Cynthia Sally Haggard's Blog: Cynthia Sally's Blog, page 35

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Why does his brother have a different last name?

“If you do not stop seeing my daughter, I will write to your brother.” Angelina had penned a letter already to the abbot, but so far, she had received no reply.

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

“He is at the St. Francis de Sales Seminary in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.” Her voice echoed up and down the quiet lane. It was nearly midnight, and the windows of nearly all the houses were dark.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he remarked in an undertone, laced with an edge of menace.

“You have not told your brother about Graziella, have you?” she said in her high, penetrating voice. The echoes reverberated.

“Angelina—”

“Why not?”

“Angelina.” He came towards her, his voice low. “Keep out of this.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know my brother.”

“How do you know that?”

He stopped dead, his face draining of color. She had got under his skin again. But why this glimmer of fear in his face?

A sudden thought occurred to her. “How strange,” she said, raising her face to the waning moon, which had the effect of projecting her voice still further, “that your brother has a different last name than you.”

His fingers clenched around an iron railing that edged the small garden in front of his lodgings.

“Aha,” she said jabbing a finger at him. “You did not know I had found that out. I asked Father Walsh, and he showed me your records.”

He shot out of the shadows and grabbed her arm, his steel fingers sinking into her soft flesh.

“Leave me alone, you bitch,” he spat, droplets hitting her face.

Angelina grimaced and twisted away, but he clung on.

“I will leave you alone the day you leave my daughter alone,” she screamed to the accompaniment of twitching drapes.

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The Wicked Uncle

Does this tale sound familiar?

A Wicked Uncle snatches the throne from his Two Hapless Nephews. He becomes King. They are murdered.

No, this is not Shakespeare’s play,

Laurence Olivier plays Richard III in the 1955 movie adaptation of Shakespeare’s play.

but my first novel “Thwarted Queen” which gives you the true story – some might say the mirror image – of what actually happened in 1483, when Richard of Gloucester’s brother King Edward IV died, leaving the kingdom torn apart by factions.

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The audio version of “Thwarted Queen” produced by Findaway Voices and narrated by the fab Diana Croft. Cover design by Tim Barber of Dissect Designs.

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Has she seen him before?

He examined the address, then scrutinized her.

Angelina’s cheeks warmed. “You will come?” She picked up her purse and gloves.

He made her his little bow and waited while she hurried off.

Angelina took the Bridge Street cable car in the direction of Georgetown. Something about him touched her deeply, something that plucked at a memory. She was in Pennsylvania Station, New York City, twenty-three years ago. It was October 1898, and Angelina was waiting with her sisters. She was uncomfortably warm in the thick cotton dress worn on the long journey from Italia. She gazed around the station, bewildered by the crowds of people coming in and out. She had never seen so many before, they reminded her of ants crawling into and out of the anthills back home on the farm. Before she had time to think, a train arrived. Louisa took her by the hand and led her into the carriage, while Josephina asked the porter to help her with their luggage. The train puffed out of New York, and she fell asleep. She awoke to the sounds of her sisters’ voices, heard the word Papa, and sat up.

“Dov’è Papa? Where is Papa?”

The memory faded. Try as she might, she could remember nothing more. The cable car clanged, jerking her out of her reverie. It was about to cross the bridge into Georgetown. Angelina hurriedly gathered her purse and gloves; the next stop was hers.

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THE LETTER by Ruth Saberton

I had never heard of this author before and was rather put off by the title (which is so plain, unprovocative, and common), but you cannot judge a book by its title! This novel is a wonderful piece for people who want to know more about the Great War, as well as those of us who (unfortunately) still have to deal with the horrors of war, and all the damage it causes not only mentally and physically, but in lost opportunities, lost people, ruined lives and lives tragically cut short.

Author Ruth Saberton’s writing is powerful and her characters convincing. Who could possibly forget Daisy’s near-naked bathing or near-fatal careen down a hill on a borrowed bicycle? Both escapades netted her the heir to the local Lord of the Manor who instantly (and passionately) fell in love.

And how happy they would have been if only the inevitable snobbishness of his parents (Daisy was only a doctor’s daughter) and the Great War had not intervened.

The Great War was a truly horrible war which affected everybody both in England, Western Europe and beyond.

In my family, both of my grandmothers were lucky women who never had the heartbreak of losing multiple fiancés or wandering around for years unable to get past their first love to young men who simply vanished into thin air. Somehow, they both managed to marry despite the dearth of men.

But the men of that generation were not so lucky. My step-grandfather lost a leg in action off of Jutland in 1916, my grandfather acquired permanent damage to his lungs as a result of being on a boat full of creosote that was torpedoed by the Germans, and my stepfather (who signed up in 1918 at the age of eighteen) was thankfully prevented from going to the front by a bout of Spanish flu.

Therefore it is not surprising that such a beautifully written novel about such devastating tragedy set in one of the most beautiful parts of the world (Cornwall) should receive such acclaim. If you have never heard of this writer or this novel before, you are in for a treat. Five stars.

 

A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW by Amor Towles

Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov is placed under house arrest in 1922, because the Bolsheviks cannot decide if his pre-war poem is seditious enough to warrant the firing squad or exile to Siberia. Or perhaps they should let him go?

No.

He is arrested and imprisoned in the Metropol Hotel in Moscow, a hive of activity where Communists and artists mingle.

One might think that a 30-year saga about an erstwhile Russian aristocrat who is confined to a what is essentially a cupboard on the top floor of the hotel would be boring. But I found this tale unexpectedly delightful, enlivened by two generations of precocious girls. First, there is Nina, whom we meet in 1922 at the age of nine. Then there is her daughter, the aptly-named Sofia, who appears in 1938 at the age of five. Nina hands over her daughter to the count in 1938 and…disappears. We do not know what becomes of her. Meanwhile, Sofia becomes very attached to Count Rostov, calling him “papa” by the time she turns thirteen.

I will not say more, so as not to spoil it for the rest of you who have not had the pleasure of reading this volume. Suffice to say, you will not be disappointed. Five stars.

Elly Griffiths’ THE CHALK PIT (RUTH GALLOWAY #9) narrated by Jane McDowell

This tale of murder and mysterious disappearances begins when Ruth Galloway’s excavates some bones in a tunnel below the Guildhall in Norwich, Norfolk, UK.

Ruth originally thinks the bones are medieval, but when closer examination reveals them to be modern, the site becomes a police investigation. This doesn’t please the local developer who has grand plans for an underground shopping mall complete with restaurants, cinemas and other “experiences.”

Then the women start disappearing. First is Babs, a rough sleeper, whom everyone remembers as a kind soul. Then Samantha Foster-Jones, mother of four, vanishes one afternoon just before her husband returns home. Lastly, is glamorous and talented Cassandra, Dave Clough’s partner.

While all this is going on a couple of male rough sleepers are murdered when someone stabs them in the heart.

What is going on? DCI Nelson is reluctant to believe rumors of an underground city, but…You will have to read (or experience) the rest of this volume to find out. Five stars for yet another entertaining & gripping tale.

Elly Griffiths’ THE WOMAN IN BLUE (RUTH GALLOWAY #8)

Yet another enjoyable volume from Elly Griffiths, this time following the trio we have come to love & know, i.e. Cathbad, Ruth & DCI Nelson.

We are in Walsingham Norfolk, at the Shrine to Our Lady that has been there (with some interruptions) for 1,000 years. The volume opens with a memorable confrontation between Cathbad and a cat (the cat wins.) There is a conference for female bishops, who merrily enjoy their time by drinking the night away.

Ruth (who has been invited to this party) is shocked. But there is a dark undercurrent to their doings. Many of these women have been receiving threatening letters, which usually begin: “Dear Jezebel.”

The women are reluctant to involve the police. Then a young woman dressed in a blue cloak is found murdered. Five Stars.

 

Elly Griffiths’ THE GHOST FIELDS (RUTH GALLOWAY #7).

For some strange reason I was unable to get the audio/Audible version of this volume either on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk, even though it is clear that an Audio version did exist, at least at once time.

Elly Griffiths gives us another absorbing tale involving the characters we love so much, namely forensic archaeologist Ruth Galloway and DCI Harry Nelson (with whom she has a complex relationship). However, neither Kate/Katie/Hecate (the poor child is given various nicknames by the adults in her life) played much of a role in this volume, nor  did Cathbad (much to my disappointment.) Indeed Cathbad was proved wrong about a couple of important events.

Tsk, tsk, whatever is the world coming to?

In any event, I loved the way author Elly Griffiths set the story against the background of climate change. We start off with a blazing hot summer, followed by a tremendous flood which turns Norfolk (which is nearly as flat as the Netherlands) into a huge lake. Needless to say, when the flood does arrive, it strands Ruth in a spooky house with some very undesirable people.

I am not going to say more, so as not to spoil things for those of you who have not yet read (or experienced) this volume. But you will not be disappointed. Five Stars.

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN by Betty Smith

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN delineates the life of a young girl between the ages of 11 and 17, who grew up in an impoverished family in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn NY 100 years ago.

Although much has changed since then, the genius of this book is that it is so relatable. Most everyone can remember what it was like to be 9, 10 or 11 years old, an age when we had begun to sit up and take notice of things, but were too inexperienced to completely understand what it was that adults discussed, especially when they lowered their voices.

Francie Nolan is a bright young woman who loves to read, but is denied an excellent education mostly because of her poor circumstances. Her family lives from paycheck to paycheck, so when she talks herself into a reading position that pays way more than the meager wages her mother is able to scramble together with the washing she does for the neighborhood, Francie leaves school to help.

But what is so marvelous about this volume is the determination of the women. Francie may have missed high school, but she sees no reason why she shouldn’t go to college. Perhaps she gets her determination from her mother, who works long, hard hours for her family, piecing together various jobs as they come along.

If you want something that is both old and new, read this book. It gives a vivid account of immigrant life in the United States, showing that in many ways things have not changed that much. Five stars.

Reading Sundays: THE END OF CHILDHOOD (Part 11), a short story by Cynthia Sally Haggard

Indeed, Mr. Clayton was surrounded by five elegant women, who simpered at his remarks as they played with their fans. I thought of Mr. Clayton, his kisses and his promises, and I felt dirty. How could I have been such a fool? Mr. Clayton was no gentleman. He wasn’t going to keep his promises to me because I had no fortune to give him. I was just a good roll in the hay.

I bit my lip and looked down as anger welled deep within me, like molten sugar. I must come up with a plan. Just then Sam, the footman bent his mouth to my ear. “You’re wanted downstairs in the kitchen, Miss. I’ll take you.”

Slowly, I stumbled to my feet and followed him downstairs. There was a murmuring of voices that hushed as I appeared. All the extra help from the village seemed to be on the point of leaving, yet the ball was still continuing on upstairs. Some of them smiled at me as they left, and one called out “Merry Christmas!” As they left, the doctor was ushered upstairs into Mrs. Clayton’s room. Then Reverend Whitacre appeared with Papa. Martha the cook, Annie the maid, Sam the footman and Thomas the coachman sat there idle, waiting.

Martha rose. “You’ll be wanting a private place to talk with your girl.” She opened the scullery door, and let us inside, shutting it quietly behind her.

I stood in the middle of that freezing room and looked at my hands. “Everyone seems to know what’s been going on.”

Papa grunted. “I’d like to hear it from you.”

I looked at my hands clasped tightly in my lap and began, not daring to look up. He listened in dead silence as I told him the whole story, thinking it best to leave nothing out so that at least he couldn’t accuse me of lying to him.

The silence uncoiled as I finished my whispered confession. I kept my head down, I couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Are you with child?”

I raised my head. He looked bone weary, suddenly much older. “I’m not sure,” I whispered.

He crashed his fist into the wall. “Damn him!” he swore. “Hell and Damnation, I trusted him!”

I jumped.

“He’s ruined you, you know,” he said in a different tone. “He’s ruined your marriage chances.” He raised his head and looked at me hard. “What gentleman is going to take another man’s leavings? Who will take on another’s brat?”

“But he promised to marry me.” I showed Papa my ring.

He shook his head. “He can always say it wasn’t his fault, that you were sleeping around.”

I stared at him. “But he wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t he? Not when he’s got a chance to marry Miss Fancy-piece with her thirty thousand pounds?”

I sagged in my seat. “But I’ll need to marry to regain my footing in society, and—” I remembered the conversation around me at the ball. “I’ll need money.”

He leaned back in his chair, rocking it backwards to stretch out his long legs. “Money. Yes you definitely need money. And the servants have all taken your side.” He rubbed his chin with his thumb. “I think I might be able to shame him into giving it to me. Yes.” He stroked his silver belt buckle. “Ten thousand pounds should do the job nicely.”

I recoiled. “You mean from Mr. Clayton?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Hell, I could give you that money myself, I’ve got plenty of change, as you know.”

I nodded. Papa was highly skilled at his craft, and just now the Chatham dockyards were busy with all the new ships they were making to fight the Emperor Napoleon. So he was making money hand over fist, as he liked to say.

Papa leaned forward and covered my hand with his own, “No man in his right mind is going to take you for less than ten thousand. That is the price of your marriage, and by heaven I’ll see that that scoundrel pays.”

I shivered.

*   *   *

“Ten thousand pounds, Clayton. That’s my price.”

“I haven’t got the money.”

“Come now! I hear you’re to marry an heiress with thirty thousand.”

“Why should I pay? Your daughter is a slut.”

Papa bared his teeth.”I think you should be very careful what you say.” His voice was dangerously quiet. “I have witnesses.” He looked around the room

Martha the cook, Annie the maid, Sam the footman, Thomas the coachman, the Reverend Whitacre and the doctor formed a protective wall around me, their faces hard.

Mr. Clayton glanced at them. There was a long pause. “Ten thousand, then,” he muttered.

*   *   *

When my son was born, Mr. Clayton allowed me to name him after him in partial recognition that he was the father. But I had to append my father’s name “Lee” and keep the identity of my son’s father secret on any documents. My son was baptized on 24th December 1809 as John Clayton Lee. As promised, I left his father’s name blank.

I was only fifteen years old.

THE END

John Clayton Lee was my grandmother Dorothy’s great-grandfather.

 

This story is unpublished. If you would care to publish it, please contact me at “cynthia [at] spunstories [dot] com.”