I write both Historical Romance and Young Adult, though I am seeking a critiquing partner to help with the Historical Romance I am currently workin...

Clovelly, Devon, England, 1683

Ivy Sparrow inhaled deeply and tasted the salty-fishy-seaweed stench of low tide.  For the last half hour or so she had been gathering mussels and other shellfish washed up on the beach as the water receded.  But now she paused, gathering courage, as she contemplated the chilly, gray waters before her.  The gentle whisper of the waves rolling back and forth over the beach was a deception.  The October morning was crisp and cool and the water looked anything but inviting.  However, the choicest seafood lay just off shore and she was determined to get the best.  A breeze freshened, sending tendrils of icy air creeping under the folds of her work gown.  She shivered and drew a shaky breath.  Images of a warm bed and soft blankets, enveloping her for another hour or two, swept before her eyes and she longed to turn coward to crawl back under them.  Exhaustion hung about her like a familiar but cruel friend.  Late nights of worry and stress, followed by long days of managing a farm and preparing for the long winter ahead, had taken their toll.  It was honest work—and necessary—but she was tired of the struggle, tired of struggling alone, and feeling the underlying anxiety of “what if” she failed.  So much rested upon her shoulders and there was so little room for error.

Or self-pity.

Huffing out a breath of impatience, Ivy kicked off her shoes, lifted her skirts and waded into the surf.

Gooseflesh shivered over her arms and legs and up her spine.  She ignored it and shrugged off the half-filled bucket of sea water she’d slung over her shoulder then set the bucket down beside her in the surf and dug her heel into the sand beneath the waves.  She did this a time or two before she finally felt the smooth roundness of a shell beneath her heel and felt a moment’s triumph as she bent to gather her new find.