Dew of the Sea Costume History, Theology & Thoughts

 Dear readers, I wrote this short story as an exercise for my current Creative Writing Diploma. Enjoy!  - Grace Bertram :)  The year is 1892, a small town in England. Belinda Benson had always loved to read. There were just so many books in the world, so many worlds to escape into, so many adventures to embark on through the written word. It was difficult to put them down once they were picked up and even harder to pick a favourite. Belinda’s family had always known she was a bookworm and her father had jokingly predicted she was destined to be a librarian. Which, consequently, became her dream. As she grew up, she began to know more and more that providing people with literature was the best service she could give, the best pastime she could encourage, the best use of her time. Besides, as a librarian, she could read and read until she knew everything. Until she could recommend the most famous novels on the classics shelves, the most gripping thrillers or...

 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.  ❤️

  Who to do next? I think in continuation of my analysis of authors that inspire me, I can only follow up Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë with L.M. Montgomery and Louisa May Alcott. I hope to inspire the readers of this post by sharing my observations of how inspirational these women were - and how inspirational their works continue to be...  As you may know, L.M. Montgomery was the author of the Anne of Green Gables series, the originator of the Emily of New Moon series and the creator of various other lovable worlds like Pat of Silver Bush. As the amazing author, originator and creator of these spectacular works, L.M. Montgomery could be described as the very epitome of memorable characterisation. She created individuals, who were altogether so lovable and left such an impact on the people who encountered them in her books that I would say L.M. Montgomery gave her readers a precious gift each time she penned a character. Anne Shirley, with her red hair, abundant imagination...

Do you ever find yourself barely able to breathe from the sheer captivation of the written word? Some books have that effect, don't they?  In this post, I thought I would dive into the reasons for my sincere appreciation of some of my very favourite authors, exploring how their works have inspired and taught me... Let's start with Jane Austen (as I often do 😉). She is the queen of omniscient narration, with the occasional use of free indirect discourse. In plain English, this means she is excellent at narrating a story in 3rd person, while tapping into a specific character's thoughts and feelings. She does this with multiple characters at different points in her novels, without using 1st person to share her characters' internal workings. She cleverly reveals their opinions and emotions, but not all at once. Sometimes it's subtle, sometimes it's momentous. At any rate, Austen was an author who loved to surprise her readers and equally loved to make them laugh.  ...

 A Poet's Prayer  Chapter One  "And how are you this morning, Mrs. Stainton?" Robert brought her a steaming mug of coffee. "Enjoying wedded bliss?" She laughed and lifted her lips to kiss his cheek.  "Ever so much, my dear." "How good of your neighbour to watch over Thomas and Minnie, while we're away."  "Yes, indeed. Mrs. Deacon is invaluable. And Dorothy promised to pay them a visit. They couldn't be more thrilled. The kids took to her like ducks to water!" "Do you mind, Rose darling..." Robert began, as he produced a scrap of paper and a pencil. "I'd like to write you a poem."  "Must I sit still as if you were sketching my likeness?" "Only for a couple of minutes, my dear."  And so she posed, ensconced in a dressing gown and smiling disposition.  As promised, the poem only took a few minutes to scribble.  "There," he announced, proudly.  "May I read it yet?" ...

  Autumn Leaves crunched  Beneath my feet Squirrels munched  And took a seat Perching on the branch above Silver, lime, bronze and dove Colours, soft, vibrant, serene Sprayed and splashed across the scene. With flurrying tails  And scurrying trails  Bounding, he leaps And then he creeps  Pouncing upon  Carpets that shone  Sinking in the leaves.  Spring The leaves shimmer. The waters glimmer. Glistening, still, Listening till  The birds crash through... A bright flash, too, As their wings take flight. More things in sight... Those gleaming beaks  And fluttering tails. My eye - it seeks  The crowd that sails On high o'er lakes and trees beyond The peaceful clime, of which I'm fond.  A Seasonal Riddle Underneath the crackling path, Where trampled leaves make children laugh... Come and wake me if you dare! Though asleep, you'll find me there. Cold and bitter, ice and snow. Frosts that shimmer, flakes that glow.  Each bush...

Epilogue  Rose's heart pounded, as Robert led the way to the nearby park.  She was on the verge of asking, "where are you taking me?" when she realised that would be a needless question. It was clear Robert was seizing the opportunity to enjoy her company after a long day's work and watch the dusky, golden sunset from the benches by the park. It was the only splash of green in the area and much-appreciated by the residents of the city, especially the cotton mill employees. The fresh outdoor air was a welcome relief when compared to the thick, dense weight of cotton that permeated the air they breathed, daily, in the suffocating swamp of a factory.  Robert reached a bench and beckoned for Rose to take a seat beside him.  "You must know," he took her hand and pressed it to his chest. "I can't conceal it any longer. You must know that I love you." Rose's heart skipped a beat. "I... I love you too," she found herself saying after an i...

 Chapter Four  "Rose, my dear, you look as though you haven't got enough sleep! This industry is known for causing fatigue." Dorothy patted her back fondly and smiled. "You lying awake, dreaming of the future? Wondering if it contains a certain young gentleman we're both very fond of?" "Unfortunately, no." Rose sighed. "The reasons for my tiredness and the fact I had a sleepless night are far less agreeable." "I'm all ears." "Well... I've received a letter from my landlord and we are, as it turns out, no longer able to stay in the house. We have been given two weeks to vacate." "Oh, Rose!" Dorothy exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could do." "I've been praying for a miracle." "Of course you have. As will I." Rose paused in her work and shut her eyes tight. "Lord, send me a miracle," her heart whispered. "Send me a miracle."...

  Chapter One  Rose Lambe gazed out the window longingly. It was a bright, warm, sunny day and the dense, heavy atmosphere of the cotton mill proved an oppressive contrast to the blue, summery sky. Oh, to be out of doors on a day like this! Though the mist hung low and thick in the winter, summer was a welcome break from the overcast gloom of the city. Although she rejoiced that Thomas and Minnie were benefiting from the beautiful day, she earnestly wished she could join them.  She was grateful nonetheless. Mrs. Deacon had promised to take the children to the park and Thomas had squealed at the prospect. Minnie had wailed into Mummy's skirts that she wanted to work the mill just to be with her.  "Come, Minnie," Rose had coaxed, gently pushing some stray curls and tucking them behind her daughter's ear. "You and Thomas are going to have a wonderful time at the park, as kind Mrs. Deacon has offered to take you. Have fun. And enjoy yourselves. You'll do that for...