This is such a powerful and amazing book. I had to use two quotes from the book itself in order to do this author’s work justice. This is an Editor’s Choice for the May edition of Historical Novels Review.
It is 1947, and Minister Peters is getting ready to board a train called The Dawn Lightning in South Carolina. Despite his name, he is not a minister. He is headed out of the South and towards a new life. Minister’s family was once enslaved and has experienced generations of loss. This continues in Minister’s life. Having lost his wife to unfaithfulness and murder, and then his daughter to drowning, Minister wants to take that train to the end of the line and leave the South behind for good. He meets three other passengers on the train. Carvall is a soldier who has just gotten out of the Army. Divinion and Lanah are a couple with questionable motives. These four lives interact in such a way that Minister will never be the same again.
Stacy D. Flood has a rare talent for writing scenes that stay with you and a unique ability to create lasting pictures in your mind. Even something many people have done, like leaving home, becomes extraordinary: “For those I’d left behind I knew my voice was only a memory, and I knew that this place, my home, would forget about the rest of me as soon as my shoes left the pebbles beneath them.” His description of nature brings it alive. “Further out in the water appeared the silhouettes of two children, a boy and a girl, holding hands, but as I passed by, gaping, I recognized them as simple tree trunks. Not ghosts, not observers or judges or the abandoned or the lost.” The scenes from this book vividly explode in your mind, and the writing evokes powerful emotion. This work is special. I highly recommend this novella to anyone who wants to read the work of a talented author.
I received a free copy of this book from the publisher, Lanternfish Press, via The Historical Novel Society. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Originally from Buffalo, and currently living in Seattle, Stacy D. Flood’s work has been published nationally and performed on stages nationwide as well as in the Puget Sound Area. He has been a DISQUIET scholar in Lisbon, an artist-in-residence at The Millay Colony of the Arts, and the recipient of a Getty Fellowship to the Squaw Valley Community of Writers
This is another review I did for The Historical Novel Society and another Editor’s Choice! It is the sinking of the Titanic from the perspective of the Captain of the Carpathia.
On April 15, 1912, Arthur Rostron, the captain of the Carpathia, is awakened and notified of a distress call from the Titanic, which has struck an iceberg and is in grave trouble. Rostron immediately begins to strategize the response of his ship, which is over four hours away. Although he is not sure of the amount of damage, he is determined to get the Carpathia to the aid of the Titanic’s passengers. Braving icebergs himself, he pushes the Carpathia to the limit in order to assist.
On the Titanic, Kate Connolly is enjoying her time in third class with newfound friends. But in the middle of the night, strange sounds lead her out into the corridor looking for answers. She eventually finds the ship is in trouble, and she has very little time to escape. Although third-class passengers are not warned or helped in any way, she manages to make it to a lifeboat, from which she watches the Titanic sink. Will rescue come in time?
In alternating chapters, we follow Captain Rostron as the Carpathia attempts a heroic rescue, and Kate Connolly as the survivors try to stay alive, praying for help. We learn of heroes like the captain, and then of others who did little or nothing to help. We suffer with the freezing and cry with the bereaved. But we also salute a man who did what he could to bring others to safety. Although there is much historical fiction out there about the sinking of the Titanic, this is a unique and inspiring look at the rescuers from the Carpathia, who managed to bring over 700 people to safety. It is also a tragic and heartbreaking look back at that terrible night. Highly recommended.
I received a free copy of this book from the publishers via the Historical Novel Society. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
(In her own words) I was born once upon a time, and I started making up stories right away. Eventually, I started writing them down, and never stopped! I have a day job, which gets in the way of my writing, but it pays the bills so I CAN write, so I guess that’s okay! I am a bookworm, which I think is key to being a writer, and I am always looking for inspiration! I live in Indiana, am obsessed with hot chocolate, and I am on track to be the best aunt in the world.
The Sunday Post is a weekly meme hosted here @ Caffeinated Reviewer. It’s a chance to share news~ A post to recap the past week on your blog and showcase books and things we have received. Share news about what is coming up on our blog for the week ahead. See rules here: Sunday Post Meme
REVIEW OF LAST WEEK
It was a busy work week but I’ve managed to stay organized and was able to get most of what I had planned for the blog done, with a couple of exceptions. Today, my husband made me a steak for Mother’s Day, and although I already got my presents for the whole year when I purchased Cincinnati Bengals season tickets, he still got me a sugar/parmesan shaker in a pattern of glass I collect, Moon and Star. My son called me to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day, and I posted a tribute to my wonderful Mom who passed in 2020.
The blog in review:
On Monday I did a cover reveal of The Sign of The Weeping Virgin and a Spotlight of The Coronation. I also posted a short story that would have been our March entry for the #2022 Short Story Challenge, which was delayed due to illness.
On Sunday I posted our May entry for the 2022 Short Story Challenge, which finally gets us caught up. It is a tribute to My Storytelling Mom.
A LOOK AT NEXT WEEK
On Monday I will post my review The Salt Fields by Stacy D. Flood. This is a book I reviewed for the May edition of The Historical Novels Review, the magazine of the Historical Novel Society.
I’m also going to post my review of the audiobook of The Wedding Season, which I did not have time to post last week.
On Wednesday I’ll be posting a review of A Brilliant Night of Stars and Ice, which I reviewed for the May edition of Historical Novels Review.
On Saturday, for Self-Published Saturday, I’ll be reviewing The Coronation by Justin Newland. I did a spotlight last week for a blog tour but was unable to get the review done, so I’ll be doing it this week.
The 2022 Short Story Challenge started by A Virginia Writer’s Diary is all about folklore, and the original post can be found here. We are finally caught up, and here is our official post for May. For our May entry, we’re focusing on the mountain tradition of storytelling, as well as Mother’s Day, to bring you a story from my Mom, who passed away in 2020.
Dorothy Jenkins Zinser
ABOUT MY MOM
Dorothy Jenkins was born in 1931 in the mountains of Western NC. Her father, Ed Calloway Jenkins, was a farmer who took on other jobs to make ends meet, including working in a sawmill. Her mother, Edith, worked hard at home and raised 12 children. Dorothy, or Dot, only went to school until the eighth grade because she was needed at home to help take care of the family. However, she loved to read. She read a book a day when I was a kid. Growing up, her mother would read stories to my Mom and her siblings, often Grace Livingston Hill romances or Zane Grey westerns. And my Mom could tell a story. One of my favorites was the story about the jar of peanut butter. I’m calling it Death by Peanut Butter, and you will see the reason why when you read the last two lines. She wrote that story down, and I’m providing it below with some dialogue and context thrown in. I also added a bit of another story she used to tell us about The Swinging Bridge.
This is Appalachian folklore in its purest sense–Mountain parents and grandparents sharing stories of their lives with their children.
DEATH BY PEANUT BUTTER
One day my Momma asked me to go to the store and a get jar of peanut butter for school lunches. “Ok,” I said, “Can I take Ed and Bonnie?” My brother Ed was eight years old and Bonnie was only six.
“Yes, Dot,” she said, “But take care of them!”
I said okay and we went on our way. It was four miles one way to the store, and we ran along, playing and being silly, until we made our way to town.
In the early to mid-1940s, in order to get to the store in our town, which was Bryson City, North Carolina, we had to cross the Tuckasegee River. That was the scariest part of the trip. Our little town was split in the middle by that river. In order to get across, we had to use the swinging bridge that had been put up by the Carolina Wood Turning company, a furniture company where our Daddy worked in the lumberyard.
The swinging bridge had always been a scary place for me. The river could get very wild, and the bridge rocked back and forth on windy days, with only rope on the sides to hold onto. I’ll never forget the day, a couple years before, when I brought my Daddy his lunch. He had always crossed the bridge to meet me, because he knew how scared I was to cross it. But that day he did not. He sat down on the bank and called, “Dot, come over here!”
I was terrified, but I had to do as my Daddy said. I slowly stepped onto the bridge, which creaked and swayed. I stopped, shaking, afraid to go forward. He called out again, “Dot, don’t be afraid. Just look at me!”
It was the most terrible trip, that first trip across the bridge. But keeping my eyes on my Daddy and not on the water, I made it across. Ever since then, I was able to help Momma more, such as running those errands to the store, because I could cross that bridge and go to town.
Even now, each crossing was a scary event for me. I held tight to my sister Bonnie’s hand, but my brother Ed scampered across without a fear in the world.
At the store, I bought the jar of peanut butter plus some other things my Momma needed. The lady at the counter smiled at little Bonnie and said, “Would you like a peppermint stick, Sweetie?”
Her big grin and quick nod resulted in all three of us receiving candy for the trip back. What a treat!
Of course we had to head back to that swinging bridge in order to go home, so we walked across, sucking on our candy and enjoying the day. I went even more slowly because I was carrying the bit of groceries.
At the end of the bridge, a strange man was standing, swaying back and forth, and he wouldn’t let us pass. I asked him nicely to let us go past him, but he did not. The bridge was narrow, and he was blocking the exit. He kept swaying and talking unintelligibly, trying to keep us trapped on the bridge. I don’t know why. He was probably drunk.
I said very loudly “Let us off this bridge!” but he did not. I was getting worried now, so I told Ed, “When I say run, take Bonnie and run!” Again I said very loudly, “Let us off this bridge!” When he didn’t move, I yelled “Run!” and Ed and Bonnie began to run. I took that jar of peanut butter and threw it at this odd man, hitting him in the head. And wouldn’t you know it, he fell over and then rolled down the hill!
Ed and Bonnie were already running toward home, but I looked for the jar of peanut butter. It was sitting halfway down the hill and was not broken. I ran and got it. My Momma needed that peanut butter. I took off for home, catching up with my brother and sister. We never told our Momma or Daddy about this until we were grown.
My brother Ed, when telling this story, would always say I killed a man with a jar of peanut butter! I don’t think so, but I sure didn’t go back to check!
My mom lived on this land until she got married at the age of 17 and moved to Cincinnati with my Dad. In 1989, they retired and moved back to Bryson City, where they lived until 2009, when my Dad’s health problems caused them to return to Cincinnati. In 2009, My Mom sold her house and land to me and my husband. My Dad passed in 2019 at the age of 91. Mom passed suddenly at the age of 88 in 2020. In 2024, I will retire and we will spend the rest of our lives on this land.
Self-Published Spotlight is my effort to help indie/self-published authors with the huge task of marketing their books. Self-published authors have to do it all, and if I can help even a little, I’m happy to do so. Below is a spotlight of Forever Silenced, a psychological thriller by Richard Cohen.
BOOK DESCRIPTION
Willem Gerhardt is a renowned psychologist with the most prestigious recognitions. He is also the adopted son of the widely known, Elizabeth Gerhardt—sole heiress of a billionaire. Up until now, Dr. Gerhardt has lived a “rich life” in every way, or so it seems.
When a young patient claims she was sexually assaulted, a local farmer is formally charged. But days after his acquittal, he is found dead.
Dr. Gerhardt’s life has come full circle upon returning to the very same place he was born— East Texas State Penitentiary. Charged with murder, he is forced to face the depths of a complex past.
Is blood truly thicker than water? What significance do memories really hold? Is a flower just “a flower”? Are psychics real? Can anyone be trusted?
A complex page-turner with numerous twists, FOREVER SILENCED takes readers on a thought-provoking and forever memorable, heartwarming journey
Self-Published Spotlight is my effort to help highlight Self-Published books. It includes a description of the book and buy links, plus author information if it is provided. Self-Published Spotlights can go up any day, but I happened to get a request for this one right before Self-Published Saturday, so here it is! Below is my spotlight of the memoir of Martha Levallee, who writes about discovering a family she never knew she had. See the book description below:
BOOK DESCRIPTION
This poignant, uplifting memoir describes the emotional journey of a middle-aged woman who receives an unexpected email, and suddenly learns that her now-deceased parents had kept secret from her the fact that she has a half-brother.
Raised as an only child, the revelation occurs without any DNA testing of anyone in the family. This true story describes her coming to terms with this shocking information, as she remembers vague clues that had been presented to her during her youth. It also details her quest to meet her brother and his family, and to make this family her own, despite the logistical challenges of different languages and continents.
Below is our fourth entry in the 2022 Short Story Challenge, started by A Virginia Writer’s Diary. See the original post here. The theme this year is folklore, and I’m very excited about that! My husband Doug is writing with me, so our name is Bonnie Douglas when we are writing together. We’re concentrating on Appalachian Folklore for this challenge. We are a little behind. Here is our April entry, with the May entry coming soon. My husband wrote this one by himself with just a little editing from me, and it’s about the legend of The Wampus Cat.
Beware the Wampus Cat
By Bonnie Douglas
NOTE: There are many different tales about the Wampus Cat in the mountains. This one is based on a Cherokee legend about a maiden who spied on one of the men’s secret ceremonies and was turned into a “demon cat.”
Yellow eyes glared balefully from deep within the seemingly impenetrable laurel thickets lining the rocky hillsides of the mountain hollow. The leather-clad men flinched nervously as a rumbling growl reached their ears. They clasped their flint-tipped spears, and speaking low imprecations to their ponies, they hurried down the game trail to escape an ambush by what the tribe called a “Demon Cat.” They knew that remaining after dark could mean their families might never know what fate found them as the Wampus Cat would snatch them from beside the fire, never to be seen again.
Grumbling, the midnight black Wampus Cat pulled herself further back into the thicket. “Fool men,” she whispered to herself. “Always thinking they know more than me.” Hugging herself with two strong arms, she scuffled into the leaves with four more legs and settled down to await another group of more careless men. Word of the Demon Cat had spread further than she actually ever went. With each whispered tale, she grew more fierce and vengeful. Her hatred of men made them more cautious and more hesitant to travel the hollows she haunted.
Time passed and the Death Cat grumbled, her memories often embellishing the events leading up to her transformation from curious woman to Demon Cat. “Curiosity didn’t kill the cat–it created one,” chuckled the Wampus Cat to herself. She recalled watching from a thicket, much as she did now, as the men held their “secret ceremony” in the shiny cave around the flickering flames.
“Women not allowed!” she spat in fury as her tail whipped around, thrashing splinters from the tree trunks. She remembered her shock that day as a spark from the fire flew onto the puma skin she was shrouded in, causing her to stumble from the safety of her thicket of trees, swatting wildly to extinguish the deadly flare. The men surrounding the fire were almost as shocked as she was at her sudden appearance, but they managed to surround and restrain her before she could gather herself to flee.
The leader of the group of elders looked at her with the flames reflected in his eyes. “Why are you here, Cat Woman?” he growled. “You know women are forbidden to witness this ritual. It is for men only!”
“Men! You think you know everything and women are good only to work and take care of babies!” Cat Woman snarled back. “Women are not afraid. We can hunt and go to war and have secret knowledge the same as men!” Cat Woman continued to snarl as she struggled to free herself from the grasp of the men.
“Foolish woman!” shouted the elder. “It does not matter in the least what your role is. Some ceremonies are meant for men and others for women! I suppose the only way you will learn is to see for yourself.”
The flames shot higher and Cat Woman heard whispers growing and swirling inside the cave. Her eyes darted wildly around the circle and the smoke from the fire suddenly seemed to fill the cavern. Cat Woman felt strange and began to cough, her body racked by spasms as the mountain cat pelt slipped from her shoulders and draped around her waist . The men’s eyes began to shine yellow, bright enough to be seen as beacons through the thickening pall of smoke.
Cat Woman fell to the ground as the men’s rough hands released her. The strange feeling intensified and a rasping scream broke from her throat.
“What….is…..happening?” panted Cat Woman as her body changed and she felt the pelt begin to meld with her flesh.
“I told you that this was for men alone.” said the elder pityingly. “This is a transformation ceremony, and for a woman it brings her true nature out, whatever it may be. Your curiosity and wrathfulness are your curse. Now you will wear that pelt until your nature changes,” declared the elder as his eyes flashed a yellow so brightly it blinded everyone in the silica lined cave.
Yowling a curse, Cat Woman felt her transformation take hold as two more legs sprouted from where her pelt had wrapped around her waist. Her arms remained, but were fur-covered and muscular. Her frame stretched and contorted and she bent towards the ground. Her face changed from human to feline and a lantern-like yellow glow filled her eyes. Shrieking her displeasure, she coiled to spring towards the elders and attack. Before she could complete her move, the elders raised their hands and as one shouted one word, “BEGONE!”
With a rush of air the sparks and smoke of the fire whirled around Cat Woman and flung the new Demon Cat away from the cave, far into the mountain hollows.
“Foolish men,” the Wampus Cat growled to herself, as the flood of memories raised her ire again. “I’ll show them what it means to create a Demon Cat!” Thrashing her tail wildly, the Wampus Cat settled into a thick knot of laurels to nurse her grudge.
Time passed slowly, seasons came and went. Tales of men disappearing from around campfires spread among the bands and villages. The elders warned men to avoid being out among the hollows after dark. Through it all, the Wampus Cat waited, her baleful yellow eyes shining in the dark, her moan of “Foolish Men!” whispered on the winds, warning men of the dangers.
Change was coming, she could feel it and hear it too. Raising her head from the leaf litter lining her laurel thicket, the Wampus Cat flicked her ears toward the clamor and jingle of men moving around her hollow. The many seasons since she last saw a man had shrunken her rage, and along with it her size. Her curiosity was stronger than her rage now, but it simmered still. With a whip of her tail she slid slowly from her thicket, drawn by the new sounds.
Chains rattled, leather creaked as the rickety wagon wandered into the center of the hollow. The mules leading it ambled to a stop, heads drooping. With a shriek, children clad in homespun burst from the rear and darted around like sparks from a fire. Yellow eyes blinked from the shadows under a giant poplar tree hanging over the old war trail leading through the hollow.
These people were different from those of the Demon Cat’s past. A hiss, born of a mixture of fear and fury, whispered from the Wampus Cat’s throat as her eyes fixed on the man lifting himself from the wagon and staggering slightly. Her ears flicked erect as she heard a woman shouting from the other side of the wagon.
“Foolish man! I won’t have you tottering about like a drunk in front of your daughters!” The shout came from a woman, taller than most, with hair caught in a bun. She was clad in a worn homespun dress like her daughters. “We’ve only just managed to scrape together enough to make a home here in this place, no thanks to you disappearing every time there’s work to be done!”
“Now Hester, you know I’ve got a serious injury from falling off that rope bridge on the way to work,” groused the man, aimlessly searching the hollow for some means of escape.
“Injury indeed!” huffed Hester. “If you mean you cut your rump when you landed on your liquor jug, then I guess that counts, Bud Stiles.”
“It counts indeed,” chortled Bud. “That sawyer paid me enough for us to get this piece of land. I don’t believe that whole ‘Wampus Cat’ business anyway.”
“Wampus Cat? What do you mean?” asked Hester with an angry quiver in her voice. “If you’ve done something to endanger your daughters it’ll be the last thing you do!”
“Now Hester, no need for that,” Bud said with a placating wave. “Even though the sawyer gave me a handsome sum for falling off his incredibly dangerous bridge,” Bud chortled to himself at the thought of the sawmill owner’s face, “it was barely enough for this land. If the elders hadn’t warned everyone off with some fable about a six-legged ‘Demon Cat” haunting this hollow and carting off every man she saw, we’d still be living in that hut down by the river.”
Hester glared at Bud with barely contained fury, and Bud nervously began to edge towards the woods. Hester reached into the wagon and, scrabbling around, her hand found the axe.
“Lazy Bud, you take this axe with you and bring back some firewood,” said Hester, thrusting the axe into Bud’s hands. “And try not to lose this one!”
Yellow eyes watched it all happen from the shadowed hillside. Bud stumbled up the bank, dragging the axe blade in the dirt behind him. Soon the sound of the ringing against trees could be heard throughout the hollow. Shaking her head, Hester went about the business of setting up camp for her and their daughters.
“Foolish man,” she muttered to herself as darkness began to fall in the hollow and Lazy Bud still hadn’t returned. The axe had fallen silent long ago as Bud laid up against a tree “just to rest his eyes.” Low to the ground, yellow eyes glared from a thicket near where Lazy Bud lay curled on the ground, snoring.
“FOOLISH MAN!” a shout rang through the hollow and the woods surrounding it. With a start, Bud’s eyes flew open and he grabbed the axe from the dirt.
“Well it’s too late to do anything about it now,” Bud muttered to himself. “Guess I’ll start a fire and wait until that woman calms down.” Scrabbling in his pockets, he found his flint.
Piling up the little bit of wood that he had actually chopped, he struck a spark of the axe into the tinder and blew until the spark caught and grew slowly into a roaring fire.
All the while, yellow eyes glared from the thicket as Bud warmed himself, and an angry snarl built to a howling scream. “FOOLISH MAN!” burst from the mouth of the Wampus Cat. Suddenly her eyes flared bright enough to blind anyone within the circle lit by the fire. And Lazy Bud disappeared from the circle of light in a whirl of sparks, as men had done so many times before. The Wampus Cat’s anger dissipated as she thought of the woman and her daughters. They were alone now as she had been for so long. With one last snarl, the Wampus Cat settled down to sleep by the fire.
A curl of smoke rose from the remains of the fire and the Wampus Cat stirred, opening yellow eyes at the sound of feet and many voices calling “Bud!” and “Daddy! Where are you!”
The cat remained still, feet tucked up under her body, as Hester and her daughters staggered into the small clearing. At the sight of the humans, The Wampus Cat sprang up, back arched and snarling, but suddenly she realized she was no longer furious. She attempted to speak, and nothing came out but a yowl. Reaching out, she tried to touch the closest young girl, but nothing except a fur-clad paw was there instead of her formerly muscular arms.
“Mama, look, a kitty!” squealed the youngest of the girls “Can we keep it?”
“Please, please, please!” chanted the rest of the girls, their missing father forgotten, as this was not an unusual occurrence to say the least.
“Well, if she shows up at the campsite, we’ll find a spot for her, but it will have to be her own decision, not ours,” said Hester. “Let’s pick up that axe and get back to the holler. Maybe your Daddy will show up in time for dinner.”
Six months later, Hester sat in a rough-hewn chair. A small black cat with glowing yellow eyes sat in her lap and stared at the circle of young girls sitting cross-legged around her. Bud had never returned, but they had managed without him, since he had never really helped much anyway. The one thing he had done for them was buy that land, and they farmed it and kept themselves fed. Predators, for whatever reason, had stayed away. Relatives had helped build a tiny cabin, and another one would be going up soon, as Cecily, the oldest girl, was getting married.
“Mama, why is the cat staring at us?” asked the youngest of her daughters.
“Now girls, you know that’s no ordinary cat,” said Hester, stroking the small, black, six-legged feline softly and staring at the fire. “Let me tell you all the story of the Wampus Cat.”
Natalie Jenner, the internationally bestselling author of The Jane Austen Society, returns with a compelling and heartwarming story of post-war London, a century-old bookstore, and three women determined to find their way in a fast-changing world in Bloomsbury Girls.
Bloomsbury Books is an old-fashioned new and rare bookstore that has persisted and resisted change for a hundred years, run by men and guided by the general manager’s unbreakable fifty-one rules. But in 1950, the world is changing, especially the world of books and publishing, and at Bloomsbury Books, the girls in the shop have plans:
Vivien Lowry: Single since her aristocratic fiancé was killed in action during World War II, the brilliant and stylish Vivien has a long list of grievances–most of them well justified and the biggest of which is Alec McDonough, the Head of Fiction.
Grace Perkins: Married with two sons, she’s been working to support the family following her husband’s breakdown in the aftermath of the war. Torn between duty to her family and dreams of her own.
Evie Stone: In the first class of female students from Cambridge permitted to earn a degree, Evie was denied an academic position in favor of her less accomplished male rival. Now she’s working at Bloomsbury Books while she plans to remake her own future.
As they interact with various literary figures of the time–Daphne Du Maurier, Ellen Doubleday, Sonia Blair (widow of George Orwell), Samuel Beckett, Peggy Guggenheim, and others–these three women with their complex web of relationships, goals and dreams are all working to plot out a future that is richer and more rewarding than anything society will allow.
BOOK TRAILER
AUDIOBOOK
Narrated by esteemed stage and screen actress Juliet Stevenson, enjoy the full unabridged edition of Bloomsbury Girls. “Stevenson delivers the satisfying triumph at the end with perfect polish.” —AudioFile Magazine
AUDIOBOOK EXCERPT
ADVANCE PRAISE
“Jenner follows The Jane Austen Society (2020) with another top-notch reading experience, using the same deft hand at creating complex, emotionally engaging characters [against] a backdrop chock-full of factual historical information… Fans of Christina Baker Kline, Kate Quinn and Pam Jenoff [will] appreciate this gem.” —Booklist (starred review)
“An illuminating yarn… Fans of emotional historical fiction will be charmed.” —Publishers Weekly “Bloomsbury Girls is an immersive tale of three women determined to forge their own paths in 1950s London. Jenner has proven to be a master at spinning charming, earnest characters and paints a vivid picture of postwar England. I wanted to stay lost in her world forever!” —Stephanie Wrobel, internationally bestselling author of Darling Rose Gold “Bloomsbury Girls is a book lover’s dream, one of those rare reads that elicits a sense of book-ish wistfulness and nostalgia. Jenner has created a colorful cast of characters in a story about friendship, perseverance, and the ways that determined women can band together in a man’s world. You’re in for a treat.” —Sarah Penner, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Apothecary
“In a London still reeling from the ravages of World War II and the changes war has brought to English society, three young women take their futures into their own hands. With Bloomsbury Girls, Natalie Jenner has penned a timely and beautiful ode to ambition, friendship, bookshops, and the written word.” —Janet Skeslien Charles, New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Library
“In post-war London, Bloomsbury Books survived The Blitz until Vivien Lowry, Grace Perkins, and Evie Stone set off their own bomb on the stuffy all-male management. What ensues is the most delightful, witty, and endearing story you will read this year. Natalie Jenner, bestselling author of The Jane Austen Society, proves that she was not a one hit wonder. Like Austen, her second book is even better than the first.” —Laurel Ann Nattress, editor of Jane Austen Made Me Do It
Dear readers, I am immensely grateful for the outpouring of affection that so many of you have expressed for my debut novel The Jane Austen Society and its eight main characters. When I wrote its epilogue (in one go and without ever changing a word), I wanted to give each of Adam, Mimi, Dr. Gray, Adeline, Yardley, Frances, Evie and Andrew the happy Austenesque ending they each deserved. But I could not let go of servant girl Evie Stone, the youngest and only character inspired by real life (my mother, who had to leave school at age fourteen, and my daughter, who does eighteenth-century research for a university professor and his team). Bloomsbury Girls continues Evie’s adventures into a 1950s London bookshop where there is a battle of the sexes raging between the male managers and the female staff, who decide to pull together their smarts, connections, and limited resources to take over the shop and make it their own. There are dozens of new characters in Bloomsbury Girls from several different countries, and audiobook narration was going to require a female voice of the highest training and caliber. When I learned that British stage and screen actress Juliet Stevenson, CBE, had agreed to narrate, I knew that my story could not be in better hands, and I so hope you enjoy reading or listening to it. Warmest regards, Natalie.
NATALIE’S BIO
Natalie Jenner is the author of the instant international bestseller The Jane Austen Society and Bloomsbury Girls. A Goodreads Choice Award runner-up for historical fiction and finalist for best debut novel, The Jane Austen Society was a USA Today and #1 national bestseller and has been sold for translation in twenty countries. Born in England and raised in Canada, Natalie has been a corporate lawyer, career coach and, most recently, an independent bookstore owner in Oakville, Ontario, where she lives with her family and two rescue dogs. Visit her website to learn more.
What a wonderful adventure into the world of books! Book lovers will delight in this journey as they meet three women in 1950s London who are oppressed by the times they are in but refuse to give up their dreams. Vivien, Grace, and Evie all experience struggles in a career dominated by men, but they push to change the way of society in a difficult time. I loved that each of the chapter headings begins with one of Mr. Dutton’s rules for the shop. The audiobook narration by Juliet Stevenson was very well done, and she kept each character distinct and memorable. We meet important women in the literary world, such as Ellen Doubleday, and we watch as our three heroines work to define their place at Bloomsbury Books. This is simply a glorious battle of wits that will delight anyone who adores books.
I received a free copy of this audiobook from Austenprose PR via Netgalley. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
Here is the first of seven reviews I did for the May issue of Historical Novels Review, the magazine of the Historical Novel Society. This is a fun, cozy mystery set in the 60s.
BOOK REVIEW
First in the Swinging Sixties mystery series, this is a light cozy murder mystery set in the small town of Camden, Texas, in 1962. Dot Morgan’s career choices as a young woman seem to be nurse, teacher, or secretary. Dot wants to go to business school, but it’s difficult for women to get admitted, so she opts for secretarial school. While attending classes, she encourages her father to run for city council. He ends up running against Anson Manning, the wayward son of the town’s wealthiest family. Dot decides to join the Camden Ladies’ Club to try and gain political support for her father’s campaign. Unfortunately, she gets everything but help and is faced with a murder mystery when one of the town’s elite is found dead.
This is an entertaining read full of small-town politics, gossip, and scandal. Dot is a strong character who dreams of a career in business, a tough goal for women in the 1960s. The supporting cast is engaging and fun. While some of the characters are over the top, anyone who has lived in a small town knows that this is pretty close to reality. The mystery has some twists and turns, and I felt transported to the 1960s through music, movies, and social references. For example, Dot eats at a hamburger stand with golden arches for the first time and sees The Music Man in the theater. The ‘60s are just beginning, and so is this series. I look forward to more installments.
I received a free copy of this book from Historia via The Historical Novel Society. My review is voluntary and my opinions are my own.
Teresa Trent writes the Piney Woods and the Pecan Bayou mystery series from Houston, Texas where she loves the people and even the weather. Teresa includes Danny, a character with Down Syndrome in her Pecan Bayou family and in real life is the mother of an adult son with Down Syndrome/PDD. Creating the character of Danny and all of the other inhabitants of Pecan Bayou has been a joy for her. Even though she lives in the big city, her writing is influenced by all of the interesting people she finds in small towns and the sense of family that is woven through them all.
Below is my third entry in the 2022 Short Story Challenge, started by A Virginia Writer’s Diary. See the original post here. The theme this year is folklore, and I’m very excited about that! My husband Doug is writing with me, so together our name is Bonnie Douglas. We’re concentrating on Appalachian Folklore for this challenge. We are a little behind. Our March entry was delayed by illness and we just missed the end of April, but here is our third entry, with two more to come later in May. This story is a combination of the vast folklore out there about a race of magical people, smaller than us but having powers that we do not. It is called The People of the Moon.
The People of the Moon By Bonnie Douglas
My family has lived in these Western North Carolina hills and hollers for as long as anyone can remember. Before that, our tight-knit clans roamed the dales and glens of Ireland, England and Wales, as well as the highlands of Scotland, with some stray Germans from the Schwartzwald thrown in for good measure.
Seems like everyone from the same regions ended up here in the wild mountains, looking for shelter in familiar climes, no doubt. Along with their language, work ethic, and hospitable stoicism, they brought their legends as well.
My family was no stranger to the myths and legends of the hills. My uncles delighted in telling scary tales of the Wampus Cat, the Will O’the Wisps, and Booger Bear to give all of us kids a good reason to mind our P’s and Q’s and pay attention to what was going on all around us. Although they were fit to keep a child in line, the older I grew the less I believed in these tall tales.
Long before my people moved into the hills, the Cherokee roamed them. There was an old war trail that crossed through the holler that generations of Williams’ had called home. The Cherokee brought their own legends of course, and they inevitably intermingled with ours. The legends of the rock people, laurel people and dogwood people combined with our stories of pixies and brownies as easily as the smoke drifting from the chimneys of the cabins.
Now that I was grown, I could afford to scoff at the tall tales and legends, although I still loved to hear my grandmother and my aunts and uncles tell the old stories with their strong mountain drawls. I knew there was nothing to them. They were just old tales.
Trying to clear my mind, I stared back across the years and returned to the kitchen, helping Granny snap beans to be canned and holding back some for tonight’s dinner. “Granny, why do you have that small bowl? You don’t need to save any of those beans. We’ll use them all up tonight, no problem”
“That’s not for canning or for us. That’s for my help.” Granny answered. “I know I’ve told you before how many helping hands I’ve got around here”
“Stop hurting my leg!” I snickered, an old expression I’d used since I was a kid who got it mixed up with “pulling my leg.”
“Tim, I know you don’t remember about my helpers, but they remember you.” Granny answered solemnly. “It’s always harder to remember once you’ve grown up. You grow up and away from the old ways, and then you call things you were familiar with a ‘tall tale’ or whatever helps it all make sense to you.”
I smiled. “I’m grown up enough to know a tale from reality.”
She shook her head. “Why, you were practically one of them until you were old enough to go school. Your Grandpa had to drag you out of laurels and that old silica mine on a regular basis.”
I eyed my Granny suspiciously. I had no recollections of any of that. I knew she was growing older, but she hadn’t seemed to be losing her faculties at all. This was getting out of hand.
“Granny, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember ever seeing or hearing any of your so-called helpers. Even if they WERE real, why would you let me run around in the woods with some wild creatures?”
“They are my friends and we help each other,” said Granny, continuing to break beans. “Why don’t you take these to them?” She handed me the smaller bowl of beans, a small covered basket, which I saw contained mini blueberry muffins, and a metal tea tin.
“They’re going to make tea out there?” I asked with a sardonic grin.
“Just go out to the meadow and leave it beneath the apple trees.”
I shrugged, picked up the goodies, and headed out of the house and up to the hill to the meadow. Our property spanned 20 acres and was full of hills and valleys, but the meadow was my favorite place to play as a kid. It was at least two acres wide, and the apple trees offered both a great place to hide and a snack.
When I reached the meadow, I put the treats underneath one of the trees and walked off towards the creek, another one of my favorite places to play as a boy. I decided I’d come back tomorrow and get the basket and whatever was left of the food after the animals got it. The creek was running fairly slowly today, although sometimes it was so fast when I was a kid that I could race down in an inner tube, hanging on for dear life.
“Some things never change,” I said, as I looked at the beauty around me.
I hopped nimbly from rock to rock, just as I had done in my childhood. My reminiscing over, I climbed up the creek bank and headed towards home. As I glanced at the apple trees, I saw that the basket and other items were gone. I saw no signs of animals. Instead of being plundered, all the items had simply vanished.
I walked towards the tree line and into the woods, searching for any clue of the treats I had brought, but saw nothing. As I turned to go, I heard a giggle. Turning in the direction of the sound, I saw a blonde braid disappearing into the trees.
I headed towards the trees, intrigued, but saw no sign of anyone.
“Granny, I think one of the neighbor kids took the treats,” I said when I returned.
“A neighbor of sorts,” she replied, “but probably not a kid.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, shaking my head and sitting down at the table.
“Tim!” she said, sharply, “Think…remember!”
I searched my mind, but there was nothing. “I don’t know what you think I should remember,” I said, shaking my head.
“Come outside with me, Tim,” she said, heading out the back door.
We headed towards the back of the house, where all of the wood was waiting for me to chop and stack. But it wasn’t. Stack after neat stack of perfectly chopped wood was sitting in the wood bin, although they had been unchopped logs two hours ago.
I gaped at the wood bin. “How…what…”
“My helpers,” she said. “In return for the goodies you brought them.”
I shook my head. “I just dropped those off a half hour ago. It’s impossible.” Then I grinned. “This is a joke, isn’t it? You must have had Uncle Stan and his boys come up while I was gone.”
“It’s no joke, and there’s more I need to tell you since you obviously don’t remember,” Granny said, turning to walk back towards the house. “After all, we made an agreement.”
I caught up with her. “Who made an agreement?”
“So many people. I’m not getting any younger and certain things need to be done.”
Confusion overtook me, as well as doubts about her sanity. Was it dementia? But dementia doesn’t chop a day’s worth of wood in less than an hour.
“Granny,” I began, but she held up her hand.
“Enough for now. I’m calling a meeting. Meet me at the kitchen table at 2 a.m.” She walked briskly towards the porch.
“2….” I replied weakly, but then threw up my hands. If this was dementia, we’d face it together.
Later that night, I heard Granny calling my name. Stumbling into some sweatpants, I went to my bedroom door. She was standing there wearing a terrycloth robe and holding a cup of coffee.
“Time for our meeting,” she said as she handed me the cup.
I yawned and stretched, bewildered. “Was that for real? Are we really having a 2 a.m. meeting?” Why can’t we just talk at breakfast?”
“Come on out to the kitchen,” she replied.
When I reached the kitchen, I stopped in surprise. Sitting at our oak table was a young woman with red hair. She was wearing a green tunic which shone strangely in the lamplight. Although sitting, she appeared to be much shorter than Granny and I. She gestured for me to sit down, which I thought was big of her, since this wasn’t her kitchen. But I sat.
“Hello, Tim.” Her voice was rich and musical. “It’s good to see you again.”
I was bewildered. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“When you were a boy of seven, you played in the woods with my children, and we all visited you many times here in your Granny’s house.
It was impossible to believe that this young girl had children that were my age. I snorted. She just smiled.
“I am Doralinda Casey. You always called me Dora, and I’d like that to continue.”
“How could that be? I’ve never met you before.”
She looked at me a moment and then nodded her head. Her blue eyes became stormy gray and then began to glow. They had the appearance of full moons. And my memories began to return.
“Dora, Dora!” I had yelled into the woods. Can Juney come out and play?” And eventually a little boy much smaller than me would run out, smiling.
“Juney!” I exclaimed. “He must be grown now.”
“Well, not as grown as I am,” Dora replied, laughing. He will still look like a little boy to you.”
My smile faded. “I remember taking treats to the woods now and playing with your son and daughter, but where did you come from?”
She smiled. “Where do you come from? Our people, The People of the Moon, have always been on this Earth. Our family, the Caseys, traveled with your family, the Williams, from England to the new world. She laughed. “Or I should say your grandmother’s great grandfather smuggled us in by counting us among his children. When we arrived, we found our own spaces, inhabited by our own people, as we always do. Like your people, our people are everywhere. They go by different names in different countries. Brownies, Sprites and Elves are some the names. In Norway we’re called the Nisse and in Sweden the Tomte. The Cherokee called us the Moon Eyed People, because of the magic in our eyes. So after living here a while, we started calling ourselves the People of the Moon.”
“You mean when my memory came back just now, that was magic?”
“Yes. I hid your memories as you began to grow up. It was important to see who you would become. But now your Granny wants you to take her place, so you need those memories.
“Take her place?
“Your Granny doesn’t just bring us treats. She does a great service for us. We sometimes bring her gold from our land and she exchanges it for us, so we have some money in your land.”
“Wait!” I said. “You’re from a different world?”
“It’s the same world, but we can get into spaces that you cannot, and it has nothing to do with size. You need magic to enter our world.”
“So you don’t live in the woods!”
She laughed, rocking back in her chair. “No, Tim. We have our own village in a place that would be nearly impossible for you to get to.”
I missed pretty much everything after the mention of gold. It certainly explained a lot. Every couple of years we’d have a visit from some geologist or prospector who was certain they would strike “the mother-lode” somewhere or other in our mountain hollow. Inevitably, they would spend a lot of time and money and go back home shaking their heads without even a speck of gold to show for their efforts. Now I knew the gold was there, but it was somewhere that was going to take a special effort to get my hands on it.
“Nearly impossible isn’t quite the same as completely impossible though, is it?” I asked, I thought quite innocently, but I saw a hardening glint in Dora’s eyes as she looked back at me across the table.
“So, with Granny moving to town, you’re going to need help, and I’m sure to need an assist getting used to life here in the holler. What do you expect from me in exchange?”
“We expect nothing, Timothy Williams. What we do have is a neighborly arrangement,” Doralinda said sternly from across the table. “An arrangement that is beneficial to all of us in more ways than you can imagine.”
I realized quickly that I was in danger of offending not only people who possessed gifts beyond my imagination, but my own grandmother. Quickly I shifted my avaricious thoughts away from the gold nuggets and back onto a generations-long family association.
Gulping dryly I stammered “N-n-no offense intended, Dora. “You’ll have whatever you need to continue our families’ long friendship.”
I shifted a glance towards Granny, catching the slight frown and worriedly drawn brows. I knew she trusted me, but taking over the little family farm in the hollow was really my last chance. I’d burned a lot of bridges, both personally and financially, with wild “get-rich” schemes. I had finally fallen for one that put me in a place financially that I didn’t think I could get out of.
If Granny hadn’t reached out to me with the offer to take care of the farm, I would have been in serious trouble. The last thing I wanted was to let her down. This was a chance to regain not only some stability but actually do something worthwhile. How many chances to work with people possessed of magical abilities can you really expect after all?
“Well, Dora, of the People of the Moon,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile, “You’ve got yourself a deal.” We shook on it.
I spent the next few days wandering through the hollow, revisiting places and events that I could suddenly remember with crystal clarity. The mountain spring that fed our babbling branch was surrounded by colored plants and twinkling lights that were never as clear. The shaded thickets of laurels were filled with the rustling of busy hands and the subtle racket of mysterious labors.
I became familiar again with a routine of daily chores assisted by nearly invisible helpers. Every labor was made easier by unseen hands, and often I could barely hear subtle sounds of singing and music bouncing around among the rocky, tree-covered hillsides.
Eventually, the day came for Granny to take a ride from the homestead and check out a more easily managed rental in town. As she traveled down the gravel road, I thought I glimpsed a few wide eyes peeking from the back of Granny’s trusty pickup.
Heaving a sigh, I climbed the wide stairs back into the little mountain house. “Dora! Let’s talk some more about what your people need.” I called out into the sudden silence.
“Dora isn’t here. She’s with your grandmother.”
Turning, I saw a shimmer, and a sturdy young child seemed to appear as if a door had opened and closed quickly.
“Greetings, Timothy Williams. Do you remember me?” asked the child.
“Juney? Is that you? You don’t seem to have aged a day since I was a boy!” I gasped in astonishment.
“Yes, it’s me.” He smiled. “Hello, Tim. My mother decided it was time for me to take a more active role while she oversees your grandmother’s move away from the hollow. Although it may not seem so, I have aged and grown. Time works differently for us than it does for you.”
“Can you explain more about what you need me to do?”
“One of the things your grandmother does for us is exchange small amounts of gold for cash.” We don’t need cash in our world, but we do need it in yours. In return, we make life easier for her, as I’m sure you’re beginning to notice.
“Why don’t you just exchange the cash yourself and then remove the gold dealer’s memory of it?” I asked. “Just like you did with me.”
Juney hesitated. “Memory changes are not something we take lightly, and we do it only when absolutely necessary. This is not necessary. Our families help each other instead. It works well.”
On the outside I smiled, but inside I was absolutely beaming. Gold was within my grasp!
Juney handed me a container, which looked like the tea canister I had dropped off earlier. He nodded at me and I opened it up. I could see tiny gold nuggets and flakes inside.
“Take this canister to Asheville. There is a dealer there who will exchange this for cash. Your grandmother knows him well. All he knows is that she sometimes finds gold in the mountains.”
“They never ask any questions?”
“No, not so far. She has a few different dealers she can go to, so we spread it around.”
“Ok,” I replied.” “What do I do with the money after I return?”
“Place it in this canister and put it under the apple trees in the meadow. We will pick it up.“
I was giddy. Money, free and clear, with no questions asked! “Ok, Juney,” I smiled. “How do I get the address of the dealer?”
“Your grandmother left it on the kitchen table,” he replied, handing it to me.
Suddenly, with visions of gold in my head, I had no time to catch up with old friends and was soon on the way to Asheville.
The exchange was fairly easy. I mentioned my grandmother and it went off without a hitch. The container held 4 ounces of gold. At $1900 per ounce. I walked out of there $6,500 richer, after paying the exchange fee. I headed toward home, but as I glided past the exit, I realized I was never going there. There was a casino a few short miles away in Cherokee. And that’s where I was headed. I’d make a nice profit and then return the $6500 to Dora and Juney. What an easy life I was going to have!
The light coming through the cabin windows was murky when I jolted awake. Something did not feel right, but I couldn’t place it. “Where are my glasses?” I mumbled as I stood up and fumbled for the bedroom light. Suddenly the mountain noises did not seem welcoming, and as I walked out of the bedroom, the house seemed very small.
ADDENDUM – Granny
Granny sat across the table from Dora, disappointment etched into her face “He lost it all?”
Dora nodded. “He headed straight to the casino and lost it in a flash.”
“What will happen to him?” Granny asked, wiping away a tear.
“His memories of my people are gone. He won’t remember the gold or anything about our agreement. He will suddenly feel an urge to get a fresh start in a new city.”
Granny sighed. “I’m so disappointed. I really wanted him to be the one. If only he knew the treasures he just gave up in exchange for a few thousand dollars.”
Dora reached across and gripped Granny’s hand briefly. “We are not angry at him. That’s why we do this test. He just isn’t the right person to continue the covenant between our families. Of course, if he had proved trustworthy, he would have found riches beyond anything he ever dreamed. ”
She smiled reassuringly. “I’m sending Juney along with him to the city for a while, but Tim won’t ever see him. Juney will nudge Tim in the right direction, without his knowing it. Tim will have a nice life, but not a magical one.” She nodded firmly and patted Granny’s hand. “We will find the right person, I promise. Our families have always supported each other, and one of your grandchildren will be the one.”
“I have a lot of grandchildren,” Granny replied. “Looks like my move is delayed for a little while.” She pushed aside her disappointment and took a sip of coffee. “Who should we invite next?”
AUTHORS’ NOTE: This folklore is based on many legends from across the world about magical little people. It also is combined with the Cherokee legend of the Moon Eyed People, who were rumored to have been small, nocturnal people with white faces and round eyes who lived underground and couldn’t come out in sunlight. In Cherokee legend, the Cherokee drove them out. In our version, they were never driven out. They are magical beings who go places on this Earth that regular humans beings cannot go, and they use their magic to travel back and forth from their home to ours. In our version, the term “Moon-eyed people” refers to their magic, which comes from their eyes, and they are not nocturnal. The 2 a.m. meeting was a nod to the nocturnal legend, however.
Many thanks to Gail Meath, who has edited all three of our stories!
You must be logged in to post a comment.