Book 2 in The Daughters of Bainbridge House series ~ Filled with the mystique of London society and the charming beauty of the English countryside, A Flight of Fancy explores what it means to find the true source of happiness and love amid the distractions of life. Readers will love the next installment in this rousing Regency series from accomplished author Laurie Alice Eakes.
A Flight of Fancy
Date Released:
10/01/2012
Our story begins in August of 1812 in London, England. Cassandra Bainbridge may be a bit of a bluestocking ~ an educated, intellectual woman, but when Geoffrey Giles is near, love seems a fine alternative to passion for Greek and the physics of flight. With his dashing good looks and undying devotion to her, the earl of Whittaker sets Cassandra's heart racing with his very presence. It seems his only flaw is his distaste for ballooning, the obsession that consumes so much of her thoughts.
Cassandra has twice set aside her scholarly pursuits--once for the London Season and once for her wedding preparations. Love seems a wonderful alternative to study, until disaster strikes. When an accident brings an end to her betrothal, she heads for the country to recover from both her injuries and her broken heart. With time on her hands and good friends to help her, she pursues her love for ballooning and envisions a future for herself as a daring aeronaut. But when Lord Whittaker slips back into her life, will she have to choose between him and her dream?
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. --Psalm 34:18
Are Cassandra's good intentions marred by others around her? Is her father who he appears to be? Is Geoffrey free to live his honor or be blackmailed into the somber actions he would not choose?
Every kingdom divided against itself is ruined. A house divided against itself falls. --Luke 11:17b
A page-turner to find out the turmoil brewing in these turbulent times erases any presumption on the part of the reader. A Flight of Fancy is deeper than the balloon sketching and math calculations to keep it afloat. Laurie Alice Eakes has a depth of discovery to be explored as this pair
travels ~ separately, or together? And what of her younger sister who is
waiting in the wings? Honore is watching and waiting...
It is to be seen if she lives up to her name. Her story is next. But,
before we go there, enjoy A Flight of Fancy as we continue from Book 1
to find out the happenings of The Daughters of Bainbridge House and
their travels. Each book can be read as a "stand-alone" as the action within is enough to keep you busy connecting-the-dots. A family or two to be reckoned with. A tale of suspense and love tied into one in this Historical Fiction novel set in the times of upheaval for all, however hidden by their daily lives. 
 |
| Laurie Alice Eakes |
When young widow Lady Lydia Gale helps a
French prisoner obtain parole, she never dreamed he would
turn up in her parlor. But just as the London Season is
getting under way, there he is, along with a few other
questionable personages. While she should be focused on
helping her headstrong younger sister prepare for her entré into
London society, Lady Gale finds herself preoccupied with the
mysterious Frenchman. Is he a spy or a suitor? Can she trust
him? Or is she putting her family in danger?
Readers will enjoy being drawn into this world of
elegance and intrigue, balls and masquerades. Author Laurie
Alice Eakes whisks readers through the drawing rooms of
London amid the sound of rustling gowns on this exciting
quest to let the past stay in the past and let love guide
the future.
Honore, the third sister in the Daughters of Bainbridge series: Honore’s
story, A Reluctant Courtship, will be released in the autumn of 2013.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Thank you to Revell Blog Tour for inviting me to join the blog tour for Book 2 in the Daughters of Bainbridge House series, A Flight of Fancy. I received a copy of this book in exchange for my review in my own words. Revell,
a division of
Baker Publishing Group, began over 125 years ago when D. L. Moody and his brother-in-law
Fleming H. Revell saw the need for practical books that would help bring
the Christian faith to everyday life. From there, Fleming H. Revell
Publishing developed consistently solid lists which have enjoyed the
presence of many notable Christian writers over the years. This same
vision for books that are both inspirational and practical continues to
motivate the Revell publishing group today. Whether publishing fiction,
Christian living, self-help, marriage, family, or youth books, each
Revell publication reflects relevance, integrity, and excellence. They publish resources from a
variety of well-known brands and authors, including their partnership with MOPS
(Mothers of Preschoolers) and Hungry Planet.
Enjoy Chapter 1
A Flight of
Fancy
The Daughters of
Bainbridge House Series- #2
By Laurie Alice Eakes
1
August 1812
Crowds swarmed around and jostled
against the Whittaker carriage, slowing its progress from a trot to a
crawl. Thick, oily smoke from torches penetrated the interior. Velvet
curtains and cushions reeking of pitch felt ready to smother Miss
Cassandra Bainbridge, who was already hot on this August night.
“I think we would be better off
walking in the crowd than riding in here.” She clutched her rose
satin reticule in one hand and gripped her fiance’s arm with the
other, as though ready to spring from the vehicle at any moment,
which she was. “Perhaps we could take refuge in someone’s drawing
room until these bacchanalians go home.”
Beside her, Lord Geoffrey Giles, Earl
of Whittaker, chuckled and covered her hand with his. “Only you
would use a word like bacchanalian to describe a crowd of drunken
debauchery.”
“It is the proper word for those who
have celebrated too freely with drink.” She glared at him down her
long Bainbridge nose, though she could see little of his face in the
gloom inside the carriage. “What should I call them?”
“The right word, of course.”
Whittaker shrugged, then moved his hand from her gloved fingers to
her nose, to the place where her mirror warned her a crease was
already forming between her eyes. Not that what her mirror said
mattered much to Cassandra. That crease came from hours of honest
study. She gripped her reticule more tightly, as it held the efforts
of her latest project—the design of a balloon—and leaned toward
Whittaker’s hand. Since the renewal of their engagement in June,
the slightest brush of his fingertips came close to distracting her
from thoughts of ballooning and Greek translations, and most
definitely from wild, celebratory crowds worked to a fever pitch over
Wellington finally winning a decisive battle against Napoleon’s
troops in Spain. If Whittaker moved his hand to her cheek—
A throng of young men slammed against
the side of the carriage, tilting it onto two wheels. The horses
whinnied and the coachman shouted. Cassandra screamed, a short burst
of a cry, and Whittaker wrapped his arms around her, upsetting her
elaborate coiffure and sending her hair tumbling around her
shoulders. Her hair and Whittaker’s shoulder shielded her face
against his coat lapel.
“Le’s ‘ave a tide,” the drunken
youths shouted in speech so slurred as to be scarcely comprehensible.
“Don’ be shelfish, arishtocrat.”
“Lord Mayor’s already stingy with
t’luminations.”
“More light. More light.” The chant
grew deafening.
Cassandra shivered now despite the
heat. The men sounded angry, not celebratory. “They’re angry over
too few illuminations to celebrate the victory?”
“C’mon, Whittaker, open up.” The
rattle of the door handle accompanied the command. “We ‘card yer
lady.”
“They know your carriage.”
Cassandra raised her head. “But why would they assault you over too
few lanterns and torches and such?”
“It’s not me personally. The
celebration seems to have gotten a bit rough, is all.” Whittaker
stroked her hair. “Hush now. The doors are locked, the coachman and
footman are armed, and I have a brace of pistols here in the
carriage.”
Shots rang out at that moment, the
crack of a pistol, the boom of a blunderbuss fired into the air.
Whinnying again, the horses lurched forward. Without Whittaker’s
arms around her, Cassandra would have slid to the floor. She grasped
his shoulder with one hand and twisted her fingers through her
reticule strings with the other.
The jostling and demands ceased, though
the crowd did not disperse.
“Perhaps we should have gone home
with Christien and Lydia,” Cassandra said, maintaining her hold on
her fiance and folded plans. “Christien is a trained soldier, after
all.”
“But this was the first opportunity
we’ve had to be alone together for a week.” Whittaker flashed her
a smile, then kissed the crease between her brows. “This wedding is
keeping you from me so much I think we should have eloped like your
sister.”
“They did not elope.” Cassandra
rubbed her head against Whittaker’s shoulder. “They simply got
married by special license. But this is my first marriage and Mama
wants everything just so.” She shuddered. “] hate every dress
fitting and shopping excursion as much as I dislike this crowd.”
Her ears strained for signs of the
rough youths returning. She could distinguish nothing of them over
the general din of the throng.
“Where will I wear all those gowns in
Lancashire?” she added.
“You will need them when Parliament
is in session and we are in town.”
“But that’s not until spring.”
“With the Americans declaring war, it
is going to be this autumn.”
“But you promised.” She started to
pull away.
“I did not declare war.” Whittaker
tightened his hold and kissed her cheek.
“And all spring the Luddites kept you
away.”
“I did not go smashing up looms
either.” He kissed her lips.
She decided to stop arguing with him
for the moment. She forgot about the rowdy revelers outside the
carriage. This, after all, was why they had taken Whittaker’s
equipage instead of sharing one with her elder sister and her new
husband—to be alone with her fiance for a few minutes of
tenderness, for some time of forgetting that Mama wanted her to buy
one more fan or pair of gloves, that Whittaker’s mama needed to
introduce her to half a dozen more relatives, that Cassandra herself
wanted to talk to her fellow aeronaut enthusiasts about her design.
She simply wanted to remember this man whose glance, whose smile,
whose touch, turned her heart to tallow. She needed moments like this
like she needed nourishment for strength and air for breath.
Except
he robbed her of breath.
Gasping, laughing, she drew back from
his embrace—and began to cough. Nearby, something larger than
torches blazed, the smoke heavy and sharp, thick inside the carriage.
Around them, laughter and cheers had turned to bellows and protests,
commands and threats.
Cold perspiration broke out beneath the
sleeves of her pelisse and trickled down her spine. “Whittaker …
what’s wrong?”
“I cannot be certain.” He leaned
forward and lifted a corner of the window curtain. “A fire. That is
obvious.” He sounded calm.
Cassandra moved to the other side of
the carriage so she could peek out the curtains too. Fire indeed. A
carriage blazed in a side street. Men and women swirled around it,
roaring incomprehensible but angry-sounding words, as though about to
burn a body in effigy—or worse.
“This was a celebration for
Salamanca,” Cassandra protested. “Why the anger?”
“Too many people and too much spirits
combined can cause trouble.” He knelt before her and took her hands
in his, letting the curtains fall over the window, leaving them in
darkness—a private, sheltered cocoon despite the smoke. “We will
be out of it soon and safely back to Bainbridge House.”
“I was hoping we could go to the
Chapter House. It’s perfectly respectable, and I have my plans to
give—”
“I am not taking you to a coffeehouse
tonight. Your friends will have to wait for their balloon plans.”
Beneath the tumult around the carriage, Cassandra thought he
muttered, “Forever.”
They had enjoyed such a pleasant
evening with Lydia and her husband, she did not want to argue with
Whittaker. He did not like her ballooning enthusiasm, but she would
change his mind once they were married. Then she would have more
freedom to move about, not constantly under her mother’s eye.
Whittaker, not Father, would dictate her movements, and Whittaker was
no dictator. Unless he did intend to stop her from pursuing
aeronautics.
She pursed her lips and squeezed his
gloved fingers with her own, then released one of his hands to clutch
at her precious reticule. “I think Lancashire will be perfect for
ballooning once the harvest is in. All that flat land and the sea
breezes.”
“I think,” Whittaker said, “you
will have no time for balloons once we are wed. Mother intends to
leave the running of the house to you. She wants to travel, visit
friends, but with the trouble with the Luddites, she has been afraid
to do so.”
“But—” Cassandra released his
other hand. “I know little of household management. I thought she
would be there, help me. Geoffrey, when were you going to tell me
this?”
“Mama was going to when she takes you
to Gunter’s tomorrow.”
“Oh, that.” Cassandra did not admit
she had forgotten the engagement. “One of my ballooning friends—”
“Enough about balloons. It is as much
a passing fancy as was your translation of Homer.”
“Homer was not a passing fancy at
all.” Cassandra raised her chin. “I finished it. Then I saw the
balloon and aeronautics—”
He silenced her with another kiss.
“What was that for?” she asked when
she could catch her breath.
“To ensure I am no passing fancy.”
“You know you are not.” Because she
had broken off their betrothal in the spring, she leaned forward this
time and pressed her cheek to his, slipped her arms around his
shoulders.
He drew her off the seat so they
squeezed into the footwell between the two benches. The cacophony of
the crowd, the oiliness of smoke, and the jostling of the carriage
ceased to matter, may as well have ceased to exist. Always he won her
attention this way, sending the world packing, even her scholarly
interests and now her enthusiasm for flight. If he was in the same
room, she could not bear to be more than inches from him and felt as
though a piece of her were missing every time he left.
“I love you so much it scares me
sometimes,” she murmured into his ear.
A shudder ran through him. She
understood why. He felt the same. Their profound attraction had
gotten them reprimanded more than once, mostly by Cassandra’s
sister Lydia. But now seven endless days stood between them and their
wedding. She wished it were seven hours, or, better yet, seven
minutes.
They would reach Cavendish Square in
little more than seven minutes unless more crowds stopped them.
Chaperonage and separation. Annoying, dull dressmakers would crowd
between them. Tea and cakes with his mother and embarrassing
conversations with her own .. .
Cassandra dropped her reticule so she
could bury her fingers into Whittaker’s thick, dark hair. “Only a
week,” she whispered.
“Too long.” He drew her closer.
Her hair tumbled over his hands. His
cravat and her gown would be hopelessly crushed. Mama and her
companion, Barbara, would lecture about proper conduct for a young
lady. Her younger sister Honore would give her sly glances and
giggle. Father would scowl at Whittaker and draw him aside for a
“manly” conversation about propriety and dishonor. Cassandra did
not care. Whittaker loved her despite her need to wear spectacles
most of the time, despite her eccentric interest in Greek poets and
flying machines. Surely once they were wed, he would understand she
would die of boredom overseeing the household and stillroom and all
those country housewife things, or, worse, being the London hostess
for a member of the House of Lords. She accepted his proposal when he
was plain Mr. Giles, a younger son. His becoming the earl due to an
unfortunate accident to his elder brother did not change her. It
certainly did not change his feelings for her. Alone in the carriage,
every time they were alone, he made that amply clear. Marriage would
be even better. So much—
The carriage rocked again. More drunken
voices shouted through the panels. The door handles rattled.
Cassandra gasped. “Geoffrey.”
“Stay down. I’ll fetch my pistols.”
He started to rise. A strand of her hair caught on his cravat pin,
halting him for a second.
And in that moment, the window glass
shattered.
Cassandra screamed and ducked.
Whittaker grabbed for his pistols. His feet tangled in Cassandra’s
skirt, and they fell against the door—the door at which several
revelers tugged. With their combined weight pushing and the
bacchanalians pulling, the latch gave way. The door burst open.
And Cassandra tumbled into the arms of
a torchbearer.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Available October 2012 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.
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