A Rose Out of Time
Book One, Roses of Longbourn
By Kelly Boggs
Book Blurb:
When Austen’s fiction collides with reality, one woman must choose: write history—or live it.
Hannah Ridley has always felt more at home in the pages of her Regency novels than in her own century. As a modern author obsessed with the mysteries surrounding Pride and Prejudice, she’s convinced that Jane Austen’s beloved Bennet family was inspired by real people—real dramas, real secrets, and a real house hidden behind altered names and polite disguises.
Her search leads her to Rosachron Manor, a quiet English estate she believes to be the true Longbourn. But instead of dusty archives or forgotten letters, Hannah stumbles upon something far more extraordinary: a hidden time portal woven into the fabric of the old estate. One breath, one heartbeat—and she is swept into 1814.
Suddenly, Hannah is no longer studying history; she is living it.
Drawn into the rhythms of Regency life, she finds herself entangled with the very family she once believed fictional. Their lives and personalities are still being molded by the aftermath of the famous novel, and at the center of it all stands Elias Winterose—a handsome widower whose dry wit, weary tenderness, and fiercely guarded heart echo the satirical patriarch she has studied for years.
As Hannah navigates a world not her own, she uncovers secrets that could unravel both the past and her future. And every moment with Elias draws her deeper into a love she never expected—and may never be able to keep.
Is Hannah meant to chronicle the truth behind Austen’s masterpiece… or to become part of it?
A sweeping, heart‑tugging time‑slip romance filled with gentle suspense, emotional depth, and the quiet magic of second chances, A Rose Out of Time invites readers into a world where love blooms across centuries and the heart knows its way home.
Step through the portal. Discover the truth behind the legend. And lose your heart in a story where past and present entwine.
Excerpt:
Hannah, now wholly at ease in Elias’ presence, did not hesitate when she discovered a finely bound copy of Pride and Prejudice tucked behind a stack of more ancient tomes. She drew it out with a smile and held it aloft.
“Tell me, Elias—have you read this?”
He looked up, and his expression shifted into one of theatrical dismay. “Hah! Is there a soul in England who has not read that wretched book and laughed at the follies of the Bennets? I cannot say with certainty who that lady novelist is—though I have my suspicions—but should I ever encounter her again, I fear I may struggle to behave as a gentleman.”
Hannah laughed, wholly delighted. “Then I shall be sure to keep you well away from any literary salons.”
Elias regarded her hopeful expression and sighed, not without humour. “I know precisely what you are longing to ask. Were we the Bennets? How much of the tale is true?”
“Well—yes,” Hannah admitted, her voice soft but steady. “I have wondered far longer than you can possibly imagine.” She knew she ought to offer him an escape, to assure him there was no need to speak of it. But the words would not come. She wanted to know- and she wanted him to tell her.
His countenance remained unguarded, almost inviting. “You are acquainted, I daresay, with the peculiar talents of a caricature portraitist? He espies some unfortunate gentleman whose nose is but a trifle more prominent than his neighbors’ and proceeds to sketch a likeness so consumed by that singular feature, one forgets the man had eyes or a mouth at all.”
Hannah inclined her head, careful not to interrupt the flow of his thoughts.
“That lady novelist,” he continued, “is much the same — only her medium is ink. I read Sense and Sensibility, her debut, and laughed heartily at the charming absurdities she so deftly captured. But it is quite another matter when her pen alights upon one’s own relations. The amusement, I assure you, wears thin.
“Yes, we were the Bennets—though rendered in caricature. My daughter Jane is indeed a sweet and virtuous girl, but surely no mortal creature could possess the unblemished saintliness attributed to her namesake. Lizzy is the light of my life, and sharp of mind, yet even she might struggle to match the sparkling repartee bestowed upon her in fiction. As for my dear Mary—she is bookish and plain, and does tend to detect sermons where none were intended, but given the company she keeps, who could fault her? In truth, she is far more agreeable than her literary counterpart. Kitty, poor girl, is a follower by nature, but I hold out hope that she possesses a mind of her own and may yet be persuaded to use it—provided she falls under the influence of wiser heads.”
He paused, and Hannah, leaning forward with unconcealed interest, fervently hoped he had not yet finished.
“The two Lydias, however—my late wife and my youngest daughter—were, I regret to say, rendered with alarming accuracy. Foolish and indiscreet to a degree that defies polite description. And my cousin, heir to the fictional Longbourn—the so-called Mr. Collins—well, she captured him with such precision that I can only assume she had met him in person.”
Hannah listened, spellbound, wondering what judgment he might pass upon himself as Mr. Bennet.
“As for myself,” he said, with a sigh that carried both amusement and regret, “I must own that I am, on occasion, precisely as sarcastic, indolent, and ineffectual as depicted. But that is not the whole of me. I care for my daughters—every one of them—with a depth I seldom know how to express, save through teasing and irony, which is not understood by all. And my late wife—yes, I loved her, in my own fashion. I simply did not know how to live with her, day by day. She could not help the way she was made, and she bore her own burdens, not least the daily trial of my company—and the entail, of course, which hung over us all like a particularly ill-bred spectre.”
“Ah—the entail,” Hannah said at last, her voice low but steady. “So, it is real, then? And the events in the story—did she invent them entirely, or were they drawn from life?”
He inclined his head, a shadow of amusement passing over his features. “Names were altered, certainly. Characters and sentiments were, I daresay, embellished for dramatic effect. But the principal events were reported with surprising fidelity. Jane and Lizzy are indeed happily settled, each with a respectable husband. Poor Lydia remains bound to an incorrigible scoundrel—though I cannot imagine he will enjoy a long life, given his habits. There may yet be hope for her, if she can be persuaded to part ways with folly.”
Author Bio:
Kelly Boggs is a writer who happily wanders between centuries on the page. She draws inspiration from Austen, quiet English estates, and the small wonders of everyday life—including the antics of her two dachshunds, who consider themselves indispensable to her creative routine. She lives in Ohio with her family and far too many books.
Links:
Website: kellyboggsauthor.com
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/kellyboggs
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