White,” the lady in black satin remarked. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. Lucy inhaled deeply. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London.
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