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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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

The only stories worth reading have happy endings.

had come to help. He just

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.

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

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

How much can happen in so short a time,

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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

Time is the only healer.

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

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.

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

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

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,

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.

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

Excellent idea.” I smiled at him. “Miss Honeywell should be amenable since I’m rushing to get the place cleared out. I’ll ask her.” “How long do you think you’ll still be here?” Nigel asked. “I hope to be gone by the end of the week.” I saw his face fall. “I see. Presumably you need to get back to work.

It is what we call part of our cucina povera - simple food for the peasants. And a good way to use up yesterday's stale bread. It is simply stale bread soaked in broth, and then we cook the garlic, tomatoes, some carrot, and celery and add these to it, then serve with olive oil. That's all.

It still had that wonderful smell that old churches have: part damp, part old hymn books, and the lingering scent of burned-out candles.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the flimsy sheet of airmail paper. Having grown up as an only child, I was shocked to discover in one day that I might have two brothers in other parts of the world. If this one had survived, I thought. Perhaps he had been hidden with a kind family in the hills, to be reunited with his mother when hostilities ceased. That is what I tried to believe. But now I was dying to know more. My father never spoke of his wartime experiences, but I knew from my mother that he had been a pilot with the RAF and terribly brave, flying missions over occupied Europe until he was shot down and nearly died. I hadn’t even known this happened over Italy. One didn’t tend to think of Italy as a scene of bombing missions.

I broke off in amazement. My father—my distant, unemotional father—had a child in Italy. A child with an Italian woman called Sofia. But hidden where only Sofia could find him? A chill came over me. The letter was never delivered. A child hidden away and never found? Of course now, twenty- eight years later, I had to hope that Sofia had recovered the child and all was well.

searched for clues and fingerprints. But I will be kind to

Come on, old duck,” he coaxed.

this sweet and kind woman how it felt to have lost my baby. “Don’t look so sad,” she said, touching my cheek. “All is well. We are tested and we survive, and life will be good again.

medal. A religious medal to some kind of saint.

And your husband? Where is he?” I was tempted to tell him it was none of his business. After all, we’d paid for the tickets, hadn’t we? “He’s in New York. Waiting for us.” “He’d better be,” the man said. “If he doesn’t come to collect you from Ellis Island, they’ll just send you straight home again. They don’t want women and children who’ll be a burden on the state.

The Society of Saint George,” she said. “A devotional society of the men of this town. It is an honour to be invited to join.

War’s a bugger, isn’t it?” he said. “All the mates I started out with are gone. And now most of the boys I flew with.” He said it in the most matter-of-fact way, as if it were something quite expected.

The old man smiled. “It should be perfectly obvious what you have to do. Give women the vote. That will do away with tyrants and dictators instantly. Women will always opt for sensible and compassionate over warlike and corrupt

while and my mother took care of me. I remember the German in our house—the one she ran off with. I remember we ate rabbit and chestnuts and anything else she could find for us. She’d go off with her

I tore off the brown paper wrapping from the large parcel and found myself looking at my own face. It was so startling that I almost dropped the picture. It was even more startling when I read the inscription: “Joanna Langley. 1749–1823.

It was like smiling at a gargoyle.

So none of the young men we encountered during our season gave you hot pants for them? Belinda! Your language. I've been mingling with Americans. Such fun. So Naughty.