Bits 'n Bobs Author Blog
Enjoy an excerpt and added bonus feature from Wareeze Woodson's romantic Regency suspense novel, An Enduring Love. http://buff.ly/1qqyBSe Cover blurb: Born and raised in Latvia, Rebecca Balodis marries Rhys Sudduth, an English diplomat. Shortly thereafter, he is summoned home to attend his father’s death-bed. Rebecca cannot accompany him at the time and becomes trapped in the turmoil plaguing her country. He is informed she died in the upheaval. Nearly four years later, she escapes and arrives in London with their son in tow. Arriving in the middle of his sister’s ball is very awkward, especially since Rhys plans to announce his betrothal to a young debutante later in the evening. Trouble, suspense and danger, follow her from Latvia. Can this pair ever find or even recognize an enduring love? Is it worth keeping? Excerpt: A liveried butler, stern of countenance and standing stiffly erect opened the door. “Your invitation, Ma’am.” Rebecca trembled, but forced out, “Surely, I don’t need an invitation. Please inform Lord Rhys that his wife is here.” Astonishment flashed across the butler’s face before he bowed his head and nodded for her to follow him. Sonja was seated in the hall while he led Rebecca to a small parlor papered with stripes of ivory and cream. The entire room seemed a little intimidating, with an elaborate sofa covered with gold brocade sitting before a wide window. Chairs were shattered about the room as well, but the beauty of the room did little to sooth her nerves. She glanced at the low table in front of the sofa then let her gaze shift to the fireplace, glowing with warmth. The softly burning coals added soothing comfort to the room and with that, her whole body relaxed. After the butler exited, Rebecca quickly knelt down to straighten Johnnie’s apparel. “We want to look our best mans maz cilveku, my little man. You must learn English better now we are home. They are not expecting us, but no matter. Your father will love you.” The door opened and Rhys stood on the threshold with a scowl of impatience on his face, speaking to the butler over his shoulder. “Some strumpet masquerading as my deceased wife. Be damned. You’re positive she said, my wife. Not a long lost relative wanting to sponge…?” Rebecca jumped to her feet, took Johnnie by the hand and pasted a trembling smile on her lips. “Rhys.” * * * An Added Bonus Feature! Letters discovered in the belongings of the villain. These letters are not revealed in the book but are held in my heart and give insight to the story. A tidbit solely for you. Enjoy. Wareeze Woodson The Year of Our Lord 1813 My Dearest Husband, I write with my heart filled with sorrow. My beloved mother has passed on to join my father in Heaven. I can only be happy for her although sadness weighs me down. I am now acquainted with deep sadness and how you must mourn for your father. Grief makes it hard to write, but you deserve to know why I am delayed in departing this land. At the moment, I am trapped in Latvia due to the up-rising in my country. I do not know how long it may be before I am allowed to travel to England to join you. There is a guard placed outside my gate to prevent my departure at present, but I will travel to Rica at the first opportunity and board a ship to London. Perhaps all will settle quickly. I can only pray it shall be so. I cannot wait to be in your arms again, to kiss your dear face and gaze into your eyes once more. With words, you painted a lovely picture of your home in England and of your relatives. The thought of meeting your family holds much pleasure for me, especially since I am now alone. Take care, My Love. I shall write to let you know as the hour of my departure grows closer. Keep safe and know you have my enduring love. Yours Always, Rebecca Sudduth Another letter confiscated by the villain. The Year of Our Lord 1814 My Dearest Husband, I have not received any word from you since you sailed away from Latvia. I hope you are well. I must write quickly in order to send this to you. There is still a guard at my gate. With your connection in the government, perhaps you can return and help me travel to England. There will be one added person in need of your assistance, our son. If you cannot come at once, please write. I am most anxious to hear from you. Never forget my enduring love. Anxiously waiting. Yours Always, Rebecca Sudduth * * * About Wareeze: I am a native of Texas and still live in this great state. I married my high school sweetheart, years and years ago. We raised four children and have eight grandchildren, and grandchildren are Grand. At the moment, all my children and my grandchildren live within seventy miles of our home, lots of visits. My husband and I still love each other after all these years, the stuff romance is made of, Happy Ever After! website - http://www.wareezewoodson.com/ face book - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wareeze-Woodson/523727757689755 twitter - twitter.com@wareeze face book - https://www.goodreads.com/wareeze
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7/7/2014 2 Comments My guest author today is Cynthia Owens with her Irish historical book, My Dark Rose, the third in her Wild Geese series. Welcome! Hi Cathy, and thanks so much for having me today! Good morning, Cynthia! It’s great to have you here. Could you please tell us a bit about yourself? I believe I was destined to be interested in history. One of my distant ancestors, Thomas Aubert, reportedly sailed up the St. Lawrence River to discover Canada some 26 years before Jacques Cartier’s 1534 voyage. Another relative was a 17thCentury “King’s Girl,” one of a group of young unmarried girls sent to New France (now the province of Quebec) as brides for the habitants (settlers) there. My passion for reading made me long to write books like the ones I enjoyed, and I tried penning sequels to my favorite Nancy Drew mysteries. Later, fancying myself a female version of Andrew Lloyd Weber, I drafted a musical set in Paris during WWII. A former journalist and lifelong Celtophile, I enjoyed a previous career as a reporter/editor for a small chain of community newspapers before returning to my first love, romantic fiction. My stories usually include an Irish setting, hero or heroine, and sometimes all three. I’m the author of The Claddagh Series, historical romances set in Ireland and beyond, and The Wild Geese Series, in which five Irish heroes return from the American Civil War to find love and adventure. I’m a member of the Romance Writers of America, Hearts Through History Romance Writers, and Celtic Hearts Romance Writers. A lifelong resident of Montreal, Canada, I still live there with my own Celtic hero and our two teenaged children. CMR: Wow. You seem to have a destiny with history. How long have you been writing? CO: To be perfectly honest, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write! In the first grade, we were told to write a few sentences about Dick, Jane and their dog Spot. I wrote about four paragraphs! But talk about stifling creativity: instead of being pleased and praising me, my teacher scolded for writing too much! I can’t help wondering what she’d say if she knew I’ve become a (dare I say it?) multi-published author! CMR: What do you enjoy most about writing? CO: Well, let’s see, there really isn’t much I don’t enjoy about writing. ;) But I think the best thing about writing is the creative rush I get when I first begin the story. I love creating my characters, deciding on the time frame, the setting, and of course, the plot. It’s a little bit like falling in love for the first time, with all the wonder and excitement that entails. It’s a great feeling! CMR: What is it that draws you to historical romance? CO: I love history! Irish history in particular. Despite the tragedy and hardship of the Irish people in the Victorian era (Queen Victoria was known in Ireland as the Famine Queen), there was so much political upheaval happening at the time, such determination to survive. The Irish are a great people, and I only hope I can do them justice. CMR: That sounds wonderful! So, tell us a bit about your newest book. CO: I’m so thrilled to announce the June release of My Dark Rose. It’s the third in the Wild Geese Series, and it’s Dary Greely’s story. …Like the Wild Geese of Old Ireland, five boys grew to manhood despite hunger, war, and the mean streets of New York… He was the lucky one… Dary Greely is the only one of his brothers and sisters to survive the hunger in Ireland and the coffin ship to America. He was the one whose parents made a bit of money, the one who emerged from the war virtually unscathed. He was the lucky one…but when the war ended, his luck ran out. She was burdened by too many responsibilities… Róisín Donavan is an Irish girl who lives in a Five Points tenement room. She dreams of a future as a great diva and sings Irish songs at Paddy Ryan's Pub. But her stubborn Irish pride won't allow her to abandon her family, even if it means sacrificing everything for them. Can Dary make Róisín see her true worth? Can Róisín heal the festering wounds that tear at Dary’s soul? And can love truly mend their grieving hearts? CMR: What was your inspiration for this story? CO: My hero, Dary Greely, inspired this story. The lucky one, the one who grew up with a few advantages, who’s everyone’s friend. The easy-going one with the sense of humor. But what happens when his luck runs out? That’s what I wanted to find out! CMR: That's a great premise! What kind of research did you do? CO: A lot, and since I love my research, I had a great time! J I’d already done some research into the Famine, the coffin ships that brought the five “Wild Geese” to America, and the Five Points, where they grew up. But My Dark Rose took the characters to such places as Delmonico’s Restaurant, a well-to-do family’s home, and a Central Park roller-skating rink. So I had to find out just what Dary and Róisín would have experienced. And since Róisín’s a singer in an Irish pub, I had to research the lyrics to several Irish songs. No hardship there, as I listen to Irish music whether I’m writing or not! CMR: How did you decide on the setting? Have you ever been there? CO: My Dark Rose is set in New York City, and deciding on the setting was easy. Most Irish immigrants arrived in New York, and many of them stayed on and became a close-knit community. I have been to New York City, but only for brief visits. I hope to go back one day soon and explore the city more thoroughly. CMR: Which character was the easiest to write? Why? CO: Róisín was very easy to write because we shared a lot of the same character traits. She’s very insecure about her relationship with Dary because of the differences in their economic stations. And she worries about disappointing her music teacher. Having been painfully shy my entire life, I could relate to those insecurities. CMR: What surprises did you uncover as these characters and story developed? CO: Probably the biggest surprise was how endearing Róisín’s family was. From her spoiled, selfish sister, Nuala, to her wastrel brother, Joe, I fell in love with all of them. I hope my readers grow as fond of them as I have, because they’ve been tugging at my sleeves and asking for their own stories! CMR: I’ve learned a lot today, Cynthia, and I’ve certainly enjoyed getting to know you better. Is there anything you’d like to add? I love to hear from my readers! I love to connect with them on Facebook or Twitter, and I love receiving e-mails through my website. I usually answer right away too. Readers can contact me or connect with me at the following links: Website: http://www.cynthiaowensromancewriter.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCynthiaOwens?ref=hl Twitter: https://twitter.com/Cynwrites1 Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Cynthia-Owens/e/B003DQ1V2E/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1 CMR: Thanks so much for joining me today, Cynthia! Best of luck with your books! Thanks so much for having me! I really enjoyed answering your questions, and I look forward to meeting your readers! 7/5/2014 24 Comments Ebook Giveaway on my blog!We're in the middle of a long, fun weekend, so I thought I'd add a bit of excitement. Leave a comment below telling me your favorite thing about the Fourth of July (or any long weekend). Two lucky commenters will win an ebook (Kindle format) of their choice of one of the featured books! Giveaway ends Monday morning, July 7, 8:00 CST. Winners will be posted later that day. I hope everyone is having a great weekend! I have Scottish historical author, Meggan Connors with me today on Thursday's Threads. Let's find out a bit about her book, Highland Deception Heat Rating: Sensual Genre: Historical Romance Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00J3D2JS6/ Blurb: When Kenneth Mackay, long-banished rogue and thief, returns to the Mackay holding at the request of his brother, he has no idea what he might find. He certainly doesn’t expect to be confronted with his twin’s imminent death, or with the plan his brother has concocted. Ten years before, Malcolm made a tragic mistake, and, to preserve the family name—and his own skin—he allowed Kenneth to take the fall. Now that he is dying without an heir, Malcolm plans to atone for his mistake: by giving Kenneth his life back. All Kenneth has to do is assume his brother’s identity. But complicating matters is the unexpected return of Lady Isobel Mackay, the daughter of an English marquess and the wife Malcolm didn’t want. Isobel barely knows the husband who abandoned her even before their marriage, and she’d long since given up hope on having a real marriage with him. Yet when she returns to the Mackay holding far earlier than expected, she finds her husband a changed man. Despite the hurt between them, Isobel’s heart responds to this man who cares for his entire clan as if there were family. Who, for the first time, cares about her as if she is, too. Falling in love with her husband had never been part of Isobel’s plan. But when their future is suddenly in peril, Isobel must find a way to save him—from himself and from the deception threatening to tear them apart. Excerpt She ignored Grant’s angry protests behind her and ran for her husband’s bedchamber. Slamming open the door, she stumbled inside. Malcolm lay in the great bed. Alone. Alone. She tried not to speculate about what that meant. His breathing was shallow, as if he’d been running. As the door bounced back and closed, his sky-bright eyes shot up and met hers. No, not sky-bright. Darker, the color of the forget-me-nots that bloomed in the gardens in spring. The color of the night sky as it lightened with the first rays of dawn. “Milord.” She gasped for breath. Malcolm had never looked at her like he did now. This time, when he studied her, it was as if he didn’t dislike what he saw. Being honest with herself, Malcolm had never disliked her. After all, the term dislike implied a depth of feeling he almost certainly lacked. “Wife.” Isobel flinched. Grant was suddenly at her back. “Sir, I apologize. She’s faster than you’d think.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, as if to steer her from the room. She shook him off. “Indeed.” Malcolm smiled, and a charming dent in his cheek appeared. How had she not noticed that before? “We will leave at once.” Grant took her by the arm. She wrenched out of his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I have my audience.” She glanced around the room and saw no sign of Malcolm’s mistress. “Lady Mackay,” Grant began. Malcolm held up his hand. “‘Tis fine, Grant. I can always make time for my lady wife.” Isobel barked a hollow laugh, alleviating the ache, just a little. “Are you certain?” Grant’s eyes shifted from Isobel to Malcolm and back again. A wrinkle formed between his brows, and the muscle in his cheek worked as he ground his teeth together. He’d only ever done that when he was agitated or anxious. But there was no reason for that, as Malcolm had never truly cared enough to keep secrets from her in an attempt to spare her feelings. Nor had he ever forced others to do the same. Malcolm’s eyes met Grant’s, and something passed between the two men. Her husband gave Grant a clipped nod. “If you’ll excuse us, Grant.” Grant released his breath slowly. His eyes narrowed first at Malcolm, then at Isobel. Scowling, he bowed his head. “Mackay,” he said stiffly. He turned to Isobel. “Lady Mackay.” Isobel watched him go then waited until the door had closed behind him. “So, where is she?” Malcolm arched a dark brow. “Where is who?” “You know. Her.” He lifted a single shoulder, as if she didn’t have a right to know. “I doona ken.” The silence that fell between them was deafening, damning. Finally he said, “Your arrival was unexpected.” She breathed a mirthless laugh. “I have no doubt.” She expected him to look ashamed, but his expression didn’t hold even the slightest hint of remorse. She swallowed against the betrayal rising in the back of her throat and tried again. “Why are you abed?” “I’ve been ailing. Naught to fash yourself over.” She approached his great bed tentatively. “Ailing how? Has your cough worsened?” He glanced down at his coverlet and then brought his gaze back to her face. “For a time, aye. I believe I’m on the mend now.” Isobel pressed her hand to his forehead, then his cheek. His skin felt cool beneath her palm, if a little damp. His breath hitched, then he cleared his throat. “Satisfied? As you can see, I am on the mend.” “Perhaps,” she whispered. She ran her hand around to the back of his neck, then descended to his back. He wore a thin linen shirt, unsuitable for the cool nights of the Highlands in late fall. She placed her hands between his shoulder blades. He was thinner than she remembered, but there was no mistaking Malcolm’s unique strength. “Breathe,” she said, and then reminded herself to do the same. Malcolm. “I hardly think—” “If you want me to leave you be, you will appease my curiosity. Breathe.” Malcolm tilted his head up and studied her. She fought the desire to look at him for as long as she could before meeting his gaze. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Curiosity. “Breathe, milord.” Heat spread up her neck to her face, and, to keep her free hand from shaking, she clenched a fist. The warmth of his body seeped through his nightshirt, scalding her hand not with fever but with something else. The corners of his lips tilted upward before he smoothed his features. He paused for a moment too long, then held her gaze as he took an extended, deliberate breath. She shoved the raging emotions aside and forced herself to view him as a person who needed her help. She felt no hint of the cough that had been nagging him before she’d left. Swallowing hard, she slid her hand between the linen and his skin, against his chest. His heart rate kicked up. “Breathe.” She struggled to force the word out. I feel nothing. Nothing. He needs my help. She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands, the steady beating of his heart. His skin scorched hers. Her mouth dried, her tongue thick and heavy. She removed her hand. “You seem to have mended nicely.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strangled. His gaze searched her face. “Aye.” Isobel cradled her hand against her chest and stepped back from the bed, nearly tripping over her own feet. “I will leave you now, sir.” Malcolm gave her a clipped nod. “Very well, my lady wife.” “I—I will be in my chambers should you require me.” He didn’t laugh, as he normally would have. “Then I shall find you there if I do. Or I will send for you.” She backed up a few paces, bumped into a trunk, and immediately turned her attention to her skirt, trying to smooth wrinkles undoubtedly permanent from long days of travel. It was better than looking at Malcolm. “By your leave.” Her eyes locked on the floor as she dipped into a hasty curtsy and fled. The moment the door closed behind her, she put her back against the cold, stone wall, cradling the hand that had touched him as if she had injured it. She’d touched his skin, felt the heat of his body, and the responding heat of hers. He hadn’t forced her hands away. He hadn’t mocked her. Instead, for the first time since their marriage, he’d called her wife. I'm a bit late due to internet problems. But here is this week's Thursday's Thread, a Women's Historical Fiction novel due to be released in July, 2014. Title: Confederado do Norte by Linda Bennett Pennell Back Cover blurb: October, 1866. Mary Catherine is devastated when her family immigrates from Georgia to Brazil because her father and maternal uncle refuse to accept the terms of Reconstruction following the Confederacy’s defeat. Shortly after arrival in their new country, she is orphaned, leaving her in Uncle Nathan’s care. He hates Mary Catherine, blaming her for his sister’s death. She despises him because she believes Nathan murdered her father. When Mary Catherine discovers Nathan’s plan to be rid of her as well, she flees into the wilderness filled with jaguars and equally dangerous men. Finding refuge among kind peasants, she grows into a beauty, ultimately marrying the scion of a wealthy Portuguese family. Happiness and security seem assured until civil unrest brings armed marauders who have an inexplicable connection to Mary Catherine. Recreating herself has protected Mary Catherine in the past, but the latest crisis will demand all of the courage, intelligence, and creativity she posseses simply to survive. Excerpt from Confederado do Norte Chapter 1 I dreamt the dream again last night. In the small hours, I awoke in a tumble of bedclothes and bathed in perspiration despite the howling snowstorm blanketing the city. I rearranged quilts and plumped pillows, but sleep remained elusive. My mind refused to be quiet. As often happens after such a night, I felt unable to rise at my usual hour and remained abed long after the maids cleared breakfast from the morning room. My daughter-in-law, bless her heart, meant well. I told her it was ridiculous to bring the doctor out on such a frigid day, but apparently the very old, like the very young, are not to be trusted in matters of judgment. After the doctor listened to my chest, a studied sympathy filled his eyes and he gently suggested that perhaps I should get my affairs in order. No doubt he wondered at my smile for he couldn’t have known I have no affairs other than my memories and the emotions they engender. Unlike most elderly persons, I don’t revel in slogging through the past. It isn’t wrapped in pretty ribbons or surrounded by a golden aura. Instead, its voices haunt my dreams, demanding and accusatory. Until recently, I’ve resisted their intrusion into my waking life, but I now believe the past can no longer remain buried in nocturnal visions. It must be brought out into the light of day. From its earliest moments onward, the past’s substance must be gouged out, pulled apart, and examined bit by bit until its truth is exposed. While total objectivity may not be possible, I have concluded that committing the past to paper is my best hope for sorting facts from imaginings. Perhaps then I will achieve the peace that has so long hidden its face from me. You see, when I was quite young—only a girl really—I killed four people. Two were dearly beloved, one was a hated enemy, and the last was a dangerous criminal. Chapter 2 My story begins at the end of a terrible war, one that destroyed many lives and much property. But for that war and a handful of newspaper editorials and advertisements, my life would have turned out quite differently. Sometimes it seems no time at all has passed since I was a nine-year-old child standing on the deck of a ship watching home disappear over the horizon. Warm Gulf breezes tugged at the brim of my bonnet, setting its ribbons dancing. Leaning over the Alyssa Jane’s railing, I stared back in the direction of Mobile Bay and pretended I could see the dock where my beloved Bess stood, probably still waving. Mama, her pretty features marred by a furrowed brow and down turned mouth, paced beside me. “Mary Catherine MacDonald! Get down before you fall overboard. All we need right now is another crisis. And stop wiping your nose on your sleeve.” Mama didn’t seem to understand anything anymore. Before we left home, she was calm and kind. Afterward, she snapped at the least little thing. I threw her a hateful glance, but she had already turned away, so I stubbornly leaned a little farther out over the railing. The wake trailing behind the Alyssa Jane looked like a blue-green path lined on either side by mounds of ginned cotton, a path pushing me away from the only life I had ever known. Only my sniveling broke the silence of that October morning. A swish of crinolines brought Mama beside me. She grabbed my arm and whispered through clenched teeth, “Mary C., I told you to get off that railing. Go below and stay there until you can do as you’re told!” I stomped across the deck, pausing once beside the mainmast to scowl over my shoulder. It was all so unfair. I hadn’t asked to be dragged along on this blasted trip. I wanted Bess. I wanted to go home, no matter how damaged it was, no matter who ran the stupid government. I wanted to be anywhere but here. But Mama turned away from me. She wasn’t even going to watch to see that I did what she said. Her indifference was like a slap in the face. As I jumped through the open hatch leading below deck, the pungent odor of pine tar mixed with burning kerosene assailed my senses. I hated the smell. Besides making me slightly queasy, it reminded me of how final my losses were. Nothing at home smelled like the interior of that old tub. I hit the steps at a near run with plans to fling myself into my hammock and stay there forever. It would serve them right if I just upped and died. I bowled along toward the sleeping area blinded by tears and the sudden gloom of the narrow passageway. Without warning, I crashed headlong into a pair of wool-encased legs. The trousers’ owner and I struggled momentarily in an awkward dance. With a standoff in the making, he harrumphed once, picked me up by my arms, deposited me on the other side of him, and stepped toward the hatch. Tears forgotten, I tugged on his retreating coattails, ready to let him see my displeasure. Hooded eyes with ink black irises stared down in return. He didn’t look particularly angry, but authority hung about him like a mantle. I swallowed, choked back what I intended to say, and instead muttered, “I’m sorry for running into you.” He gazed at me for a moment and then simply nodded before turning away. The Reverend Jonas Williams might be a man of God, but his unsmiling countenance raised the hair at the nape of my neck as though someone stepped on my grave. Mama often fussed that Bess planted too many of her superstitions in my fertile imagination. I was now old enough to understand that some of what Mama said was true. But the Reverend Brother Williams still affected me like a haint. A slight shudder slithered down my spine, as though my body was trying to rid itself of his effect. I turned and fled down the hallway toward our sleeping quarters. Many months later, I would come to see this encounter as an omen, a foreshadowing of all that came afterward. We passengers, immigrants one and all fleeing the defeated South, slept in a large open area that most likely was used as a cargo hold in the Alyssa Jane’s younger, more prosperous days. Most of the canvas partitions separating the fifteen or so families from one another had been drawn back in hope of allowing fresh sea breezes from the few portholes to circulate. Unfortunately, the plan wasn’t meeting with much success for the air remained stale and fetid with the odors of sweat and bodily functions. I slumped on the edge of my hammock and kicked at the floorboards, allowing tears to drip from my chin unabated. Life wasn’t at all how it was supposed to be. It hadn’t been since the day Papa rode away to war. He looked so handsome in his gray captain’s uniform. He sat on his favorite stallion at the head of his unit and rode toward a conflict that everybody said would be over by Christmas. Everybody had been terribly wrong. My ruminations, while sad and haunted, didn’t last long, for my mind turned to more immediate indignities and irritations. I hated staying below deck. I hated the stench. I hated the isolation. I hated the boredom. When I figured enough time had elapsed that it was safe to go above again, I bolted back into the fresh air. Mama now leaned on the stern railing, her gaze fixed on the faint line where the sky’s lighter blue met the Gulf of Mexico’s deep azure. She sniffed once as I approached and turned unusually bright eyes on me. “Are you feeling better, child?” When I nodded, she gripped the railing and resumed her observation of the horizon slipping away behind the Alyssa Jane. I eyed her for a moment, before sidling up beside her. “Mama, why couldn’t Bess come with us?” Her arm slipped around my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Why, darlin’, you’ve been told at least a thousand times. Bess has got to stay in Georgia.” I jerked away from Mama’s grasp. “That’s not fair! She’s part of our family.” A pained expression filled her eyes and her lips parted, but no words escaped. Her head lifted slightly and her gaze locked onto the space behind me. “Mary Catherine MacDonald, you will not raise your voice to your mother.” Mama drew a quick breath as Papa strode to her and took her hand. His attention then returned to me. “No slave has ever been part of our family. It’s unthinkable! Furthermore, Brazil doesn’t allow slaves to be imported anymore. ” The more he spoke, the harder his voice sounded and the more clouded his face became. He concluded with sharper words than I had ever heard him use before. “So stop whining about that nigger mammy of yours and learn to live without her.” Surprise made me momentarily mute, but my heart pounded and the sun was suddenly much hotter on my upturned face. I drew a couple of rapid breaths so hard that my cheeks puffed in and out. “Bess is too part of our family. I love her and she loves me. You love her too, don’t you Mama?” A rosy flush crept over Mama’s face and her gaze darted around at the other people on deck. I ignored the warning in her eyes. “Bess took care of me all my life. That makes her part of our family.” Heady with righteous indignation, my eyes narrowed and I delivered my coup de grace. Jabbing an index finger in Papa’s direction, I yelled, “And besides, Bess isn’t a slave anymore and you damn well know it.” My words rang across a suddenly silent deck. People turned from their own conversations, shook their heads and stared at us. The only sound I could hear was the blood thumping against my eardrums. Papa’s face blanched. He stooped down until his eyes were level with mine and gripped my upper arms, nearly lifting me from the deck. My head snapped back and forth while he hissed, “You will not speak to anyone, most especially your mother or me, in that manner. Do you understand?” My hands went numb as his grasp tightened. “Now, stop your crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Only when he stopped speaking did I notice tears streamed down my cheeks. As we swayed in silence on the Alyssa Jane’s deck, Papa’s grip slackened and the fire in his eyes burned less brightly. “Besides, your aunts need Bess to cook and clean their house in town. At least that’s one thing that escaped Sherman’s destruction.” Papa got a far off look in his eyes. His hands released me and dropped to his side as he straightened to his full height. I knew better than to speak again. Spying a cargo box lashed to a railing on the main deck, I slunk down the steps and made my way to it. I wanted to stay up top rather than breathe the stale air below decks, but I also couldn’t bear being near my parents at that moment. Papa’s present personality still caught me off guard. Before the war, he rarely raised his voice or hand to me. In truth, I was rather spoiled and cossetted. I begged for pretty dresses and china faced dolls by the dozens. Sometimes, I actually got them too. Now, we were on a ship bound for a place where they didn’t even speak English just because some stupid newspaper advertisements promised defeated Southerners free land. All I wanted was to go home, to have life the way it used to be. Home. The way it used to be before Papa and Nathan decided they would not endure Yankees and carpetbaggers, our former enemies, being in charge of everything. I was only five when the War Between the States began. Our old way of life now seemed like a gauzy dream—pleasant upon waking, but dissipating when you reached out to grasp it. Afraid of losing the last tenuous hold on that dream, I invented a little ritual, hoping it would glue fading images to the pages of my memory. Now that Papa and my mother’s only surviving brother were dragging us away from Georgia never to return, the ritual’s importance had taken on the stature of an obsession. I closed my eyes and once again conjured up my earliest memories. In my mind’s eye, I looked down on the Oconee River from the deep porch of an unpainted dogtrot farmhouse. Cotton fields that came right up to the house stretched out as far as I could see in every direction on our side of the river. The house and the farm wouldn’t have been terribly grand by most people’s lights, but it was home and, therefore, my whole world. The clapboard house and outbuildings existed only in shadowy visions after the war. While I retained only a few hazy memories of the farm, one stands out clearly. It is of Mama’s favorite rose bush to which I did some considerable damage one spring by picking off all the buds before they even broke color and for which I received the first spanking of my life. A few other people lived on the farm in tiny houses out back of the barn. They were the colored slaves, most of whom worked in the fields, but of their faces, it was only Bess’s that mattered to me. My Bess, who lived in the house, and who took care of me, and whom I loved as much as I did my mother. My clearest memories of my parents before the war were that Papa spent his days with the field hands and that Mama loved music. Beautiful music filled the house when she played her pianoforte. Sometimes when Bess brought me into the parlor to say goodnight, Papa would be sitting beside Mama, kissing her neck as she played and she would be smiling at him in the special way she reserved only for him. I think they must have been very happy. They laughed a lot back then. Then, the war came. Nobody and nothing was ever the same again. Papa had come back from the war haunted by what he had seen and the losses he had endured. For a time, we thought he had permanently lost his mind. These days, it didn’t take much to rile him. Mama said not to mind, that he just had so many worries it made him harder to live with than before. Even so, I still couldn’t understand why he spoke so cruelly about Bess of whom he’d always been so fond. My papa’s sunny nature was the most important thing destroyed by the war. As the days under sail passed into weeks and America became nothing but a memory, Papa’s disposition evolved. To everyone’s relief he seemed more like his old prewar self. The farther we traveled, the more his mood lifted so by the time we docked in Jamaica to take on supplies, his good days outnumbered the bad. I even saw him and Mama kissing under the stars one night when they thought no one else was on deck. The Alyssa Jane was an old clipper fallen on hard times, reduced to ferrying passengers and commodities along the trade routes extending from ports in the southern United States to destinations in the other Americas. Its confined space provided limited opportunities for me to get into trouble, so I was allowed unaccustomed freedom. The morning we sailed toward Kingston Harbor, I hung over the portside railing from the moment the city’s outline came into view. Footsteps running up behind caused me to turn and I lost my balance. Papa grabbed a handful of my skirts. “Mary Catherine, you’re going to topple into the water if you keep this up. Get off that railing and put your feet squarely on the deck or you can go below and stay there.” Instant compliance and a sweet smile seemed to go a long way these days, so I did as I was told. I didn’t want this new/old version of my papa to disappear again. We passed through Kingston Harbor’s narrow mouth with sails snapping, pushed along by Caribbean breezes. In the distance, I could make out the familiar marks of human habitation trailing along the waterfront, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for Jamaica. Low emerald mountains surrounded an oval bowl of aquamarine water that rolled gently forward to kiss sand the color of cotton just breaking from the bole. Within minutes of entering the harbor, the city’s buildings became distinct and grew in size. A little thrill swept through me as the old clipper bumped against the dock and the sights and smells of Kingston spread out before us like a feast awaiting revelers. “Papa, please, why cain’t I go with y’all?” His mouth became a thin line. “Because Kingston isn’t particularly safe.” Then he placed his arm around my shoulders and pointed to the opposite side of the harbor. “Did you know that a wicked pirate city used to be right over there? An earthquake destroyed Port Royal. The whole city simply fell into the sea.” Papa grinned and his eyes grew big. “Why, I’ve heard you can see pirate ghosts rising from the water when the moonlight is just right.” This was my old Papa, the one I hadn’t seen since war was declared. I slipped my arms around his waist. “Oh, Papa, you’re just so silly sometimes. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Papa smiled and picked me up, swinging me around like he used to when I was little. When he placed me on the deck again, I pressed my advantage. “Please cain’t I go? Please?” “You’re cutting me in half.” Papa pulled my arms away from his middle and smiled. “If it means that much to you, I guess it won’t hurt for you to go into town. But you absolutely must stay by your mama’s side. When she says it’s time to return to the boat, there will be no arguments. Understand?” As I stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek, angry shouts and the percussive report of a pistol rang across the harbor. * * * Other Books by Linda Pennell: Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel now available from Soul Mate Publishing Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLindaBennettPennell Website: http://www.lindapennell.com/ Twitter: @LindaPennell |
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