, send me your e-mail at tmstenzel@cox.net and I'll add you to the list.
My e-books:
Blue Africa-set in turn-of-the-century British East Africa http://amzn.to/1aQ4218
The Pretend Princess-set in England incl.the mystery of the Hope Diamond http://amzn.to/M0On9C
Bride of Thistleloch Castle-set in the Highlands of Scotland http://amzn.to/1jr9GyG
A British Bride by Agreement-contemporary story with a British heroine http://amzn.to/1aNBrN0
Dunstable Park House-Victorian time travel--like Downton Abbey http://amzn.to/1eWvEUO
Incubation--coming out 2014
Therese Stenzel
British Missives
For those passionate for all things British.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Jane Austen Birthday
- Tomorrow, December 16th is Jane Austen's birthday.
Here is some information on her brief life.
English novelist Jane Austen is born on this day in 1775, the seventh of eight children of a clergyman in a country village in Hampshire, England. Jane was very close to her older sister, Cassandra, who remained her faithful editor and critic throughout her life. The girls had five years of formal schooling, then studied with their father. Jane read voraciously and began writing stories as early as age 12, completing a novella at age 14.
Austen's quiet, happy world was disrupted when her parents suddenly decided to retire to Bath in 1801. Jane hated the resort town and found herself without the time or peace and quiet required to write. Instead, she amused herself by making close observations of ridiculous society manners. After her father's death in 1805, Jane, her mother, and sister lived with one of her brothers until 1808, when another brother provided them a permanent home at Chawton Cottage, in Hampshire.
Jane concealed her writing from most of her acquaintances, slipping her writing paper under a blotter when someone entered the room. Though she avoided society, she was charming, intelligent, and funny, and had several admirers. She actually accepted the marriage proposal of a well-off friend of her family's, but the next day withdrew her acceptance, having decided she could only marry for love.
She published several more novels before her death, including Pride and Prejudice (1813), Mansfield Park (1814), and Emma (1815). She died at age 42, of what may have been Addison's disease. Nearly 200 years after her death, she is one of a handful of authors to have found enduring popularity with both academic and popular readers.
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel,
must be intolerably stupid." Jane Austen
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
FAVORITE CHRISTMAS FICTION
Compiled by Therese Stenzel
Top Recommendations
The Christkindls Gift by Kathleen
Morgan
Forever
Christmas by Chris Lynxwiler
A
Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Authors Most Mentioned
Angels Everywhere by Debbie Macomber
The Trouble With Angels by Debbie
Macomber
Those Christmas Angels by Debbie
Macomber
Where Angels Go by Debbie Macomber
Gideon's
Gift by Karen Kingsbury
Maggie's Miracle by Karen Kingsbury
Sarah's Song by Karen Kingsbury
Hannah’s Hope by Karen Kingsbury
Maggie's Miracle by Karen Kingsbury
Sarah's Song by Karen Kingsbury
Hannah’s Hope by Karen Kingsbury
The
Christmas Candle by Max Lucado
The Christmas Child by Max Lucado
The Christmas Child by Max Lucado
Christmas Novellas
A Bride by Christmas
Montana Mistletoe
Prairie Christmas
Victorian Christmas Quilt
General Fiction
A Carol for Christmas by Robin Lee
Hatcher
A
Christmas Memory by Truman Capote
A Christmas Story by Jean Shepherd
A Redbird Christmas by Fannie Flagg
A Texas Christmas Legacy by DiAnn Mills
A Christmas Story by Jean Shepherd
A Redbird Christmas by Fannie Flagg
A Texas Christmas Legacy by DiAnn Mills
A
Wish For Wings That Work by Berkeley Breathed
Boo
Humbug by Rene Gutteridge
Home Another Way by Christa Parrish
Miracle
On 34th Street by Valentine Davies
Old Christmas by Washington Irving
One Perfect Gift by Kathleen Morgan
Old Christmas by Washington Irving
One Perfect Gift by Kathleen Morgan
Skipping
Christmas by John Grisham
The
Angel Doll by Jerry Bledsoe
The Christmas Shoes by Donna VanLiere
The Shepherd, The Angel, and Walter The Christmas Miracle Dog by Dave Barry
Two from Galilee by Marjorie Holmes
The Christmas Shoes by Donna VanLiere
The Shepherd, The Angel, and Walter The Christmas Miracle Dog by Dave Barry
Two from Galilee by Marjorie Holmes
Monday, November 4, 2013
New British historical!
My latest e-novel, Dunstable Park House-A Victorian Time Travel Romance is available on Amazon! For fans of Downton Abbey you'll love this book. The link to the new historical is http://amzn.to/1hIYR8S
Here is the first chapter...
Here is the first chapter...
Present-Day
London, England
CHAPTER ONE
Visiting England
was better than death.
Brenna Keelin
stared out the window of her English tour bus at an early morning fog. The mist-swathed
countryside lay in a gray blanket that shrouded any view of the bright emerald
fields and crisp white sheep she’d hoped to see.
Just when Brenna
thought the gray view and the stale bus air might undo her well-organized to
plans to have a desperately-needed vacation, the bus finally drove past a sign
for Cambridge, the second stop on their two week tour of England.
The fog cleared
just enough to reveal an inn that could have been featured on a British
postcard, with its rose-tangled doorways and row upon row of centuries old
stacked-stone fencing protecting the perimeter.
“Come on,
Sleeping Beauty.” Brenna elbowed her sister Janelle, who dozed against the
padded headrest, her mouth gaping open. “We're here.”
Janelle slicked
on some lip-gloss, then followed Brenna out of the bus. Once they had loaded
themselves down with suitcases and bags, mostly Janelle's, Brenna lead the way
through the chilly air toward the pension, fought with an unforgiving revolving
door, and finally stumbled into a quaint lobby.
Brenna released
handles and shrugged straps until the luggage clunked to the floor. She
stretched to ease the ache in her shoulders. Looking around the reception room
at all the plates and platters hanging on the walls, she nodded at the décor.
Very British. “Like the place?” She looked for her sister.
Janelle was
chatting up their tour guide, Jacob.
Two hotel staff
we`re watching her from behind the desk, as Janelle was a blonde hair,
blue-eyed torpedo as their father used to call her. Any man in a ten-mile
radius would be under her allure.
“Well, I love
it,” Brenna said to no one in particular. She stepped toward a blue plate that
caught her eye. The plate showed a faded painting of a woman in a wedding
dress. An ache lodged in her chest. Her idle wedding dress still hung in her
closet. She wrapped herself with one arm, not sure this trip was such a good
idea. But it was better than wishing to be dead.
“We are in
England.” Janelle gave Brenna a hearty side hug. “Aren’t you happy now?”
“Yes,” Brenna pasted
on a smile. “Now all I need is a cup of tea.” She nodded at the hotel employee
who handed her a room key. “Thank you.”
“Oh Bren—you
sound just like an English woman,” Janelle whispered as they passed their
handsome leader on the way to their room. “What I need is a British boyfriend.
What do you think of Jacob our tour guide?”
“First, he’s
Austrian, oddly muscular, and a little like a football player who has taken a
few too many hits,” Brenna said as she unlocked the door and collapsed onto the
bed. “You need to find someone smart and reliable like Dad.
“You are
hopeless...lighten up.” Janelle fluffed her white-blonde hair in the mirror.
“And with your good looks, it wouldn’t do you any harm to start paying
attention to men again.”
“My good looks?
Oh please, don’t do that, I’ll humor my older sister thing. We all know who got
the beauty in the family.” Brenna playfully pulled on her sister’s hair. She
then leaned over and pulled out a stack of postcards she’d bought at the
airport, trying to think of whom to send them to.
“Bren, what’s
happened to you? You were the most sought after event planner in Virginia.
People booked you a year in advance.” Janelle flounced onto the bed. “Tell me
again why you quit.”
Brenna twirled a
lock of her hair around and around as was her habit whenever she felt
overwhelmed. “You know.” She had to admit, she did miss the excitement of her
previous job. “That last wedding I did really got to me. All those happy
people...I couldn’t stand there and smile, pretending nothing was wrong—”
A gentle knock
on their door distracted them.
Janelle bounded
up to answer it.
“Hello,” greeted
their brawny Austrian tour guide. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but a few of us
are going out to a pub. Want to come?”
“Sure thing.”
Janelle grabbed her jacket. “You want to go?”
“No, thanks.”
Brenna let go of her hair and pretended to get something from her suitcase.
“I‘m pretty tired.”
Jacob’s grin
dropped. “We won’t be out late.”
“I think I’ll
turn in early. I want to unpack, get organized.” She held up a book on English
history and fixed a smile in place. “But you all have fun—ah, Janelle, don’t
stay out too late.”
Janelle made a
face. “Brenna is never up passed ten. She’s an attached lady you know—I mean,
she used to be—” Janelle cast an, I’m sorry, look toward her sister. “Well, I
guess we’d better go.” Almost out the door, Janelle ran back into the room and
planted a kiss on her sister’s forehead. “Are you gonna be okay?” she asked.
But before
Brenna could answer, her sister skipped out the door.
Brenna sat on
the edge of the bed as her anxiety flowed through her veins like a champagne
fountain. This was better than suicide.
***
The next day,
the city of Cambridge worked its charm on Brenna with its outdoor markets and
quaint shops. But the most fascinating excursion took place on their second day
in the enchanting town, a ride in the long, narrow boats that glided on the Cam
River behind the colleges of Cambridge. Brenna felt her melancholy trailing
away as the view of the ancient bricked buildings along the water brought an
unbelievable sense of being back in time. It was as if one could just lean over
and touch history.
She held her
face up to a peek of sunshine, fighting to get through the gathering clouds. A
smile touched her lips as the short-lived warmth filled her body—until she
remembered the boat accident. The sail-boat that was discovered drifting off
the Virginia coast with no one aboard. The body of her fiancé that was never
found—
The boat rocked
as Jacob moved from his center seat and sat down next to her, his tight black
t-shirt bulging with muscles. “Are you looking forward to the rest of the
tour?”
“I’ve always
wanted to come to England.” She dipped her fingers in the cool water and a
shiver went up her spine.
Jacob flexed his
muscles and stretched his arm along Brenna’s back.
The smell of his
musky cologne filled her nose.
“Isn’t this trip
supposed to help you get over your loss?”
Brenna shook her
head. Janelle. Her gaze drifted to the college students lounging by the
river. The grassy slope that overlooked the water provided a quiet place for
them to read, talk, study. With Stephen gone, she had nowhere to feel safe. “I
think so. I mean yes, of course. I’ll be ready to get back to work as soon as
we’re home.”
“If you don’t
mind my asking…what happened?”
“My fiancé died
in a boating accident three months ago.” She nodded. It felt good to put the
horror of it all into one orderly sentence.
“I’m so sorry.
Do you think you’ll ever want to date again?” His arm tightened around her.
“I don’t know
when I’ll be ready for that.” She would never allow herself to be that
vulnerable again. She flitted her gaze away from Jacob’s steely blue eyes.
“Where did Janelle’s boat go? That girl, I turn my back for a second—”
“If you ever
want a private tour of Vienna,” he handed her his card. “I’d be very happy to
oblige.”
She read, Heit
World Tours: Jacob Heit-Tour Organizer and Guide.
“We have offices
in London, York, and Vienna. If you ever need anything, or if you are ever back
in England, call me.” Jacob’s voice sounded husky.
“I’ll remember
that.” She sat up straighter, distancing herself from his touch as she filed
his card in a card organizer in her purse. “So, where are we off to next?”
“The medieval
city of Yorkshire. One of my favorite places to visit.” Jacob raised his brows
and smiled mischievously.
“Oh really? So
what’s the surprise?”
He shook his
head. “No, no, it’s just that the settlement has retained so much of its
medieval structure, it’s like walking back in time. Very mysterious, that
village.”
“Really? In what
way?”
“You’ll see.”
His face was engulfed in an admiring grin, his eyes twinkling. “It used to be a
city of marshes before it was settled, so people often went missing.” He nudged
her shoulder. “It would be a good idea for you to stay close to me.”
Brenna widened
her gaze. “Okay, thanks for the warning.”
“Don’t worry, I
haven’t lost a client yet.”
***
Early in the
morning, the tour bus headed toward the city of York and its famous cathedral,
the York Minster. As Brenna and Janelle made their way up a crumbly set of
stone stairs and entered the Great West Door, a cool swath of air swept over
Brenna’s neck, sending a chill down her spine. The cold seemed to leach off the
ancient walls and seep into her bones.
Janelle was
decked out in a white fur vest, while Brenna went with sweats and jeans. She
was very proud of how organized her clothing selection was for the trip.
Sturdy, practical, multi-functional. No wonder she always felt like the
step-sister to Cinderella? She tucked her long hair behind her ears. After
being Janelle’s sister for eighteen years, you’d think she would be used to
being the wallflower by now. She rubbed at the chill in her arms as she
followed the tour group farther into the cathedral.
Brenna’s head
almost involuntarily swung upward toward the breath-taking vaulted ceiling. But
as she stepped forward, each of her steps thudded loudly. She cringed and
looked around at the fifteen or so other tour members in her group, but no one
else seemed to notice the sound.
“The York
Minster, England’s largest church, was constructed beginning in 1220 and was
completed in 1472...” Jacob motioned their group forward as he began his
lecture.
Half an hour
into the tour, Brenna drifted from her sister’s side, to admire the beautiful
stained-glass windows. A sense of holiness filled the air around her. Perhaps,
it was the vaulted ceiling, or the other-worldly quietness that lulled one into
a sense of peace. The vast size of the cathedral made her feel small, as if
there was a world beyond what she could see. Hope rose in her heart. Maybe
there could be a new start for her just around the bend.
As she walked
farther down, well beyond her travel companions, she rounded the corner to the
middle section of the Minster. She stepped up into a semi-circle shaped alcove
that overlooked the rear of the church. Right in her line of vision was a
small, wooden door.
With a glance
over her shoulder, she stepped over and gave the aged door a gentle tug. Poking
her head in, and peering up to the left, the smell of dank, musty drafts filled
her senses. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a set of narrow,
wooden stairs. Dust and glistening particles hung in the air, illuminated by a
shaft of light coming down from the top where there was an opening.
Brenna continued
to study the stairway, as if, for a brief second, she could hear the tread of
shoes and the rustle of skirts climbing up the wooden corridor. She had the
sense of touching time, if one could do such a thing.
She glanced
behind her to find only a few tourists taking pictures in the distance, none of
whom were paying any attention to her. Adjusting her purse straps farther up on
her shoulder, she licked her lower lip. A compelling longing to climb the
stairs overcame her normal reserve and fear of doing the wrong thing. She
pressed forward. The door closed behind her with a thud like the final gong of
a clock. The passage was a tight fit, but she could just make it through. The
sense of countless days gone by seemed engraved into the space. If only these
walls could talk…
Each wooden step
creaked and protested her unfamiliar weight as glistening particles swirled
around her. She ran her hands along the roughhewn walls. The same walls that
people from centuries ago had touched. The enclosed area made her heart race as
the sound of her careful tread echoed around her. An intoxicating sense of
destiny beckoned her forward. What was at the top of these stairs?
She wiped the
moisture from her forehead. Further and further she continued. Something
important waited for her, some discovery. Curiosity propelled her up the
cramped steps to what? A secret passage way? A hidden room? She cast a look
behind her at the steps that disappeared into the darkness. She swallowed. What
was she doing?
Once she reached
the top, she stepped out onto a choir loft that overlooked the back of the
church. Brushing some of the dust and smudges from her jeans and dark gray
sweatshirt, she imagined herself singing in the church. But as she looked over
the rear of the Minister, she frowned. Where had all the tourists gone?
Everyone had vanished, except for one cleaning woman, sweeping the floor
between rows of wooden pews. The scrape of a straw broom was all that could be
heard.
Brenna craned
her neck, leaning over the balcony to get a better view of the front of the
church, trying to see her sister, Jacob, or any of the tour group. The
cathedral looked vacant and deathly quiet except for a few people dressed in
some sort of Victorian costumes coming down the walkway. Were they getting
ready to put on a play?
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
English Life in the 1500's
Found
by Therese Stenzel (Not sure who the author is)
|
The next time you are washing your hands
and complain because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, think
about how things used to be. Here are some facts about the 1500s:
Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May, and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they were starting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, Don't throw the baby out with the Bath water.. Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. Hence the saying . It's raining cats and dogs. There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house.. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence. The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, Dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway. Hence the saying a thresh hold. In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while. Hence the rhyme, Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.. Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could, bring home the bacon. They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and chew the fat. Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous. Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust. Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake. England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift.) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a ...dead ringer. |
Friday, July 26, 2013
AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE IN LONDON excerpt two
In 1998, my accountant
husband said the three little words all anglophiles long to hear, "move to
England." So we packed up our two boys and our belongings and shipped off to
Bedfordshire for eight months with his company.
An excerpt from my
non-fiction as yet unpublished book;
An American Housewife in
London
One weekend My husband
and I and our two young sons had the original idea to travel to old English
town of Cambridge, but when we got there, to our surprise we found there was an
entire tourist industry set up and running to service our original idea.
The drive to Cambridge
was like a trip back in time. We drove past crumbly old kirks, thatched roofed
cottages, cobblestone streets, and meadows that revelaed a patchwork of farms
and fields. Cambridge is a beautiful historical town with an
"oldy-worldy" feel to it.
The highlightof our
visit was a trip to Cambridge University which is not one university but
thrity-one distinct colleges. Our favorite was King's College. The first stone
was laid in 1441 and was completed in 1515. It contains a dark oak screen that
was a gift from King Henry VIIIth and bears his initials and those of Anne
Boleyn.
But one of these visits
was life-threatening to our one and half year old son. Benjamin was sitting in
his stroller, sucking on a lollipop, when all of a sudden he started making
these awful strangling noises. I paniked. Immediately I tried to get him out of
the stroller but in my hysteria I couldn't get the clasp released. My husband
pushed me out of the way and calmly undid it. My mind raced with --where was
the closest ER? We had parked miles away how would we get to our van in time?
Could an ambulance pull up to a chapel built in 1441?
Benjmian's eyes were
bulging as we slapped his back over and over, finally he threw up the lollipop
and everything else in his stomach all over the himself, the stroller and the
ancient chapel floor. I grabbed my son and hugged him firmly to my chest.
A few weeks later, a
friend who was with us at the time put the incident into an amusing news flash.
AP Newswire--The
building and grounds of Cambridge University will reopen their chapel after an
unforeseen shutdown over the weekend. The grounds were closed after an incident
involving some American tourists. Apparently, the youngest member of the group
expelled large quantites of gastric fludis onto the sacred stones of King's
Chapel. Chapel officals reported that the situation seemed to escalate when a
blonde-haired woman tried to dismantle a stroller with her bare hands to
release the child. Onlookers were agast as the object finally dislodged from
the child's throat, shot fifty meters across the courtyard, bounced off a
statue, and impaled a pigeon."
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE IN LONDON
In 1998, my accountant husband said the three little words all
anglophiles long to hear. "Move to England." So we packed up our two
boys and our belongings and shipped off to Bedfordshire for 8 months with his
company for the adventure of a lifetime..
An excerpt from my non-fiction as yet unpublished book;
An American Housewife in London
“Oh, for an American
bathroom.” I would mutter as I sat in a bathtub in the early morning hours.
Unbelievably, our seven-year-old English home did not possess a shower. So
every morning, as my husband was shaving, I sat in a pale pink tub, covered in
frothy bubbles, relaxing when I should be trying to wake up. I soon discovered
that bathtubs, not showers had always been the custom in English bathroom.
I noticed this
bewildering attachment to tradition over and over during our stay. The homes in
our neighborhood were not hundreds of years old, most had been built in the
last ten years, but baths were simply how it was done and how it would be done
regardless of modern inventions like an invigorating, hot shower.
In contrast, Americans
are known to be constantly looking for a new and better way to get things done.
A throw-the-tradition-out-with-the-bath-water kind of attitude. In my humble
opinion, a steaming, brisk shower would be more efficient in the morning, but
in British minds, baths were far cozier, and in England, coziness was next to
godliness.
Our master English
bathroom was quite large, but we missed our familiar spacious sprawling counter
top framed with a large mirror and individual double sinks. Instead, this room
had one tall thin sink and one tiny slip of a mirror. There was no linen
closet. Actually, the entire house had no closets rather the English tended
toward using an armoire in the bedroom, or had closets built in around the bed.
Our bathroom’s sink’s
were quite confusing too. There were two spigots pouring into the sink. One had
hot water and the other cold. But how did one mix the two without scalding one
hand and freezing the other? The English may have been credited with inventing
the bathroom in the 1800’s, but us Yanks made them much more comfortable.
Three months later,
despite being in a rental home, we paid to have a shower put in!
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