Meredith Allard's Blog, page 21

Down Salem Way: Sneak Peek #1

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I’m sure at this point Loving Husband Trilogy fans have put Down Salem Way into a category with Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and other urban legends: people want to believe in it yet no one’s actually seen it, so maybe it doesn’t exist after all.

Rest assured, the new James and Elizabeth story is right on schedule (maybe on schedule isn’t quite the way to put it since many of you have been waiting a while now). The official release date is Friday, April 19, 2019. Yes, you read that correctly–the new Loving Husband story will be released on James’ birthday.

I’ll have more to say about Down Salem Way soon. To keep us all going, here is the first snippet from Down Salem Way. Enjoy.

* * * * *

10 January 1691

Monday

The winters are colder here, I am sure of it. My father and I arrived here, in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but a year ago during what we were assured was one of the harshest winters in memory, and I can feel it so in my bones, which feel bitter, as though they will shatter like icicles against a hammer. While England grows cold enough in the sunless months, in New England tis as though the sky disappears beneath a flat woolen blanket. I cannot step one foot outside my home without feeling liquid ice in my veins instead of warm blood, but that is life in Massachusetts in January. The sky looks nearly as it does in England, gradations of gray from near-black to tinder-slate that shed wind, sleet, or snow depending on its mood, but home, in London, but three decades past the Great Fire, there are more people, more public houses, more ways to deal with the discomforts. Here there is no warmth to be found, outside my home, at least, for inside my home dwells my Elizabeth. Outside, I shiver in an unkind howling wind. Inside, I find comfort of every kind.

This morn my father expected me to meet him by the bay, which I did, dutifully. He wished to inspect the shipbuilders as they banged out the hull of his latest vessel, The Elizabeth, named for my wife. Lizzie laughed at me as I piled on layers of clothing in my meager attempt to stay warm: my woolen flannel underdrawers, my linen shirt, my thickest worsted woolen leggings, perhaps not the most fashionable, but they are my warmest; my woolen suit of doublet, jerkin, and breeches, and my heavy, fulled woolen coat, the deep blue one that Lizzie says matches my eyes, though what matters my eyes when I cannot see afore me for the blizzard. Lizzie made certain I looked the part of a gentleman before I left the house, knotting my cravat tightly near my throat in an effort to keep whatever body warmth I might take with me as close as I can for as long as possible, making sure I wore the matching vest and leggings in the same dark, heavy wool of my great coat. I took the coat with the collar and a cape over the shoulders, the one that fell past my knees. I would cover myself in ten such coats if I could manage to do so without looking ridiculous. Even as I was, my wife could not stifle her giggles. 

“Good heavens, James,” she said. “You look like a blue onion ready for the peeling.” 

“And shall you peel my layers away?” I asked. She blushed in that way I love, red-hot along her jaw. She pushed me toward the door as though she could not be rid of me soon enough. 

“Perhaps when you return home,” she said. “If you’re lucky.”

I pulled my dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty closer to me and basked in her warmth. I ran my lips along the red that stained her cheeks. “I have been lucky thus far,” I said. “I cannot see that my luck will not continue.”

Lizzie pulled my great coat closer around my neck. She opened the door and pushed me toward it. She shivered in the cold, kissed my lips, then pressed me outside.

“Go,” she said. “Father is waiting for you.”

“Will you wait for me?” I asked. 

“Where else shall I be?” She smiled that smile I long to see. We have been married but this one month and already her smile is the light of my life. “I shall be here, at home, waiting for my handsome husband. What other man might I wait for who is tall and strong with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the bluest, brightest jewels?”

I took a step further into the unfriendly gloom and heard the door close behind me. I sighed, knowing that I had lost the battle to my Lizzie, which is as it usually goes. That, as my father says, is being a good husband, though there are many who believe tis the man’s right to dictate. My father does not agree. 

“We Wentworth men are easily led astray by the love of a beautiful woman,” my father likes to say. “You have been, as I was by your mother, as my father was by my mother. Tis a weakness some say. I say we have gained far more than we have lost.” 

I quivered in my boots as I walked, leaving behind the woman who has not led me astray at all but who has shown me, each day since we have been married, what a joy life could be. I did not know what it meant to wake up smiling each morn until I married my Lizzie. I warmed my mind with thoughts of my beautiful wife, her wondering dark eyes, her curl-filled dark hair, her luscious, berry-like lips.

Alas, though my mind was content, my body was not as I slid across the frigid ground. I did not have far to walk, but it was far enough. This home, the one I share with my wife, is one of the larger houses in the Town, not far from the bay where my father waited. I looked for something to occupy my mind besides my wife but saw nothing. I am still struck by how sparse it is in Massachusetts. Unfriendly. Uninhabitable. 

“They call this a town?” I said aloud, to no one. Being from London, I struggle to think of this place as a town. And it becomes even more provincial at the Farms. The Town grows a little livelier toward the harbor since it is the hub for shipbuilding and the merchant trade.

“Is this all there is?” I said, again to no one. I thought I heard the caw of a seagull, then doubted myself since even seabirds knew to stay away from the shore on such days. There’s so little of everything, and tis still a shock to walk amongst nothing but seashore to one side of me, farmland on the other, and wilderness further back. I am surrounded by more trees than people. Though for someone such as I, who prefers the company of books, perhaps tis not such a terrible thing so long as I have my wife beside me.  

I must have shaken myself as far as the sea, for finally I stood near the edge of the gray-black bay, the tips of my boots licked by the lapping waves, my toes curling, the ocean spray splattering my exposed face with bitter water like pin pricks along my cheeks. The wind licked my lips raw, and I pulled my fur collar closer around my ears, my hair matted with wet, and I found myself thinking again that the cold in England wasn’t ever this cold. I squinted into the expanse of the water stretching far and away across the ocean, and I slapped my own forehead when I realized that I left my spectacles on the table near my bed. What a confounded fool I can be, I thought. How will I get through the day without my spectacles? Twas an excuse to return home, I knew, to the warmth of my hearth, and my Lizzie. But my father was waiting for me, and I do not like to disappoint him. I decided that if I concentrated hard enough, so that my temples squeezed and my brain pinched, I could see well enough. If I pinched my brain that much tigher, I thought I could see all the way past the ocean to England, and home.

I wish I could take my Lizzie, hire one of my father’s ships, and go back to England, to where I am comfortable, to family and friends and others I have known my whole life, where I could return to my studies and the work I was meant to do. This merchant life does not come naturally to me. It never has. Tis my father with the business sense, my father who can talk to anyone, buy anyone a round at the public house, my father who understands how to get what he needs with a smile or a laugh. But one day. One day I will take my Lizzie home. I will stay a while yet to help my father settle his business ventures, and then my wife and I shall go. In England, I felt my life had purpose. In Massachusetts, nothing has purpose. Except for Lizzie. Everything makes sense when I am with Lizzie. 

I was brought back to myself by a spray of salty ocean water. The air was even colder standing at land’s end, if that were possible. The men mulling about pulled their knitted woolen caps closer over their ears and their woolen coats and scarves closer to their chins to keep out the poking wicked wind. I focused on the horizon where the gray of the sky met the black of the sea, making the distance disappear. With my hat pulled over my eyes and my downward stance, I walked into a man who must have been a shipbuilder since that was the only trade happening on the docks. The man’s Monmouth cap fell to the ground, his leather pouch flung from his shoulder, and he grimaced with severity.

“My apologies,” I said. “I did not see you there.”

“Blind, are you?” The man spat in my direction. “A Pox on you!” The man skittered toward the sea, his gray doublet and breeches blending into the slate of sea and sky, gone from sight as quickly as he appeared. I laughed to myself as I thought, indeed, I am blind. I cannot see my own hand before my face without my spectacles, which are at home with my Lizzie where it is warm, where she is warm, her embrace and her soft body warm, and I am stuck here along an unforgiving shore being whipped by the angry weather like a thief in the stocks. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that the wind would have its way with me. I squinted into the distance, struggling to make out the short, slight shape of my father. When I arrived at the dock I had a sudden fright brought on by one word: “Pox.”

I thought there must be someone there, but even with my poor eyesight I saw I stood alone. Then I recalled where I heard the word—the man I stepped on had cursed me with it. I did not need that ill-tempered man to remind me of the fear of the Pox running along the Salem shore. There has been another outbreak, and those living closest to the port suffer. Once again I was reminded that I would rather be sitting in my cushioned chair before my hearth reading Samuel Pepys’ Memoirs of the Navy with Lizzie sitting beside me knitting, mending, or simply chatting to me about her day. I pulled my coat closer to my mouth, as though the meager movement would keep the Pox where it belonged, over there, away from me and mine. I arrived near the shipbuilders, hammering nails into wood until I thought my head would burst into a star-like pattern. With some effort, I made out a vague outline of men and guessed my father was among them.

To be continued…

Christmas With the Wentworths

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To celebrate the winter holidays, I thought I’d share Chapter 10 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse.

I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season wherever you are, however you are.

* * * * *

A December storm broke over Salem, swinging the skeleton branches of bare-backed trees, dropping buckets of snow here and there—along the wide lawn of Salem Common, on the roof tops, covering the wooden House of the Seven Gables, hanging icicles from the Salem Witch Museum and Witch House—leaving Essex County a winter landscape fit for a North Pole postcard. The bay was flat and gray, reflecting the blotted sky and heaving clouds. It was Christmas Eve, and everywhere was decorated with Santas and reindeer and snowmen. Christmas lights, red lights, green lights, blue and white lights, rainbow lights, brightened the storm-darkened streets.

Sarah sat by the diamond-paned window in the great room watching the snow fall. Cinnamon-scented candles burned on the kitchen counter, and pine wreaths with red glass balls decorated the walls. The Christmas tree—Grace’s first, and James’ too—stood tall and green in the corner near the kitchen, decorated with rainbow lights and garland. The whole house glowed comfort and warm. Sarah thought of her favorite holiday song, “Silent Night,” and she hummed it, the lyrics fitting her mood: “All is calm, all is bright…” She thought of Grace, asleep in her crib, her golden curls framing her face like an angel’s halo. “Sleep in heavenly peace…” Grace was so like her father. Sarah smiled, and when she saw her reflection in the window she laughed out loud. She could see her own joy reflected back to her. 

Life doesn’t get better than this, she thought. 

The cauldron had been removed, leaving a screened-off fireplace, and a low fire burned, sending warmth into the great room. She turned on the radio and holiday music filled the space, the mellow tones of Bing Crosby’s voice lulling her. She checked the basket beneath the Christmas tree and saw that she had wrapped all her presents, for James and Grace, for Olivia and Martha, for Jennifer and Chandresh, for Timothy and Howard, for Jocelyn, Steve, and Billy. She would see them all the next night, Christmas night, when they would gather together in the wooden gabled house to celebrate. She went into the kitchen and checked the apple pies in the oven, then stirred the soup on the stove, crinkling her nose and closing the lid as quickly as she could. She realized she would do anything for her husband. When she heard the squeak of the front door as wood scraped against wood, she smiled. No matter how many times she saw him again, it was special.

[image error]Photo by Rodion Kutsaev from Unsplash

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

She threw her arms around James’ neck and pointed up her chin. He kissed her, then brushed a few stray curls from her eyes. She took a step back, examining him, wondering. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“I want to know how you know Chandresh from the Trail of Tears. I want to know what happened. And don’t you dare tell me another time, James Wentworth. I’ll scream loud enough to wake all of Salem if you tell me another time.”

“Another night?” 

Sarah wasn’t amused. “Is it something bad? You shouldn’t be afraid of telling me something bad. I’m not that fragile, James. Chandresh told me you helped his family. Tell me how you met him. Tell me what you saw on the Trail of Tears.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

James sighed. “You win,” he said. 

“I always do.”

He went into the kitchen and made a pot of her favorite tea, Earl Grey. She sat on the sofa, watching him while he moved easily through the slick, modern kitchen. He wasn’t concerned when she remodeled, and he wasn’t upset when the cauldron was removed. “My life is now,” he said when the workers arrived to carry the heavy black pot away. “I don’t live in the seventeenth century anymore. We could get rid of it all, Sarah, the house and everything in it, and it doesn’t matter. You’re my home now.” As he brought her some tea, cream and two sugars the way she liked it, she realized she was amazed by him. He was so strong in every way.

She sipped her tea while he paced the great room, to Grace’s bedroom, to their bedroom, and back. He often paced when he spoke about the past. Finally, he said, “What would you like to know?” 

“How did you meet Chandresh?”

“Chandresh lived near me when I lived in the Smoky Mountains in the 1830s.”

“The Trail of Tears happened in 1838,” Sarah said.

“Yes.” 

“I thought you were in London in the 1830s.”

“I was, until 1837, when I came back here. I returned to London in 1843.”

“That’s when you tutored at Cambridge and met Dickens.”

James nodded. “When I returned in 1837, I came here to Salem for a while, but it was too hard. I kept wandering to Danvers to see the Rebecca Nurse Homestead, and I’d go to the Old Burying Point to spit on Hathorne’s grave. Not that I told Nathaniel I did that, though I suspect he wouldn’t have minded very much.”

“You knew Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. He was so shy he hardly said a word in company. If he said a complete sentence he was talkative that night.”

“There’s so much I want to know about you. But tell me about Chandresh.”

James stood near the window, looking at the mesh-like snowflakes fluttering down from the clouds. “He and his family were pushed off their land with the others.” His fingers tapped his legs as though he were typing out frustrated words. “It was more than losing their land. It was the unfairness of it all.”

“Unfairness shouldn’t surprise you.” Sarah patted the sofa, and James sat beside her. He leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. His gold hair fell away from his face, and Sarah remembered why she was so taken when she saw him the first time, the very first time, in 1691. Sitting across from her at the supper table, he looked so thoughtful, so kind. So beautiful. And it was true. He was all those things. She stroked his face from his temple, down his cheekbone, over his lips, to his chin. He opened his eyes and smiled. 

“What was I talking about?” he asked.

“Chandresh.”

“Right.” He closed his eyes again. “You were here in the 1690s. You know what the Europeans thought of the natives.” 

“They thought the natives were inferior. Uncivilized.”

“European society centered around owning land. The more land you owned, the wealthier you were, the higher you were on the social ladder. But the native people didn’t believe in owning land. They believed land was meant to be shared. They worshipped nature, and they believed in a great spirit that created all life, and they believed all life was interconnected—the people, the rivers, the animals, the trees.”

“They believe all life is interconnected. They’re still here.”

“You’re right,” James said. “Then, the Europeans couldn’t understand the natives, their way of life, their way of thinking. The native people lived in the natural world, but the Europeans needed to separate themselves from nature. They built dams, cut down trees, built fences—this is mine, that’s yours over there. The native people’s creation stories emphasize having respect for all living things, not dominion over them. When the settlers realized the natives didn’t believe they owned the land, that made it easier to take it. It took years of wrangling, but finally the United States government got the land concessions it wanted from Cherokee leaders and pushed the people west to Oklahoma in the 1830s.” 

“Was Chandresh forced to walk?” 

“He was, along with his whole family. Nunna daul Isunyi, the Cherokee called it. The Trail Where They Cried. Chandresh didn’t know me when they began walking. He couldn’t see me then.”

“He couldn’t see you?”

“That part comes later.” James sniffed the air. “What is that? Not cookies?”

“Oh no.” 

Sarah rushed into the kitchen, slid on the heavy cooking mitts, and pulled the browned apple pies from the oven. She turned off the burner and moved the soup pot to the cool side of the stove. James stood behind her.

“What is that?” he asked again. 

“When I was writing the menu for Christmas dinner I remembered making blood soup when we were first married. I made blood pudding then too, but that’s a sausage and I didn’t think you’d like that as much. I found a recipe online, and…” 

“And…?”

“I used some blood from one of your bags and added some spices.” She opened the lid and dipped a ladle into the soup. “Can you eat it?” 

He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “It smells good. I’m going to try some.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cabinet and ladled in some soup. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and set the bowl and the spoon in front of James as he sat at the table. He looked eager to try it, which pleased her. When he brought the spoon to his lips, she watched his face. 

James nodded. “It’s good, Sarah. The spices are different, but I like them.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is the first normal meal I’ve had in over three hundred years. Thank you.”

When James offered her a bite, Sarah wrinkled her nose.

“It’s all for you,” she said.

“You used to eat blood soup.” 

“I used to eat a lot of things I find disgusting now.” 

He ate a few more spoonfuls, nodding at each taste. “It couldn’t have been too pleasant making this.”

“I’ll do anything for you, James. I’ll even make you blood soup.”

[image error]Photo by Annie Spratt from Unsplash

Suddenly, James sat still, his head to the side, listening. Sarah knew his preternatural mannerisms well enough by now to know he heard something she couldn’t.

“What is it?”

“A smug, self-satisfied shuffle about five miles down the road.” James shook his head. “Geoffrey.” 

“What about him?”

“He’s here.”

As if on cue, Geoffrey knocked an offbeat tune on the front door. When Sarah stepped away, James grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To let Geoffrey in.”

“Why?” 

“Because I like him and I’m not leaving him outside on Christmas Eve.” 

“You like him?”

“He’s funny.”

Geoffrey’s voice boomed through the door. “That’s right, James. I’m funny.”

“You’re not that funny,” James said.

“I’m funny enough.”

Sarah opened the door, and Geoffrey bowed. “Good evening, little human person. How is the littlest human person tonight?”

“Good evening, Geoffrey. She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”

“Very good. One night I’ll come round whilst she’s still awake. I’d like to see her again.” He dropped onto the sofa and stared at the Christmas tree as though he had never seen one before. “Bringing the outdoors indoors. And it’s all sparkly like. Interesting.” Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that?” He skipped into the kitchen. “It’s… it’s…” He stood near the stove and sniffed the soup, closing his eyes while he savored the acrid aroma.

James pulled the bowl toward him. “My wife made it for me.” 

“What is it? You must tell me.”

“It’s blood soup,” Sarah said. “I made it for James for Christmas. Would you like some?” 

Geoffrey sat next to James at the table. “Let’s have a go.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ladled some soup into it, then set it in front of Geoffrey. 

“You can celebrate Christmas with us,” she said.

“Did you really make this for James for Christmas?” 

“I did.”

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“That’s rather nice, actually. I forgot how pleasant it was to have a wife, someone soft and warm who thinks about things like Christmas and soups one might like to eat. My wife always went on about little things she could do for my comfort. She was quite the little homemaker she was.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. My Becky was plump and pretty, just the way I like them, but it was a very, very long time ago. Nothing to concern ourselves with now, though I seem to be thinking of her more and more these days, especially when I’m here. All the memories…” He looked at James and sighed.

“Try your soup, Geoffrey,” Sarah said. 

He took a spoonful and nodded. “This is excellent, little human person.” He emptied the bowl in two bites and eyed the pot on the stove. 

“Would you like some more?” Sarah asked.

“Please.”

While Sarah filled his bowl, Geoffrey eyed James with an odd intensity. “When is your birthday, James?” he asked.

“Why do you care about my birthday?”

“I was just wondering when your birthday was, that’s all. You needn’t be so huffity-puffity over a simple question.” 

“His birthday is April 19,” Sarah said.

“How old are you?” Geoffrey asked.

“I’m more than 300 years old,” James answered. 

“More than 300? Heavens, you’re old.”

“I’m younger than you.” 

“That’s true enough.” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. “How old am I?” 

“How do I know how old you are?”

“When were you born?” Sarah asked.

“I haven’t a clue. It was ages ago.”

“Did anything special happen the year you were born?” 

“Don’t encourage him,” James said.

Geoffrey tapped his temple as though he were trying to jolt open some long-gone memory. “I remember Mother saying she named me Geoffrey Charles because I was born the same day as the future King Charles the First. Then there was something about the East India Company being granted a royal charter the month after I was born. She said she thought of naming me Geoffrey Shakespeare since I was much ado about nothing.”

James kept his mouth shut. He opened his laptop and searched the Internet. “1600,” he said. “King Charles the First was born on November 19, 1600.” 

Geoffrey grasped Sarah’s hands and danced with her around the great room, swinging her around, arm in arm like an elegant line dance. He stopped dancing and looked over James’ shoulder, his eyes squinting at the words through the glare of the flat computer screen. “What is that with the words on it?” 

“It’s a computer,” James said. “How can you be in the twenty-first century and not recognize a computer?”

“I am in the twenty-first century, James, I am not of the twenty-first century. I came of age in the days when bookbinding was an art. I am appalled at the state of what you call literature these days. In my time, we didn’t have electronic doodahs like iPigs. I prefer hardcovers that hurt your back when you carry them. That is a book. Though I suppose reading on a Snook is better than not reading at all.”

“On a Nook, Geoffrey,” said James.

“Whatever. It’s all nonsense. I’m from a courteous time when we had more eloquent forms of communication.” 

“Town criers.” 

Geoffrey turned toward James, his hands on his hips, his eyes slits, his lips pursed in annoyance with his vampling. “Do not mock a perfectly acceptable form of communication. A clean, simple way to get information, that. The town crier arrived, said his bit around town, and left us be to act on or ignore the news as we saw fit. You can’t pretend you don’t know things these days. Information is everywhere. When that story about vampires being real gets out it’ll be around the world in sixty seconds, let alone sixty days.” 

“Who’s putting out a story about vampires?” Sarah asked.

James shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to him.” 

Geoffrey looked at James, at Sarah, then James again. He shrugged and tapped the laptop keys like a little boy trying to play the piano. “So what else does your magic box say about London in the seventeenth century? What else happened when I was born?” 

James swatted Geoffrey’s hands away, typed seventeenth century London into the search engine, and scrolled through the results. 

“Well? What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” James said. “I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“When did you start speaking like an American with that ridiculous accent?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re English.”

“I most certainly am not English.”

“You were born in London.”

“In 1662. A lot has happened since then, you know, a little something called the American Revolution.” 

“Oh that.”

“Oh that?”

“A little misunderstanding turned into a major blowout because you children couldn’t be bothered to pay your taxes.”

James glared at Geoffrey. “I think it had something to do with taxation without representation.”  

“Are you still blowing that old horn?” Geoffrey’s frustration showed as two pink spots on his white-blue cheeks. “You know perfectly well that whole taxation without representation shtick was a ruse. You had representation through the colonial legislature, yet you only paid one twenty-sixth of the taxes we paid. We were just trying to recoup some of our losses. You children were expensive to care for, needing protection from the natives over here and whoever else over there.” 

“There wasn’t enough representation. Our votes wouldn’t have counted for anything.”

“Aha!” Geoffrey hopped from foot to foot, pointing at James, the glee everywhere in his bright eyes and wicked smile. “Finally, after more than two hundred years you admit you had representation. Taxation without representation my patooties.” Geoffrey paced the great room, propelled by his agitation. “You know the real problem? You didn’t care about the tax levied on tea. You cared that we undercut the price of tea from the smugglers. Surprise! Most of the colonial leaders were smugglers! And let’s not forget that the English agreed to stop stealing land from the Indians. That wasn’t good enough for you greedy, land-hungry colonists.”

“Don’t you dare call me a land-hungry colonist,” James said. He stood to his full height, eye to eye with Geoffrey. “I did everything I could to help the people after their land was taken. I even slunk as low as you.” He stopped short, unable to continue. Sarah didn’t know.

“I know what you did,” Geoffrey said. When Geoffrey saw the shocked expression on James’ face, the way James looked at Sarah to see if she noticed anything odd about the turn of their conversation, he backed away. He whispered so only James could hear. “She doesn’t know?” James nodded. “You keep a lot of secrets from your little human person.” James nodded again. 

In a voice loud enough for the neighbors to take part in the conversation, Geoffrey said, “I think you need to write an essay admitting how you wayward American children had representation through the colonial legislature, there, Professor Doctor James Wentworth, and get it published in all those boring scholarly journals only academics read. It’s about time we get that story straight.”

“I think you should go around Massachusetts as a town crier and shout it out at all the public buildings,” James said. “You can start at Faneuil Hall in Boston. You can leave right now.”

“I think…”

Sarah pushed her way between them, arms out, keeping them on separate sides of the room like a teacher breaking up a fight on the playground. “Boys,” she said, “please, let it go. It was a long time ago.”

“Listen to your wife,” Geoffrey said. “She’s smarter than you.” He walked back to his corner by the kitchen. “What about you, Missy? When did you start speaking with that ridiculous American accent?”

“I was born in Boston,” Sarah said.

Geoffrey pointed at Sarah’s head. “You were born in Boston.” He pointed at her heart. “But you were born in England.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Can I have more soup?” he asked. 

James shrugged. “Help yourself.” 

After Geoffrey left, James stood outside making sure the annoying creature was gone. He looked perturbed, James, as if Geoffrey were an unfortunate relation you have to deal with maybe on Thanksgiving and Christmas or Easter, and then you don’t think about him the rest of the year. When James walked back into the house, Sarah took his hands. 

“I don’t understand why you invited him to our wedding if he annoys you so much,” she said. “He thinks you’re friends now so he stops by sometimes.”

James shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself. I’m appalled and fascinated by him at the same time. I hate him for abandoning me after he turned me, yet I feel drawn to him, connected to him, like he has some answer I’ve been looking for. Perhaps it was the note.”

“What note?”

“After he came here the first time he left me a note saying he hadn’t abandoned me the way I thought he had. He kept track of me, he knew everywhere I was, everything I did, but since I was doing all right he stayed away.”

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe he thinks creating vamplings is like being a mother bird who pushes her young from the nest—that’s how you help them fly.” 

James shook his head. “There are other ways to help vamplings learn to survive. You help them by being there. Teaching them. Letting them know they’re not alone in the world.” 

“Like being a parent.”

James smiled. “Yes,” he said.

Sarah brushed some stray gold strands from his eyes. “Geoffrey’s a link to your past.”

“I suppose he is.” James looked at the pot on the stove. “How about more of that soup?” 

“I can do that.” Sarah ladled more soup into his bowl and set it in front of him “Look how normal we are,” she said. “A husband and wife together on Christmas Eve, the husband eating soup, holiday music in the background, a fire in the hearth, our daughter asleep in her crib getting ready for her first Christmas. We’re just like other families.”

“We were visited by Geoffrey and you think we’re like other families?”

“All families have a crazy relative. It’s mandatory.”

“Geoffrey a relative? God help us.”

James finished the soup and licked the spoon. “That’s one thing Geoffrey was right about,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re smarter than I am.”

Sarah smiled. “I know,” she said.

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Her Loving Husband’s Curse: Free on Amazon Until 12/14

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If you’ve read Her Dear & Loving Husband and wanted to read the second book in the series, Her Loving Husband’s Curse is free for everyone on Amazon through 12/14/18. Enjoy!

Cooking in the Massachusetts Bay Colony

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One of my more popular posts is about food in colonial Massachusetts. Here’s more information about the types of meals the colonists ate and other interesting tidbits about cooking in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Breakfast was a busy time of day in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The women were busy with milking cows and other chores, and it wasn’t convenient to cook a hot meal in the morning. Often the colonists ate a morning meal of leftovers from the previous day—meat or fish, bread, cheese, milk, and beer. For the poorest among them, they would make do with hasty pudding, a recipe brought from England. In England, the pudding was made with wheat flour and boiling milk until it had the consistency of an oatmeal porridge. In the colonies, hasty pudding was made with cornmeal mush instead.

Cornmeal became popular among the colonists because it was more easily available, and women made what became known as Indian bannocks where cornmeal and water were mixed and spread an inch thick on a board and placed before the fire and baked. This was one of the more common forms of bread. Sometimes the water was mixed with rye meal instead, which created a brown bread. 

Dinner (an early afternoon meal, now more commonly known as lunch) was the largest meal of the day. Anyone a fan of the crockpot or one pot cooking? That type of convenience cooking was popular among the working class during colonial times as well. Often meals such as leek soup, eel pie, and pork and apple stew were cooked in one pot over the hearth fire. Baked beans, another recipe brought from England, were also common on colonists’ tables. Other dinner meals might include small chunks of boiled meat with vegetables such as beans or peas. The wealthier colonists would cook their meat and vegetables separately, or, more likely, they had servants to do the cooking for them. Colonists shared our love of sweet desserts, and often meals ended with ice cream or a fruit pie. 

Droughts and floods happened in the unpredictable Massachusetts weather, sometimes destroying an entire year’s worth of crops. Food was hard enough to come by in colonial America, so preserving what you had was essential. Wealthy people might have underground cellars packed with straw and ice, which kept the area cold enough to act as a refrigerator of sorts. Traditional methods such as dehydrating and salting were more commonly used. Other methods of preservation depended on the type of food. Beans were salted, pickled, and dried. According to Oliver (2015), here is a recipe to keep beans green during the winter: “Boil salt and water to make a strong pickle; string the beans, and put them in a tight wooden firkin;sprinkle them with salt as they go in; when the pickle is cold, pour it on, and put on a weight to keep the beans under; they will keep in the cellar till the next spring. They should soak several hours in cold water before they are boiled.” Butter was coated with salt and then soaked to remove the salt before use. Bacon was also salted. Ice cream was eaten as soon as it was made, and milk was made into cheese and preserved with a wax-like substance.

Beverages were kept in the cellar or the coldest part of the house. Water wasn’t considered safe, so the colonists drank beer and ale. According to Johnson (2017), people in the northeastern colonies like Massachusetts may have been healthier than their southern counterparts because of the abundance of apples and the hard cider made from them, of which the colonists drank copious amounts. The wealthier citizens, who had most of their goods imported, were more likely to have wine at their disposal. Imported foods and goods were often obtained at shops in larger towns, such as Boston in Massachusetts, usually by barter since coins were scarce.

Chimneys had a brick oven with an opening in the kitchen fireplace. Cooking was a fire hazard for colonial women, and they had to beware that their woolen skirts didn’t catch the flames. Domestic animals were considered too valuable to kill for food, but game was plenty in Massachusetts. The meat was roasted on iron spits which were held by curved brackets and the spit required constant turning. In poorer families, that duty often fell on a child, while the wealthier had a “jack”—a pulley and cord fastened over the fireplace that, as it unwound, turned the spit and kept the meat from burning.

The poorer colonists used trenchers, carved wooden bowls, to hold their meals. The poorest families would often share one trencher amongst themselves. They drank from tankards made of wooden staves, and the only utensils they had were spoons and sometimes knives. Forks weren’t common until the later 17th century (they were in use by the time Down Salem Way takes place in 1692). The colonists used their knives to move their food from their trenchers into their mouths. The poorer colonists had earthenware or stoneware bottles and jugs. The wealthier had pewter or even silver at their disposal. China dishes or dishes made in Holland were imported by the East India Company.

I’ll talk more about children in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in another post. For now, it may be interesting to note that children were not seated at the table with the adults for meals. This may be because poorer families simply didn’t have enough chairs or space for the children to sit at the table. The children would stand behind the adults with their plates or trenchers, and they ate whatever was handed to them. In other families, the children sat at a side table and went to the main table for their food and drink. In the wealthier families, there was more formality during meals (think Downton Abbey in colonial Massachusetts). Children were given some wine in order to drink to the health of their parents. According to Oliver (2015), one such blessing from the children was “Health to Papa and Mama, health to brothers and sisters, health to all my friends.”

Not a bad way to begin a meal.

References

Demos, J. (2000). A little commonwealth: Family life in Plymouth Colony. New York: Oxford University Press.

Dow, G. F. (2012). Every day life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Courier Corporation.

Johnson, C.D. (2017). Daily life in colonial New England. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Press.

Oliver, L. (2015). 
Colonial and early American fare. Retrieved from http://www.foodtimeline.org/foodcolon...

Her Dear & Loving Husband: Free on Amazon 11/27 – 12/1

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Her Dear & Loving Husband is free for everyone on Amazon from Thursday, 11/27, through Saturday, 12/1. If you have a Kindle or the Kindle app and you’ve been wanting to read the first book in the Loving Husband Trilogy, now is your chance.

Clothing in Colonial Massachusetts

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Clothing in Massachusetts wasn’t much different than clothing throughout the rest of the American colonies. However, living in the Massachusetts Bay Colony was different because Massachusetts was a theocracy ruled by Puritans. The colonial Puritans were stricter in many ways than their English counterparts, and, oddly enough, after the Puritans fled England to escape persecution they became the persecutors. Of course, as with any story, the reality of the Puritans is more complex than can be summed up in a few sentences. For our purposes, let’s say that the Puritans earned their reputation for having closed minds.

The Massachusetts Puritans believed that theirs was the only true church. They villainized and often executed those who worshipped differently (with a particular distaste for Quakers), mainly because the Puritans believed it was their duty to impose their religion on others—their excuse being that they were saving the souls of those who did not follow the one true church, their church. They had no mercy for those who did not or would not convert to Puritan beliefs. The isolation of the Puritans in Massachusetts, the harshness and dangers of life in the New World, and their sense that they were a chosen people meant that Puritans reacted harshly to any perceived threats to their beliefs and way of life.

The Puritans had laws that governed all aspects of their lives. There were even laws that dictated the way people dressed—the Fashion Police, as we would call it today. There is a misconception that all Puritans were staid in their manner and dress. But a number of prominent Puritans in the Massachusetts Bay Colony were successful merchants (including several of the judges of the Salem Witch Trials, among them Jonathan Corwin and John Hathorn, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ancestor). These successful businessmen and landowners were not as modest in their wealth and possessions as the poorer farmers. The Puritan lawmakers believed that the English style of clothing of leather and silk ribbons (with slashed sleeves, no less) was too flashy and immodest. This did not stop the richer colonial women from wanting to know what the Queen in England was wearing so that they could emulate the latest fashions.

To combat any display of opulence, Puritan lawmakers in Massachusetts tried to tamper down any signs of extravagance or wealth. In 1634, the General Court in Plymouth decreed that wearing silver, gold, silk, lace, girdles, or hatbands were prohibited. Slashed clothing was definitely a no-no unless done discreetly (with merely one slash per sleeve and perhaps one slash at the back). Any other embroidery or needlework was also prohibited. People were fined for not adhering to the laws of modesty. Most of the modesty laws concerned women’s clothing—no great surprise there. One law decreed how long and wide a woman’s sleeve should be. Also, her skirts must drag along the floor since it was improper for a woman to show any part of her legs. No ankles here, please.

As time passed, the Puritan lawmakers softened in their feelings toward wearing gold and silver while they became more concerned with poorer citizens trying to pass themselves off as richer than they were. In Puritan society, people were expected to stay in their lanes. Poorer people were not allowed to wear gold and silver lace, buttons, or points at their knees. Rich folks had more freedom in their choice of wardrobe. Wealthy people could wear silk hoods, scarves, silver and gold lace, and bright buttons. Anyone of lesser social standing caught wearing such items were brought before the court and fined.

The basic items of clothing worn by women during the 17th century were an undershirt, known as a shift, a corset, and long petticoats. Her outer clothing consisted of either a gown or a waistcoat (fitted jacket) and a skirt. Bodices, as a rule, were long and pointed, and skirts were full and long. Poorer women wore plain frocks and petticoats, although wealthy women wore silk, satin, and velvet dresses. Women also wore white linen caps, called a coif, to cover their hair. In the colder winter months, women wore cloaks, a sleeveless outer-garment that draped over their shoulders. Women’s shoes and stockings were much the same as men’s.

Laboring men wore leather and coarse fabrics. Farmers wore frocks, a large outer garment, to protect their clothing or hide an untidy appearance. The farmers would take the frocks off when they went inside their houses or went into the village or marketplace. The Monmouth cap, a knitted woolen hat, was frequently worn by working-class men and fishermen.

Men wore a long shirt, stockings, garters, doublet, breeches, points (a tie used to join the doublet and hose), a waistcoat, a neckcloth, a knee-length coat, a great coat for colder months, and shoes. The broad-rimmed hat came into fashion about 1670. With an average brim of six inches, one flap was often fastened to the side of the crown. Over time, a second flap was fastened, then a third—and thus the triangle cocked hat is born. Wealthier men had their clothing made of fabrics such as silks, velvets, and brocades.

Puritans were not entirely stodgy in their manner and sober in their dress, and the wealthier Puritans among them wanted the finer things in life just as we do today. As time passed, the Fashion Police in the Massachusetts Bay Colony loosened its grip and people were brought to court less often for their clothing. When the witch trials began in Salem in 1692, people had more pressing concerns.

References

The Great Puritan Migration History of Massachusetts https://historyofmassachusetts.org/the-great-puritan-migration/

Puritan Laws and Customs History of American Women http://www.womenhistoryblog.com/2007/10/puritan-laws-and-customs.html

The Puritan Dress Code and the Outrage of Slashed Sleeves New England Historical Society http://www.newenglandhistoricalsociety.com/puritan-dress-code-and-outrage-slashed-sleeves/

Thanksgiving with the Wentworths

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Photograph by Rose Elena on Unsplash

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American friends! To celebrate, here’s Chapter 7 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse, when James and Sarah begin the journey toward the Grace they have been missing.

* * * * *

In November Halloween was gone, ghosts and ghouls replaced by stoic Native Americans holding pies and smiling, buckle-hatted turkeys unaware of their fate. And pumpkins. The trees were bare now, the burst of temporary color gone, leaving their sugar and crimson behind, the leaves raked away. The branches, now naked and spindly, shivered in the poking, colder air. Storm after storm wet Salem, riding out to the ocean on the crashing waves of the bay. Heavier coats were found, scarves and mittens pulled from their summer hideaways, and people walked closer together, huddled in preparation for the real cold to come. It was calmer in Salem after the summer tourists and the Halloween partiers cleared away, and the locals stretched their legs and walked the quiet streets in peace.

Sarah paced the wooden gabled house two steps at a time, rearranging the autumn harvest centerpiece on the table near the hearth, straightening the Happy Thanksgiving banner on the wall. She paced again, now three steps at a time, down to the end of the great room and back, dusting the bookshelves again and back, checking the baking cookies in the stainless steel oven and back. When she heard the squeak of the front door, she sighed with relief. She ran to James and pressed herself into his arms.

“She’s not here yet,” Sarah said.

“I told you I’d be back in time.”

She pushed herself away and paced again.

“Maybe I should have put out some Pilgrims,” she said. “What if she notices there aren’t any Pilgrims? Everyone has Pilgrim decorations at Thanksgiving time. What if she thinks we’re not good Americans? What if she thinks we won’t know what to do with a child because kids love Pilgrims at Thanksgiving time?”

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Photograph by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

“First of all, those Thanksgiving harvest plays the kids do aren’t factually correct. If she wants to know why we don’t have Pilgrims in our house, I’ll explain it to her.” He pulled Sarah back into his arms and kissed her forehead. “We are Pilgrims.”

“We didn’t come over on the Mayflower.”

“No, but we were here when Massachusetts was a colony. We’ll bring down our old clothes from the attic and show her.”

“That’s not funny.”

Sarah walked back to the oven, checked the cookies with a spatula, decided they were brown enough, and pulled them out, placing them onto an autumn orange cake platter with green and yellow leaves.

“Cookies?” James asked.

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

“They smell sweet.”

“That’s why people love them.” She pulled one apart, then licked the melted chocolate dribbling down her fingers. “Do you want to try one?”

“I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“You can’t eat at all?”

“Honey, I haven’t eaten solid food in over three hundred years.”

“That’s too bad. Life isn’t worth living without chocolate chip cookies.”

“I think I’m doing all right.”

The cauldron in the hearth caught Sarah’s eye. It looked like it should bubble, bubble, toil and trouble while the three witches in Macbeth cast spells and foretold the future, hysterical with evil visions and dastardly deeds. She looked inside, checking to see if the heavy black pot could be unlatched and removed, shaking her head when the seventeenth century fastenings held strong.

“I never should have left this,” she said. “I should have had it taken out during the remodeling. She’s going to think it’s a child hazard, and it is.” She jumped at the hollow knock at the door that echoed like a loud No! No! No!

James stroked Sarah’s hand. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Relax.”

He opened the door, and the social worker walked in, stiff and stoic, underpaid and overworked, an unsmiling woman in an ill-fitting purple jacket with linebacker shoulder pads and a purple flowered skirt. She looked, Sarah thought, like a summer plum. She was slump-shouldered and long-faced, like this was the fiftieth home she had visited that day and it was always the same, smiling faces, fresh-baked cookies, guarantees they would take care of the child whether they would or they wouldn’t.

The plum-looking woman entered the great room without saying hello. She didn’t acknowledge James or Sarah. “You have a lot of books,” she said finally, writing in the spiral notebook in her hand.

“My wife and I both like to read,” James said.

Sarah stepped aside as the woman nodded at the flat-screen television and shook her head at the three hundred year-old desk, scratching more notes. James looked over her shoulder, trying to see what she wrote, but Sarah shook her head at him. She didn’t want the woman to notice anything odd about James, though his curiosity was human enough. The plum-looking woman stopped in front of the cauldron.

“Are you witches?” she asked.

“No,” James said, “but our best friends are.” When the social worker didn’t smile, James stepped away. “The cauldron came with the house,” he said. “We thought it gave the place character so we kept it.”

“How old is the house?”

“It’s from the seventeenth century,” Sarah answered.

“How long have you lived here?”

Sarah and James looked at each other.

“Two years,” James said. “We both work at the university.”

The plum-looking woman nodded. “If you’re approved you’ll have to have that thing,” she gestured with her pen at the cauldron, “removed. It’s a safety hazard.”

“Of course,” Sarah said.

“Does this place need an inspection? Sometimes these older houses have bad wiring, or improper plumbing.”

“The house is up to code,” James said. “We made sure of that when we had the place remodeled.”

“When was this remodeling?”

“They finished during the summer. I have the paperwork here.”

He handed the social worker the forms that said the house met the qualifications of a twenty-first century inspection. She glanced over the paperwork and nodded, writing more notes. She looked around the kitchen, the bedroom, the smaller room in the back. She scowled at the wood ladder that led up to the attic.

“Can that be removed?” she asked.

“We can take it out if it’s a problem,” James said.

She nodded, scowling more at the cauldron as she walked back into the kitchen.

“Would you like something to drink?” Sarah asked.

“Thank you. Water would be fine.”

“We have some cold water in the fridge,” Sarah said.

“No need to trouble yourselves. I’ll get it.”

Before Sarah could protest, the social worker opened the refrigerator and eyed the groceries before pulling out the water pitcher. Sarah dropped into a chair, unable to hide the horror on her face. What if the social worker saw James’ bags of blood? But James nodded, pointing to his temple, an I’ve got this look in his eyes. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, poured water for the plum-looking woman, then joined Sarah at the table, smiling the whole time.

“What do you do at the college?” the social worker asked.

“I’m a professor, and my wife is a librarian.”

“What do you teach?”

“English literature.”

She sipped her water as she glanced over the application in her manila folder. “I think you’re my son’s English professor. Levon Jackson. Do you know him?”

“Very well,” James said. “He took two of my classes last year, and he’s in my Shakespeare seminar this term. He’s a bright young man, and a very good writer.”

Mrs. Jackson clapped her hands, her mother’s love everywhere on her round cheeks. No longer the plum-looking woman, now she was Levon’s mother.

“You should hear how he raves about you, Doctor Wentworth. Every day he comes home saying Doctor Wentworth said this or Doctor Wentworth said that.”

“It’s a pleasure teaching a student who wants to learn,” James said.

Mrs. Jackson’s round-cheeked smile lit the room. “You’ve done a world of good for my boy, Doctor Wentworth. I was so worried about him after that back injury meant he couldn’t be considered for the NHL draft. Going pro is all he’s talked about since he put on his first pair of skates. When that was no longer possible for him, he floundered. He didn’t have plans for anything else, and now he wants to be a professor like you. I’m pleased to meet you, Doctor Wentworth.”

“Please, call me James. It’s my pleasure.”

As Mrs. Jackson looked over the paperwork, James winked at Sarah.

“I don’t see any problems here, Doctor Wentworth. Everything seems to be in order. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have the rest of the paperwork approved by my supervisor.” Mrs. Jackson looked at Sarah. “Mrs. Wentworth, you have a lovely house with a lot of history here. Any child would be lucky to have such a home.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said.

James escorted Mrs. Jackson to her car, said good night, and waved as she drove away. Back inside, James walked to Sarah, put his arms around her, and pulled her close. She felt the invisible fairy-like thread drawing them together again, only now it was looser, stretching out, over there to where someone else waited, someone they didn’t know yet but someone who was loved unconditionally.

Just because, Sarah thought. Whoever you are. We love you just because.

She pointed her chin up, and James kissed her. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling.

“Was that your idea to move the blood bags?” she asked.

“I thought she might look in the refrigerator,” he said. “To see how clean we are.”

“That’s why you’re brilliant, Doctor Wentworth.”

“I know,” he said.

 

They know. It is just as the trader man said. They are going soon, going West, the direction of Death, they say.

Going…

Going…

Gone.

They go about the night the best they can. The boys play ‘a ne jo di’ (stickball) in the moonlight, which they play with hickory sticks and deer-hair balls. They are families, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers. They laugh and cry. They grow angry and show kindness. One mother kneels near her crying son who has tripped running. Another watches her husband show their son a trick with the hickory stick. As I watch them I am reminded of Shylock’s words, begging for his humanity:

Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed…

I try to catch the eye of my neighbor, but he is busy with the medicine man while the women and children disappear into their homes. He is old, the medicine man, his face well creviced, his jowls low, though his silver hair is thick and he has the manner of someone who understands much. He nods at me, and I nod in return, thankful because he is the first Cherokee to acknowledge me. The tribal leaders have gathered and I am not supposed to be here, I think, but the medicine man does not seem concerned. I sit on the ground and watch as they begin the Stomp Dance. There are shell shakers wearing leg rattles made of turtle shells filled with pebbles, and the rattles provide a heartbeat-like rhythm as they dance around the red-blazing fire singing a language I do not understand.

The medicine man stands. He stares at me over the heads of the seated men. “Listen,” he says. “We are praying to you, our Creator, Unetanv, the Great Spirit. Who are we without our lakes and valleys? Our rivers and forests? The copious rain and the good soil?

“Chief John Ross fought our removal in the United States Congress, in the United States Supreme Court. Don’t the liberties of the American Declaration of Independence apply to us as well, he argued? We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. But no one in the government would hear him.”

The men nod as they stare at the orange flames, at the crackling cinders, at the ground beneath them, at the half-hidden moon, or at whatever phantom images their blank visions show them. The medicine man watches me, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I sense his words are meant for me.

“Listen. This is the creation story of our people. In the beginning, there was no land. Only water and sky. All living things dwelled above the sky. In this time, all beings lived and talked in common. Then the sky vault became crowded with  people and animals. To find more room, Dayuni’si, the water beetle, flew down to see what was there. It dove to the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud that grew and grew until the earth was born. This was so long ago even the oldest medicine man cannot remember. Even I cannot remember, and I am the oldest of them all. Then the earth dried and people were created. A brother and a sister. And we have grown from there.

“They have wanted our land from the moment they arrived. They have the right of discovery over the land, they say. But how do they discover what is already here? We were already here. Did we only begin to exist when they arrived?” The medicine man looks at me as though he knows I was here all those many years before. “They have taken our land as though it was theirs all along. For years they have chipped away at it, pocketing this piece here, stealing that piece there. After they decimated our people with their diseases they wanted more. Now they want it all. But we know the land was meant for us. For all of us. Many of our people converted to their religion. Were not Adam and Eve expelled from their Paradise because they were not content? Here we are content. We know the wind is our brother. The trees are our sisters.

“Great Creator, hear our cry. We want to be invisible so we can fly away like the birds and then the soldiers will not find us as they have already found others. We do not want to lose our ancestors. They are everywhere here. Where the soldiers want to take us, they are not there. This is what I have said to you.”

He sits, his head slumping under the weight of his knowledge. Everyone is silent, the singing crickets the only sound in the forest night. Then, the medicine man lifts his face and nods at me. He sees I understand.

The Loving Husband Trilogy Complete Box Set Now Available

[image error]The second edition of the Loving Husband Trilogy is now available on Amazon.

The latest editions of Her Dear & Loving Husband, Her Loving Husband’s Curse, and Her Loving Husband’s Return are available separately or as a complete box set. If you’ve already purchased any book in the Loving Husband Trilogy from Amazon, you can download the latest versions through your ebook purchases page.

A paperback version of the complete box set will be available on November 30, 2018.

I’ll be back soon with a preview of Down Salem Way. I’m making a lot of progress this NaNoWriMo!

NaNoWriMo Anyone?

[image error]It’s been a few years since I’ve participated in National Novel Writing Month (I was busy finishing that degree, you know), but I thought I’d have a go this year. I’m not participating in the traditional way since I’m not starting a new novel from scratch. I have my second draft of Down Salem Way done, but it needs more work. I know James and Sarah fans (or James and Elizabeth fans, in this case) are waiting with stilted breath to see this latest installment of the Wentworths’ story, so I thought I’d use NaNoWriMo as my time to whip the story into shape.

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Even though I’m not starting with a blank page, I’m still going for the goal of 50,000 words by the end of the month. Now, usually the Loving Husband stories run about 90,000 words, so we’ll see if the novel is actually finished by November 30. I participated in NaNoWriMo once before, in 2014, and I was actually very pleased with what I had by the end of the month. We shall see how this goes.

Since the Loving Husband stories are also historical fiction, I’m sure I’ll need to do some research while I’m writing, but that’s not going to keep me from my goal of 1667 words a day, so it will be a month of both researching and writing for me. I’ve completed a lot of my research on life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the late seventeenth century already, but I’m sure I’ll find holes that need to be filled with details from the time period.

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Photo from Elijah O’Donnell from Unsplash

Do you have a novel you’ve been dying to write? Today is the day to start! Head on over to the National Novel Writing Month website, join up, and get started! It really is a lot of fun, if a bit stressful at times, but knowing that you’re making daily progress on your novel is a rewarding feeling.

You can follow my progress as I add my daily word count to my NaNoWriMo page. Today I made it at over 1700 words! I’ll post updates on my progress throughout the month, along with excerpts from Down Salem Way. Happy writing.

Happy Halloween from James and Sarah

To celebrate Halloween, I thought I’d share part of Chapter 6 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse. Enjoy!

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* * * * *

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James awoke to the clunk-clunk-clunk of nails hammered into seventeenth-century wood. He pulled aside the blackout curtains and raised the blinds, seeing the sunrise-colored autumn leaves drop one by one to the wilting lawn while storm clouds gathered over the bay, adding more gray than black to the night. He was waking earlier since it was getting darker earlier, a good thing with Sarah waiting for him.

Orange and black. That’s all he saw when he walked into the great room—orange and black. And pumpkins. Witches, ghosts, skeletons, Frankensteins, even, he sighed, vampires decorated the walls and the bookshelves while strings of glowing plastic pumpkin lights lined the diamond-paned windows. A display of autumn harvest squash sat in a Happy Halloween basket on the granite island in the kitchen, and he saw the witch-themed potholders hanging from hooks.

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Photo by Taylor Rooney on Unsplash

Sarah skipped toward him like a dancing preschooler. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Is this a joke?”

“You live in Salem and you think Halloween is a joke?” She stood on her toes and reached her arms around his neck. “Besides, who better to celebrate Halloween than a vampire husband and his ghost wife?”

James was too distracted by the decorations to answer. He hated Halloween for all the same reasons he hated Dracula. If humans thought ghouls and goblins were their greatest threats, how little they understood. When he looked at Sarah he half-expected her to be orange and black and wearing a pointed witch’s hat. She must have seen his agitation because she dropped her arms and stepped away.

“Jennifer told me you’re a grouch around Halloween. You’re looking a little puckered, Doctor Wentworth.” She walked toward the decorations as though she were siding with them against him. “They’re decorations. They’re meant to be fun, allow grown-ups to feel like kids again for a little while every year, but if you hate them that much I’ll take them down. I don’t want to look at that annoyed face for the next two weeks.”

James looked at the caricatures of green-faced, sharp-fanged, cape-wearing vampires, cackling witches on broomsticks, shapeless, booing ghosts, howling werewolves, glaring square-faced Frankensteins, and he shook his head. But he saw Sarah admiring the pumpkin-painted porcelain plates, the haunted house flags, the Witches Brew cauldron by the door, her face flushed like a costumed girl ready for trick-or-treating on Halloween night. He reached for her hand and she smiled that smile he lived for. He would do anything to keep that smile happy.

Again, the thought that she would be a wonderful mother.

Again, the voice. “Yes,” it said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll have everything down by tomorrow night.”

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“No, Sarah.” He put his arms around her though she tried to push him away. “Keep the decorations. Keep whatever will make you happy. All I want is for you to be happy.” She stopped resisting and relaxed into him. “What do you want, Sarah. Tell me what you want to be happy.”

“You make me happy,” she said. “You’re all I need. And…”

“And what? A child?”

Sarah exhaled deeply, expelling all the air from her lungs. She pulled away from James, her dark eyes unsure. “I thought there was no way.”

“If you want to adopt a child then we should.”

“What about all the reasons you had about why it could never work?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Are you sure?” She held herself still, as though she were afraid he would change his mind and this joyous moment would fall away from her like water through cupped hands.

“There’s only one thing I have ever been more sure about, and that’s you.”

Sarah smiled. James could see the peace settle over her, an iridescent halo. She pulled him closer, closer, as though she wanted to merge with him. They were already one, James thought, each a part of the other.

Sarah looked at the orange and black surrounding them. “You’ll have to get used to the decorations. Kids like Halloween.”

James laughed. “I know, honey. I know.”