Dew of the Sea Costume History, Theology & Thoughts

 Hi there, Grace Bertram here. I thought I might provide a brief explanation of why I chose the name Grace Bertram as my pseudonym on this blog.  So we have a family friend, who collects antiques and upon a family visit several years ago, he noticed I was interested in the Victorian writing desk he'd collected. While he was showing us the desk (and I was enraptured), he picked up a small bag that contained a hand-written game: Shakespearean cards.  My imagination was instantly kindled. Who was it that put the effort and time in to create this fabulous game and why did they do it? They must have been full of expertise when it comes to literature, because the game consisted of 40 Shakespearean cards, each containing a quote from a play by Shakespeare. It was all hand-written,  beautiful cursive. And there were pink cards and white cards with an instruction/rules-of-the-game card, explaining the pink cards were for the ladies and the white for the gentlemen. The aim of ...

 Epilogue  Robert was speechless at first. Then he beamed and embraced her.  "You just realised? And are you sure?" "Yes, Robert. You're going to be a father." They both closed their eyes and sat in reverent silence, thanking God for His goodness.  "You know that poem I wrote on our honeymoon?" "Yes. You made me sit still as though you were an artist capturing a portrait." "I was. In my own poetic way." "May I hear it, my love?" "Of course, Mrs. Stainton... I prayed for love Companionship, too.  I prayed for courage To talk to you. I prayed for someone who shares my faith.  I prayed that God would keep us safe. I prayed for a chance to give I prayed that you and me could live As man and wife, best friends too, Because, my love, I prayed for you. And here you are - before my eyes, Your smile so gentle, sweet and wise. Your face a picture, though your hair's a mess. Your regal gown of linen dress.  Your beauty and y...

 Chapter Four "This way, please, Mrs. Stainton." She followed, her heart flooded with joy at the prospect of what her discovery had meant, but equally flooded with concern and fear. How serious was Robert's accident? Was he going to be okay? When she approached him, she quietly rejoiced to see he was awake. Should she tell him? Was now the right time? He smiled weakly, when he saw her. "Robert! What happened? Alfie came and said you had an accident, are you okay, my love?" Robert chuckled a little and stared at his foot, which was in a plaster. He seemed otherwise unharmed.  "I am okay, dear Rose. I'm okay."  They kissed. The nurse, who had turned away to give them privacy, now explained that the accident had appeared more serious at first. He had dislocated his shoulder and had initially been in immense pain, but the most severe injury was his ankle that had been broken. No internal injuries, however, and he was already clearly on the mend.  ...

 Chapter Three Alfie shifted uncomfortably on his toes, while Rose stared, speechless.  A few seconds passed.  Then she smiled weakly, gratified by his efforts, and spun round to gather her shawl. Alfie didn't need a further explanation. He led the way, as Rose locked the door behind her and followed suit.  "Alfie, would you..."  He paused. "Yes, Miss Rose?" "Would you stop by my neighbour's house, Mrs. Dorothy Deacon, inform her so she can tell the children and keep them with her tonight? You may tell her I will keep her posted on how he does."  "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."  Rose carried on her way, heart pounding, head throbbing, mind swimming. Would Robert be okay? She needed to believe the affirmative. But every time she envisaged his situation - whatever it may be - she remembered Alfie's honest, poignant words, "I fear for the worst."  The worst. Surely she had already suffered enough of that? Please God, c...

Hello, everyone! I hope all our dear readers are having a blessed 2026 so far. Here is a short story I wrote for a Creative Writing course a few years ago. Enjoy!  - Grace Bertram The year is 1851. On the verge of starvation, she traipsed the moors. Breathing - barely; loving - sorely. “Mr. Rochester…” The sky rumbled, the air closed in around her. Her luggage left in the carriage, she stumbled in desperation, her cloak a blanket of loneliness. Why proceed? Who could help her? No relatives, no friends… Charlotte drew her knees to her chin, wrapped her shawl close and pressed the pages, squeezing Jane’s hand. The evening sun sieved through the curtains, draped like a hidden mist shrouding her hibernation. “ Miss Bronte, it’s four o’ clock.” Rod tapped the sill. “Miss Eyre still a governess?” “ No, she’s fled Thornfield, you should read the book yourself and Rod - ” She gave him that sisterly look. “Why aren’t you helping Phil?” “ He’s on the till. ...

When my heart grows weary And my soul takes flight From the dull and dreary  Of the darkest night There's a voice I hear A voice of love Bringing hope so dear Sent from above And the depths of despair From the point of the low Become heartfelt care That a child could know For a child is simple A child is so kind Each smile and each dimple Inquisitive mind Open heart and restless soul So much to learn from the young, little foal So much to be found  When the times grow tough  Each sight, smell and sound Is barely enough Except when they come From the gentle and mild Sweet little hands Of a precious child.  ❤️