Hello Stranger
As someone who gets a little weak-kneed at the sight of blood, it wasn’t always easy to research various aspects of Garrett’s work, but it was always fascinating. The history of blood transfusions was especially interesting. Early recorded attempts at transfusion used sheep or cows’ blood, transfused into human patients. The experiments didn’t go well, to put it mildly, and the practice was banned for about 150 years. Scientists and doctors began working on the problem again in the 1800s, with varying results. Then in 1901, Dr. Karl Landsteiner of Austria discovered the three human blood groups—A B, and O—and found that you couldn’t mix blood from incompatible individuals. Until then, successful blood transfusions depended on whether you were lucky enough to receiving blood from a compatible donor.
Thank you, as always, for your encouragement and kindness—you make my job a joy!
—Lisa
Garrett’s Refreshing Lemon Ice
Some people are surprised to learn that ices, sorbets, and ice creams were served at afternoon teas or soirees in the Victoria era. Ices were actually popularized in England back in the mid-1700s by French and Italian confectioners who had settled in London. A wonderful variety of flavors was available, such as elderflower, pineapple, apricot, rosewater, pistachio, and even brown bread ice! Here is a simple and easy recipe for Dr. Garrett Gibson’s favorite: lemon ice.
Ingredients
6 lemons (or 1/2 cup lemon juice)
1 orange (or 1/4 cup orange juice)
2 cups water
2 cups sugar
Directions
Zest one of the lemons (only the yellow part of the rind, the white is bitter).
Squeeze the juice out of the orange and lemons.
Mix water and sugar, and simmer until sugar is completely dissolved.
Add lemon zest, lemon juice, and orange juice.
Pour into a metal pan (loaf pan worked well for us).
Place in freezer and stir it with a fork every half hour, for about three hours, or until lemon ice has a heavy, slushy texture that you can scoop out.
Note: If you don’t care about historical accuracy, replace one of the cups of sugar with Karo syrup—it makes the texture of the ice much smoother.
An Excerpt from Devil’s Daughter
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next novel in the Ravenel series
Phoebe had never met West Ravenel, but she knew one thing for certain: He was a mean, rotten bully. She had known it since the age of eight, when her best friend, Henry, started writing to her from boarding school.
West Ravenel had been a frequent subject of Henry’s letters. He was a big, sarcastic, hardened case of a boy, but his constant misbehavior had been overlooked, as it was in nearly any boarding school of the time. It was seen as inevitable that older boys would dominate and browbeat younger boys, and anyone who dared tell tales would be severely punished.
Dear Phoebe,
I thought it would be fun to go to bording school with other boys, but it’s not. There’s a boy named West who always takes my breakfast roll and he’s already the size of an elefant.
Dear Phoebe,
Yesterday it was my job to change the candklestiks. West Ravenel sneaked trick candles into my basket and last night one of them went off like a rocket and singed Mr. Farthing’s brows. I got my hand caned for it. Mr. Farthing should have known I wouldn’t have done something so obvyus. West isn’t a bit sorry. He said he can’t help it if the teacher is an idyut.
Dear Phoebe,
I drew this picture of West Ravenel for you, so if you ever see him, you’ll know to run away. I’m bad at drawing, which is why he looks like a pirate clown. He also acts like one.
For four years, West Ravenel had annoyed and plagued poor Henry, Lord Clare, a small and slight boy with a delicate constitution. Eventually Henry’s family had withdrawn him from school and brought him back to live in Heron’s Point, not far from where Phoebe’s family resided. The mild, healthful climate of the coastal resort town, and its famed seawater bathing, had helped to restore Henry’s health and good spirits. To Phoebe’s delight, Henry had visited her home often, and had even studied with her brothers and their tutor. His intelligence, wit, and endearing eccentricities had made him a favorite with the Challon family.
There had never been a specific moment when Phoebe’s childhood affection for Henry had turned into something new. It had happened gradually, twining all through her like delicate silver vines, blossoming into a jeweled garden, until one day she looked at him and felt a thrill of love.
She had needed a husband who could also be a friend, and Henry was her best friend in the world. He understood everything about her, just as she did him. They were a perfect match.
Phoebe had been the first one to broach the subject of marriage. However, she’d been stunned and hurt when Henry had gently tried to dissuade her.
“You know I can’t be with you forever,” he’d said, wrapping his thin arms around her, twirling his fingers in the loose curls of her red hair. “Someday I’ll fall too ill to be a proper husband or father. To be of any use at all. That wouldn’t be fair to you or the children. Or even to me.”
“Why are you so resigned?” Phoebe had demanded, frightened by his quiet, fatalistic acceptance of his mysterious ailment. “We’ll find new doctors. We’ll find out whatever it is that’s making you ill, and we’ll find a cure. Why are you giving up the fight before it’s even started?”
“Phoebe,” he’d said softly, “the fight started long ago. I’ve been tired for most of my life. No matter how much I rest, I scarcely have enough stamina to last through the day.”
“I have stamina for both of us.” Phoebe had rested her head on his shoulder, trembling with the force of her emotions. “I love you, Henry. Let me take care of you. Let me be with you for however long we’ll have together.”
“You deserve more.”
“Do you love me, Henry?”
His large, soft brown eyes had glistened. “As much as any man has ever loved a woman.”
“Then what more is there?”
They had married, the two of them a pair of giggling virgins discovering the mysteries of love with affectionate awkwardness. Their first child, Justin, was a dark-haired and robustly healthy boy who was now four years old.
Henry had gone into his final decline a year ago, just before the birth of their second son, Stephen.
In the months of grief and despair that had followed, Phoebe had gone back to live with her family, finding a measure of solace in the loving home of her childhood. But now that the initial year of mourning had passed, it was time to start a new life as a young mother of two boys. A life without Henry. How strange that seemed. She would have to move back to the Clare estate in Essex—which Justin would inherit when he came of age—and she would try to raise her sons the way their beloved father would have wished.
But first, she had to attend her brother Gabriel’s wedding.
Knots of dread tightened in Phoebe’s stomach as the carriage rolled toward the ancient estate of Eversby Priory. This was the first event she had attended since Henry’s death. Even knowing she would be among friends and relations, she was nervous. But there was another reason she was so thoroughly unsettled.