Rhys Bowen Quotes

They don't hang dukes, darling. He'd be let off by reason of insanity. Everyone knows the upper classes are batty.

Why is it that there is this misconception that dark equals good. That only applies to chocolate.

We should all have personal hot air balloons and drift serenely through the clouds.

All he has is a mangled ankle. I have Americans.

I know ladies don’t sweat, but something was running down my face in great rivulets.

When the world has gone mad, we must help each other when we can.

The words hot, lot, and got were not apart of a ladies vocabulary.

Is he one of us, or strictly NOCD? (Which, in case you don't know is shorthand for 'Not our class, dear'.)

Then how can prayers be answered if you do not call upon the saints to help? God is obviously too busy to do everything alone.

At least he was useful in some ways. He made good cheese.

Sure. Why not?” he said. “A cup of tea. That’s what everyone drank all through the war. A bomb was dropped and everyone said, ‘It’s all right. Have a cup of tea.’” And he laughed.

We humans have the capacity to survive almost anything. Not only to survive but to come through triumphant. Another door will open. You’ll see. A better one. A safer one. A brighter future.

There is nothing to say except that life is unfair. You will get over it, … but only time will heal your wounds, and then not completely. We just have to made do with what we have left and treasure those around us who are still alive.

But flirting does not come easily to someone brought up in a remote castle with tartan wallpaper in the bathrooms, bagpipes at dawn and men who wear kilts.

I decided never to eat bacon again. But I happen to adore bacon, so that didn’t last long.

In case you haven’t noticed, people aren’t nice,

I’m teaching you how to survive in a difficult world. You can’t be under your parents’ thumb forever. You have to take charge of your own life now you’re going to be twenty-one.

How quickly life can change. Well, maybe it was time that it changed again. I was in a beautiful place, staying with a kind woman, and I was going to enjoy myself, whatever the outcome was.

A man in love does not notice the cut of the dress, but rather a face of a beloved.

​Lady Pamela Sutton stared at the dreary government-issued posters on the wall of her small cubicle in Hut 3.

I will not be bullied or dictated to. I’m not a child any more, and I’m prepared to make my own way and my own mistakes if necessary.

Ah, but it was your great-grandmother who went around subjugating half the world. Empress of all I survey, and all that. You must have that quality somewhere in your makeup." "I've never had a change to subjugate anybody yet, so I can't really say," I confessed.

Fill in?” she demanded. “For the weekend?” She winced as if each of these words were causing her pain. “I am afraid we do not handle that sort of thing.” By that she implied that I had requested a stripper straight from the Casbah. So

that a time of stress and tragedy takes away all but the will to survive.

Experience makes one come to terms with life, to be at one with the mind and the heart. And most people are suffering in some way.

When the world has gone mad, we must help each other when we can. Most of my neighbours are good and share what little they have.

But it was that core group of popular girls who moved in a pack, like wolves, and loved to pick on anyone weaker than them who made it quite clear that I did not belong.

There's nothing wrong with hunting, in its place. But there are many preferable occupations when in the presence of a young woman.

There is nothing worse than speeches about someone you don’t know, made by someone you don’t know.

The baroness swept into the room like an avenging black angel, her cape streaming out behind her. If looks could kill, we’d have been sprawled on the carpet.

The only stories worth reading have happy endings.

had come to help. He just

How much can happen in so short a time,

As my dear Baroness Lehzen used to say, ‘Enough is as good as a feast.

A body? Of a person? Dead?” “Bodies usually are. And this one was very dead indeed.

None of this nine or ten nonsense and I don’t care what the parish priest says. There will soon be so many people on this planet that it will be standing room only.

When I awoke the next morning I looked out at a landscape blotted out by mist and the first thought that came to me was, I wonder who is going to be killed today?

He was the sort of languid and elegant young man one would expect to find at a country house party, playing croquet with Bertie Wooster. Frightfully good fun, but not too many brains.

The scent of new-mown grass wafted on the warm breeze, mingled with the smoke of leaves burning on a distant bonfire. The scents and sounds of an English summer Sunday, unchanged for centuries, Ben thought. Polite

At last he said, “I’ve been fourteen years on the police force. I’ve learned from seasoned veterans. I’ve handled all types of criminal cases. But my wife, newly arrived from the backwoods of Ireland, manages to tie up all my unsolved cases for me with apparently no effort at all. I should just quit my job and stay home looking after the babies while you go out to work for us.

Idealistic? Ruddy stupid, if you'll pardon the language, miss,: Mr Roberts said. "All this talk about power for the people and down with the ruling classes and everyone should govern themselves. It can never happen, I told him. The ruling classes are born to rule. They know how to do it. You take a person like you or me and you put us up there to run a country and we'd make a ruddy mess of it.

Llanfair - home if Saint Gelert's grave. We should call ourselves that, like that other Llanfair.' 'You mean the other Llanfair over the Anglesey; the one that claims to have the longest name in the world?' Barry-the-Bucket asked. 'That's exactly what I mean', Evans-the-Meat said grandly. 'If they can call themselves Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, which we all know means nothing more important than Saint Mary's church in the hollow of white hazel near the rapid whirlpool and Saint Tisilio's church near the red cave, then why shouldn't we start calling ourselves Llanfair-up-on-the-pass-with-the-brook-running-through-it-and-Saint-Gelert's-grave-right-above-it?

My teachers at school said I had a good brain and wanted me to go to university, but my mother thought it was a silly idea. She said too much education was not good for women. They needed to know how to run a home and a family, and being educated only made them discontent. I’m afraid she’s hopelessly old-fashioned in her ideas.

Books are wonderful. You can get transported away by a good story.

Just because everyone’s doing it doesn’t make it right. Wrong’s wrong, even in a ruddy war.

survived.” Her grandmother gave a sad little smile. “Most of us survive the hardest things. We are quite resilient.

Not to marry?” “Someday maybe.” I blushed when I said this, glad it was dark. “But not until I know who I am and what I want.

You cannot live someone else’s life. Your life is what you make of it. You have to decide what you want.

If you're worried about your very life, the last thing you want is small talk.

Mummy always had French maids, and Daddy always chased them. It kept their marriage happy.

In case you haven’t noticed, the men get all the plum jobs here, and the women are stuck with the clerical stuff, even though they are often better qualified.” “I

the guests began to arrive: Colonel and Mrs. Huntley bringing Miss Hamilton from the village. Sir William and Lady Prescott. The Musgroves. Colonel Pritchard from the West Kents.

Golly,” Phoebe said again. “Do you think that will happen this time? Do you think by the end of this war there will be no men left for me to marry?

It’s hard to imagine there is a God at the moment, isn’t it?” he said. “If I was watching this from up in heaven, I’d want to step in and put a stop to it.

We just have to make the best of things and be happy with what we’ve got.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I muttered, giving those men a haughty stare.

Time is the only healer.

Like a fox being chased by the hounds, she needed a bolthole in which to lick her wounds.

I can come up to town, Belinda. It’s not as if I’m going to darkest Africa.

She still called it dinner, although the vicar had tried to educate her for years that the working classes had their dinner at midday, but the upper classes had luncheon.

All is well. We are tested and we survive, and life will be good again.

To realise that one has nobody in the world—that is a sobering thought.

I really should be getting home. The family will be waiting to see me,” Pamela said.

I laughed. “I must have the only servant who never attempts to put on any airs and graces for me.” “But then she’s a hopeless case, we all admit that,

My father is the son of a vicar and rose to become a judge. My mother is solidly middle class. Her father was a bank manager. But she has grand ideas. She was set on my marrying a title.

Pamela looked at his retreating back with admiration. He represented the backbone of Britain at this moment. A skinny, awkward bookworm, yet determined to keep going for as long as it took to defeat Hitler.

I realised that everyone present resented the loss of the Hall as much as my father had done. It represented the passing of an old way of life, of the security of knowing one’s place. I found it very touching.

Necessities for all manner of healing in the herb garden: Hyssop, Wormwood, Rue, Coriander, Pasqueflower, Rosemary, St John’s Wort, Costmary, Lady’s Mantle, Lady’s Bedstraw, Angelica, Heartsease, Lily of the Valley, Marigold, Milk Thistle, Thyme, Sweet Woodruff. To these I plan to add, as time permits: Wood Betony, Comfrey, Coltsfoot, Cowslip, Hawthorn, Lavender, Lemon Balm, Meadowsweet, Sage, Valerian, Yarrow and Winter Savory.

Oh, you’re missing so much, Alice,” Emily said. “Books are wonderful. You can get transported away by a good story. If we’re living in a place like this, we can read about Paris or a tropical island and feel like we’re there.

When I venture to point out the unfairness of this, I am reminded of the second item on my list. Apparently the only acceptable destiny for a young female mem​b​er of the house of Windsor is to marry into another of the royal houses that still seem to litter Europe, even though there are precious few reigning monarchs these days. it seems that even a very minor Windsor like myself is a desirable commodity for those wishing a tenuous alliance with Britain at this unsettled time. I am constantly being reminded that is is my duty to make a good match with some half-lunatic, buck-toothed, chinless, spinele​s​s​​​, and utterly awful European royal, thus cementing ties with a potential enemy. My cousin Alex did this, poor thing. I have learned from her tragic example.

On this occasion it was a tea party. Cook had been baking all morning: scones and sponge cakes and shortbreads so that the kitchen was full of wonderful aromas. And all afternoon she had been making little tea sandwiches—cucumber, egg and cress, smoked salmon.

Hanni, I’m going to have to watch you carefully. You may break a lot of hearts in London.” “What am I to break?” she asked with that lovely innocent smile. “Hearts. Lots of Englishmen will fall in love with you.” “I hope so,” she said. “I’m gonna be hot sexy dame. You can give me tips.

For anxiety and the uncalm spirit, for a peaceful sleepe without evil dreames. Make an infusion of hoppes, skullcap, vervain, valerian, wild lettuce and passion flower. To these can be added lavender, lemon balm and chamomile to sweeten the potion and to infuse the air with calming sweetness.

fagioli al fiasco sotto la cenere.” She handed him a bowl of what looked like white paste. He didn’t understand the Italian words in her dialect, except that “fagioli” was beans, and this did not look like beans—more like oatmeal. He didn’t think he’d ever seen an oat when he was in Florence, and certainly nobody ate oatmeal for breakfast. “What is this?” he asked. “It is made of white beans cooked in water and then cooked again with olive oil, rosemary, sage, and garlic in the coals of the fire all night. We put it in a Chianti bottle and cook it slowly in the embers. Then we mash

We have to get rid of pain in ass. She will not let me have good time. We should take her out.” “Take her out where?” Hanni grinned. “You know. Take her out. Waste her. Bang bang. Curtains.” “Hanni, I don’t think we’re going to be able to waste the baroness, but I agree she’s not going to make things pleasant for us.” “Then we must plan way to make her go home.” “Make it not nice for her here. She likes to eat. Serve her very little food.” “For someone straight from the convent, you are quite devious,” I said. “What means devious?” “Sneaky.” “Oh, like pulling a fast one,” she said, beaming. “Yeah. Sure thing, baby.

Wow, holy cow, hubba hubba, gee whiz. That was some guy. Don’t tell me he’s your main squeeze!” “My what?” “Your honey. Your sugar. Isn’t that right word?” “In England we’re a little less colorful with our language. “So you say it?” “Boyfriend? Escort?” “And is he?” “Obviously not anymore,” I said with a sigh.

It's not her fault she can't cook." "You are too nice natured, darling. You won't get anywhere in this world being kind and generous. You must turn into a lioness like me and gobble up people who disagree with you." "I'm not very good at gobbling," I said. "And I want to like people, and be liked by them." She sighed. "The sooner you get married and have babies to adore the better.

Aren't you going a little overboard?" I asked, picturing a day ahead of me trying to find these items in a town I didn't know. "Nonsense, darling. What's the point of a party if you don't go overboard." I sat on the sofa watching her, admiring her. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a wonderful way of shaking off life's little problems, like water off a duck's back. Nothing seemed to upset her.

It had been unusually hot all summer. Ben Cresswell could feel the sun scorching his thighs through his cricket whites as he sat on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for his turn at bat. Colonel Huntley sat beside him, mopping his red and sweaty face. He was wearing pads because he was next up at bat. He wasn’t as good a batsman as Ben, but he was team captain, and in village cricket, seniority often took precedence over ability. Only

September 1939 From: His Majesty’s Government To: Civilian Population of Great Britain For the duration of the war, the following Seven Rules are to be observed at all times. Do not waste food. Do not talk to strangers. Keep all information to yourself. Always listen to government instructions and carry them out. Report anything suspicious to the police. Do not spread rumours. Lock away anything that might help the enemy if we are invaded.

Tiny finger sandwiches, biscuits and cakes, grapes and tangerines and of course my scones with jam and cream. Mr Phelps and Jimmy came to help me as I made shortbreads, ginger biscuits from Germany that were a favourite of the queen, macaroons and lemon curd tarts. At the last minute, we prepared cucumber, egg and cress, and smoked salmon sandwiches, wrapping them immediately into damp linen napkins to keep them moist. Flasks of tea were prepared.

He picked up a glass of Prosecco and handed it to me. “So you’re visiting here?” “I’m here for a year, studying at the accademia,” I said. “I got a bursary to take leave from my teaching job.” “Jolly nice. I’d make the most of it, if I were you. Venice is still one of the few civilized cities in the world. The racial laws created last year by Il Duce were supposed to exclude Jews from education and teaching and then to strip them of property. None of that has happened here. The Venetians still live quite happily and do business in the ghetto and turn a blind eye to those of Jewish origin, like our dear contessa here.” I looked at him with surprise and then turned my gaze to Contessa Fiorito. I remembered now that she had mentioned her parents were Jewish émigrés. “But her husband was an Italian count,” I said. “Indeed he was, but that has nothing to do with her racial origin. Born of a poor Jewish family in Paris, so I understand. Of course she is well respected here and does a lot in the way of philanthropy for the city. Most people don’t even know her heritage.” He drew closer to me. “I have advised her to have an escape plan ready, just in case.

Roderick Sutton, Earl of Westerham, owner of Farleigh Place, a stately home in Kent Lady Esme Sutton, Roderick’s wife Lady Olivia “Livvy” Sutton, twenty-six, the Suttons’ eldest daughter, married to Viscount Carrington, mother of Charles Lady Margaret “Margot” Sutton, twenty-three, the second daughter, now living in Paris Lady Pamela “Pamma” Sutton, twenty-one, the third daughter, currently working for a “government department” Lady Diana “Dido” Sutton, nineteen, the fourth daughter, a frustrated debutante Lady Phoebe “Feebs” Sutton, twelve, the fifth daughter, too smart and observant for her own good Servants at Farleigh (a skeleton staff) Soames, butler Mrs. Mortlock, cook Elsie, parlourmaid Jennie, housemaid Ruby, scullery maid Philpott, Lady Esme’s maid Nanny Miss Gumble, governess to Lady Phoebe Mr. Robbins, gamekeeper Mrs. Robbins, gamekeeper’s wife Alfie, a Cockney boy, now evacuated to the country Jackson, groom Farleigh Neighbours Rev. Cresswell, vicar of All Saints Church Ben Cresswell, the vicar’s son, now working for a “government department” At Nethercote Sir William Prescott, city financier Lady Prescott, Sir William’s wife Jeremy Prescott, Sir William and Lady Prescott’s son, RAF flying ace At Simla Colonel Huntley, formerly of the British Army Mrs. Huntley, the colonel’s wife Miss Hamilton, spinster Dr. Sinclair, doctor Sundry villagers, including an artist couple, a builder, and a questionable Austrian Officers of the Royal West Kent Regiment Colonel Pritchard, commanding officer Captain Hartley, adjutant Soldiers under command At Dolphin Square Maxwell Knight, spymaster Joan Miller, Knight’s secretary At Bletchley Park Commander Travis, deputy

Belinda laughed. “Darling, if only true virgins were allowed a white wedding, church organists would die of starvation.

We crept to the phone and dialed 999,

You can’t go around killing people who insult you or disagree with you or society would be a highly dangerous place.

When the world has gone mad, we must help each other when we can. Most of my neighbours are good and share what little they have. When Benito snared a rabbit, he gave us some of it to make the good broth you are eating. And when I came home this morning, I passed Signora Gucci and she saw the mushrooms I had found.

The African night was absolute darkness. One of the houseboys went ahead of us, carrying a lantern. Even so there were rustlings and strange noises that filled the night air. I think I heard the distant roar of a lion. I was glad I was with a group of people, even though I told myself I was safely on Diddy's estate.

We also ate well in the kitchen, and I found that I had inherited my father's palate and appreciation of good food. Our cuisine at home always been rather basic, even in the days when we had a cook, and I became fascinated with the process of creating such wonderful flavors. "Show me how you made that parsley sauce, those meringues, that oyster stew," I'd say to Mrs Robbins, the cook. And if she had a minute to spare, she would show me. After a while, seeing my willingness as well as my obvious aptitude for cooking, she suggested to Mrs Tilley that her old legs were not up to standing for hours any more and that she needed an assistant cook. And she requested me. Mrs Tilley agreed, but only if she didn't have to pay me more money and I should still be available to do my party piece whenever she entertained. And so I went to work in the kitchen. Mrs Robbins found me a willing pupil. After lugging coal scuttles up all those stairs, it felt like heaven to be standing at a table preparing food. We had a scullery maid who did all the most menial of jobs, like chopping the onions and peeling the potatoes, but I had to do the most basic of tasks- mashing the potatoes with lots of butter and cream until there wasn't a single lump, basting the roast so that the fat was evenly crisp. I didn't mind. I loved being amongst the rich aromas. I loved the look of a well-baked pie. The satisfaction when Mrs Robbins nodded with approval at something I had prepared. And of course I loved the taste of what I had created. Now when I went home to Daddy and Louisa, I could say, "I roasted that pheasant. I made that apple tart." And it gave me a great rush of satisfaction to say the words. "You've a good feel of it, I'll say that for you," Mrs Robbins told me, and after a while she even sought my opinion. "Does this casserole need a touch more salt, do you think? Or maybe some thyme?" The part I loved the best was the baking. She showed me how to make pastry, meringues that were light as air, all sorts of delicate biscuits and rich cakes.

Her Majesty's daughter Princess Helena and her granddaughter Princess Thora are visiting. Here's the menu: consommé aux fines herbes, cheese croutons, poached fillet of sole with parsley sauce and potatoes à la crème, puree of squab à la chasseur, creamed celery, pork chops with apples, red cabbage and duchesse potatoes, iced pudding à la Prince Albert, canary pudding with vanilla sauce, anchovy toast.

Page after page of sauces. Page after page of soups. Bisque of snipe à la bonne bouche. Bisque of crab à la Fitzhardinge, which included adding a pint of boiling cream. Puree of asparagus à la St George involved three dozen small quenelles of fowl and half a pint of small fillets of red tongue. Mercy me. I flicked on. What on earth was ragout of cock's kernels à la soubise, or ragout of ox palates? At the Tilleys' residence, we rarely ate offal. Mr Tilley was fond of liver and bacon, but Mrs Tilley saw offal as food of the lower classes, for those who could afford nothing better. So our meals were good old-fashioned roast beef, leg of lamb, chops and steaks, with thee occasional steak and kidney pie. These recipes looked horribly complicated: Put about half a pound of cock's kernels, with cold water, into a stewpan, let it stand by the side of a slow fire to remove the little blood they contain, taking care that the water does not become too warm. I read on. As soon as they whiten... pat of butter... simmer... drain them on a napkin... small stewpan, with a ragout-spoonful of Soubise sauce and a little Allemande sauce...

Can I trust you with the scones? You make them just before they are to be carried in, so that they are still warm. And you know that she doesn't like raspberry jam. Just strawberry or apricot, and the cream whipped very thick. Got that?" "Yes, Cook," I said, feeling both scared and excited at the same time. It was up to me to feed the queen. Mrs Robbins at my former establishment had made very good scones- at least they had tasted good to me. So I made them just the way she did- with very cold butter, double cream, a dash of vanilla extract.

The new century is coming. Young women should have a chance to make something of themselves. Heaven knows that most of the cooks in the great houses around the country are women. It's a natural art for us females.

The tables were laid with white cloths and decorated with holly and ivy. There were crackers beside each plate. Two turkeys and four geese were carried in, their skins nicely browned and glistening. Mr Francis and Arthur carved for us while tureens of roast potatoes, chestnut stuffing, sage and onion stuffing, bread sauce, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower with a white sauce, cabbage and gravy were passed around. Claret was poured. We pulled our crackers, put on paper hats, read the silly mottos and riddles and demonstrated our toys and puzzles. Then we said grace and ate until we couldn't stuff in another bite. There was a blast on a bugle, and the Christmas puddings were carried in, flaming with brandy and with a sprig of holly stuck in them. I had helped to make these on Stir-up Sunday back in November, and most of them had been sent with the cooks to Osborne House. But there were plenty for us, served with the custard and brandy butter I had prepared.

was a holiday because of the feast day. I met up with Henry, who is becoming a real friend, and we walked around town watching people putting up Christmas decorations. There was a Christmas market being set up in the big Campo San Polo, selling tree ornaments of Murano glass, hand-carved wooden toys from Switzerland and Austria and lots of good sweets. I found myself feeling very homesick. Not that Christmas was an exciting festival at my house. We had a small tree, decorated with paper chains and glass balls. We went to midnight service at our church. We had

foie

You are the visiting students from abroad,” he said. “I should like to invite you, my foreign visitors, to a small soirée at my house tonight to make you feel welcome in Venice. Eight o’clock. It’s the third floor, number 314, on the Fondamenta del Forner in San Polo, not far from the Frari. You know the Frari?” I didn’t. Neither did a couple of the others. “It’s the big church called Santa Maria Gloriosa—but to us it’s the Frari,” the professor said. “You will learn in Venice nobody calls anything by its real name. The vaporetti stop is San Toma. If you are coming from the other side of the Grand Canal, you can cross by the traghetto at San Toma. All right. Good. See you tonight.

After years of working on the periphery of the fashion industry, she had come to realize the whole thing was an underhanded attempt to force women to keep buying clothes. Fast fashion had taken over. Topshop, H&M, Primark. What was in would be out in a month.

thanks of my own. She drew me into a drawing room overlooking the park, elegantly furnished with brocade chairs and sofas. A huge bowl of out-of-season fruit was on a side table, along with the sort of floral tributes that seemed to accompany Miss Sheehan wherever she went.

At the end of the week, she received a letter with a London postmark, but written in a strange hand. Dear Madam, I am not sure of your last name, as you only sign yourself as Emily. I am the matron of the Royal London Hospital, and I am sorry to inform you that Nurse Clarissa Hamilton succumbed to complications of influenza two weeks ago and passed away. She was a brave young woman who worked tirelessly in the worst conditions of the East End and gave her life for others. I am enclosing her family’s address in case you would like to write a letter of condolence.