Excerpt: The Secret Life of Mrs. London by Rebecca Rosenberg

Today I am happy to share an excerpt from The Secret Life of Mrs. London by Rebecca Rosenberg (clicking on title will take you to my review)

 Beauty ranCh, Glen ellen, California SeptemBer 1915

For her I accomplished Odysseys, scaled mountains, crossed deserts; for her I led the hunt and was forward in battle; and for her and to her I sang my songs of the things I had done. All ecstasies of life and rhapsodies of delight have been mine because of her. And here, at the end, I can say that I have known no sweeter, deeper madness of being than to drown in the fragrant glory and forgetfulness of her hair.

                                                —Jack London, The Star Rover

 Nothing breathes vigor into a marriage like a boxing match. And it helps to have a stupefied audience to witness the fight. If I can get Jack boxing this morning, with his drinking buddies cheering him on, he’ll be revved up for a good writing session followed by a “grand lolly” that will linger in our loins for days. So I pull on muslin bloomers and leather boxing boots from my wardrobe, twist my hair into a topknot, daub on lavender oil for luck. Our fox terrier raises his head from my bed, ears perked. I stroke his chest and lift him down, his little heart beating in my palm. “Come on, Possum, he can’t say no to you.”

 Slinging boy-sized boxing gloves over my neck, I cross the hallway to Jack’s own sleeping porch, where he sleeps it off after our houseguests plied him with martinis at the Glen Ellen saloon until the wee hours. Possum romps at my heels. Jack still reeks of gin, and his snoring drowns out the jeering blue jays.

“Rise and shine.” I whisk off the plaid blanket, exposing fine muscled legs in red flannel shorts.

Jack’s not moving. So I lift Possum up and let him lick Jack’s face. “Time for our match.”

“Charmian, no. It can’t be morning.” He pulls a feather pillow over his head, and Possum nuzzles underneath.

 “Oh, but it is.” I throw the pillow to the floor, and Possum laps at his cheeks.

 “And a deal is a deal.” Jack groans and lifts up onto one elbow, holding the dog off with his other hand. “I can’t do this after last night.”

 “You can. I know you can.” I take Possum in my arms. Jack’s valet, Nakata, enters with a cup of coffee balanced on his upturned palm, dressed as usual in a haori jacket and skirted trousers. “Kishi kaisei, Mr. Jack.”

Jack sits up and takes the coffee. “My head’s too fuzzy for Japanese this morning.”

 Nakata smiles with teeth straight as piano keys. “Wake from death and return to life.”

Jack grimaces. “That supposed to make me feel better?” Nakata bows and leaves, Possum following him for breakfast. The Socialists criticize Jack for employing servants, but Nakata is essential to his well-being. He starts Jack’s day with platitudes and strong coffee, grants his wildest wishes, manages our household staff so we can focus on writing, and, in the evening, prepares Jack’s cot with philosophy books and farming journals, small and large writing pads, sharpened pencils, and a thermos of martinis (equal splashes of vermouth and olive juice). Together, Nakata and I handle Jack’s needs, and I pray he will never leave us.

I lace on Jack’s boxing boots while he slurps his coffee, his ankles swollen. Drinking always kicks up his gout. “I was kidding about the boxing,” he says. “A joke for the Crowd . . .” His nickname for the Bohemian-Socialist-literary folks who worship at his feet. Come to think of it, that’s exactly where I happen to be at the moment.

 “Oh no. You’re not getting away with it this time.” I knot his laces tighter. “‘Bring me the boxing gloves if I’m not up by eight,’ you said.

 ‘Best thing in the world for a hangover,’ you said. ‘We’ll do the drop-and-grind drill,’ you said.” Jack smirks. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

 “Come on, champ. Let’s give it a go. Our audience awaits.” I hoist his arm over my shoulders, staggering under the weight he’s gained of late.

He limps to the back door.

Nakata and some of the staff have gathered to watch on the back stoop between our separate sleeping porches, Jack’s remedy for my chronic insomnia and his late hours.

 In an apron and calico dress, Jack’s sister, Eliza, washes the windowpanes, doughy underarm flesh swinging with each swipe of her dish towel. “Boxing is no good for Jack.” She clucks her tongue at me. “Just brings out the poison in his system all over again.”

 “Better out than in,” I answer. Lawrence Godfrey-Smith, the Australian concert pianist turned eucalyptus broker, and George Sterling, poet king of the Bohemians, follow us out to the porch with coffee mugs.

“What’s all the ballyhoo?” Lawrence nudges me in the overfamiliar way he’s adopted since that time on the beach in Australia . . .

 I step down to the garden. “Don’t you remember Jack’s promise when you stumbled in last night? He wanted to box this morning to get his blood flowing for writing.”

“Who’s he going to wallop?”

I thrust up my gloved hand. “Me, of course.” Lawrence turns to Sterling. “Do all American couples fight?”

 “Of course,” Sterling says, stroking his goatee. “They just don’t usually wear gloves.”

 It’s nine o’clock already, and the sun just cleared the top of the redwoods, illuminating the garden like an arena. Our boots crush the creeping thyme, melding with the herbaceous smell of ripening chardonnay grapes.

 Jack bounces forward on his left foot, then weaves back, shifting his weight to the right, then back again. Red shorts hug his waist and skim his well-built thighs. He looks fitter than he is, from a past regimen of boxing, swimming, horseback riding. It’s not fair how men look better than us as they age. Not fair at all.

“Come on, pretty boy.” I hold my fists up in front of my face. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

“The legs of a Roman goddess.” Sterling whistles.

 “Mind your p’s and q’s, Greek,” Jack says. “Those are my wife’s gams you’re looking at.” He throws the first punch, which lands square to my glove.

 “I’m talking about your legs, Wolf.” Sterling combs long fingernails through his goatee, making my skin crawl. The disheveled poet could use a comb and nail scissors . . . and a bath, come to think of it.

Jack camps a pose and spins his white satin boxing sash around like Jack Johnson at the world championship.

 After I take a playful poke at his ribs to get his attention, suddenly he’s jumping around me like Possum dancing for a scrap of meat.

 For a while, Jack and I practice our drill, throwing rhythmic punches, gaining confidence and speed. We must look hilarious with Jack so much taller and broader and me, his “small woman,” holding my own.

“Hey, Wolf,” Lawrence says. “If you win, I’ll take a hundred dollars off your eucalyptus starts.”

Jack thumbs his nose in jest, though I know it eats at him to owe Lawrence for the seedlings, with no way to pay yet. Our Aussie friend convinced Jack eucalyptus would make him a fortune, but the seedlings have only added to our growing debt.

A mighty punch whizzes past me. Jack huffs and rolls his eyes. “You’ve got the advantage today, Mate-Woman. I have the willies.”

“Excuses, excuses.” I make a right jab at his chest, and he takes it, his shoulder swinging back. Abdomen, chest, or shoulders are fair game, but anything below Jack’s belt isn’t allowed— his kidneys and liver have taken all the abuse they can handle.

Eliza shoos the staff inside. “Don’t you people have work to do this morning? The ranch doesn’t run itself.” Her nostrils flare at me. “Though some folks seem to think so.”

 Nine years married to her brother, and Eliza still sees me as a nuisance to endure.

 “Stay in the match or I’ll knock your block off.” Jack takes a swipe. We go at it for another quarter hour. Jack’s chest swells out, his breath labors. I prance and punch to give him a fight, but not too much to tire him out or bruise his ego.

 Lawrence watches my antics with palpable pleasure, which Jack pretends not to notice. Now for the tricky part, how to end this thing. In an effort to go down fighting, I swing in the air, but my glove catches his jaw. I lose my footing and fall on the flagstones, hitting my tailbone with a searing pain. Lawrence runs and lifts me up. “Are you all right?” Jack asks, blood trickling from his mouth onto his chin.

“You won. You won, Wolf.” Sterling claps long hands together in mockery. “You beat the stuffing out of the little lady.”

 “Did I hurt you, Lady-Boy?” Jack holds his jaw, jiggles it side to side.

Breaking free of Lawrence’s grasp, I run to wipe the blood from Jack’s chin with my shirttail. “Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we have a novel to write.” Jack’s golden rule: write a thousand words a day. And my job is to keep him to it.

I take Jack’s hand and pull him up the steps, feeling Lawrence’s eyes on my backside, tingling despite my good intentions. Damn eucalyptus. Damn blue-eyed, blond Aussies.

 “I feel like a new man.” Jack pats my rear and makes me jump. “You know just what I need, don’t you, Mate?”

“What you need is a shower.” I hold open the screen door. “After we finish the story, we’ll figure out what else you need.”

Interview: Author Aimie K. Runyan

I am thrilled to have Aimie K. Runyan here at JustOneMoreChapter today.  I've read all 3 of her books and look forward to many more.  Be sure to scroll down to the bottom for links to her social media sites and links to my reviews.

Aimie, I am going to regress a little here and go back to your series, Daughters of New France. This Canadian is always on the lookout for HF taking place in Canada and any books I have found were usually written by a Canadian. You aren’t Canadian, what made you pick this story to write about?

I am actually French-Canadian by ancestry on my dad’s side, and learned (after writing my Master’s thesis on these remarkable female pioneers) that I’m descended from more than a dozen filles du roi. Apparently blood won out! I first learned about these women when I was working on my MA in French at Indiana University. I was taking a course on Canadian Civ, and the professor spent perhaps a quarter of an hour discussing female emigration to New France. I was also taking a creative writing course for fun, and was immediately struck that these women deserved to be known. I wrote a short story from the POV of the character that would become Nicole, and a decade later, decided to finish the book!

With Daughters of the Night Sky you take the big leap to Russia during World War 2, again what drove you in that direction?

Practicality, in many respects. And persistent friends. I knew I needed to choose a marketable era (like WWII) for a few projects to gain the readership I’d need to have success selling books that take place in lesser-known times and places. Several friends sent me articles about the Night Witches when I was idea-hunting, and I was captivated by their bravery. Once I started writing the synopsis, it was a concept that wouldn’t let go.

Did you get a chance to visit the areas you wrote about?

Sadly, no. A trip to Russia wasn’t in the budget. I have been to Germany and France, which was helpful for the last few chapters.

So  how did you go about a getting a feel for that era.

I *have* been to Alaska, which shares a lot with Russia in terms of climate and geography, so that was very useful for descriptions. I relied a lot on personal narratives from the Night Witches, and also had the chance to fly in an open-cockpit WWII-era biplane. That was the highlight of my research for sure!

What is one thing you hope readers will take away from this story?

Wars are not fought exclusively by men. There have been thousands of women in the last century who answered their countries’ calls for aid in their hour of need, and who did so without reservation. They gave their lives freely to protect their families and their freedoms. And while the men who fought were also heroes, not all can say they volunteered their service as freely as every single woman who took up arms for her country.

What can you readers look forward to in the future?

 I’ve just turned in Girls on the Line, which is a story of the American telephone operators who served in France during the Great War. This book was absolutely a love affair of mine, and I can’t wait for you all to read it in early November, just in time for the 100th anniversary of the armistice!

Aimie when this interview posts you will be in the sunny south, care to share what books you are packing?

Quite a few! I’m taking early review copies of Carousel Beach by Orly Konig, In Praise of Difficult Women by Karen Karbo, The Optimists Guide to Letting Go by Amy E. Reichert, and a whole Kindle-full of books I’ve been wanting to read for ages!!!

Daughters of the Night Sky

Paperback, 316 pages 

Published January 1st 2018 

by Lake Union Publishing

 A novel—inspired by the most celebrated regiment in the Red Army—about a woman’s sacrifice, courage, and love in a time of war.

Russia, 1941. Katya Ivanova is a young pilot in a far-flung military academy in the Ural Mountains. From childhood, she’s dreamed of taking to the skies to escape her bleak mountain life. With the Nazis on the march across Europe, she is called on to use her wings to serve her country in its darkest hour. Not even the entreaties of her new husband—a sensitive artist who fears for her safety—can dissuade her from doing her part as a proud daughter of Russia.

After years of arduous training, Katya is assigned to the 588th Night Bomber Regiment—one of the only Soviet air units comprised entirely of women. The Germans quickly learn to fear nocturnal raids by the daring fliers they call “Night Witches.” But the brutal campaign will exact a bitter toll on Katya and her sisters-in-arms. When the smoke of war clears, nothing will ever be the same—and one of Russia’s most decorated military heroines will face the most agonizing choice of all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aimie K. Runyan writes to celebrate history’s unsung heroines. She is the author of two previous historical novels: Promised to the Crown and Duty to the Crown, and hard at work on novel #4.

She is active as an educator and a speaker in the writing community and beyond.

She lives in Colorado with her wonderful husband and two (usually) adorable children.

To learn more about Aimie and her work, please visit her www.aimiekrunyan.com

Social Media links:  Website   Facebook  Twitter

                            click on covers to take you to my review of these wonderful books

Excerpt: Two Journeys Home by Kevin O'Connell

It’s 1767. As the eagerly anticipated sequel to Beyond Derrynane begins, Eileen O’Connell avails herself of a fortuitous opportunity to travel back to Ireland. In Two Journeys Home, the O’Connells encounter old faces and new—and their lives change forever.

Her vivacious personality matched only by her arresting physical presence, Eileen returns to Derrynane this time not as a teen aged widow but as one of the most recognised figures at the Habsburg court. Before returning to Vienna she experiences a whirlwind romance, leading to a tumult of betrayal and conflict with the O’Connell clan.

Abigail lives not in the shadow of her sister but instead becomes the principal lady-in-waiting to Empress Maria Theresa.

Hugh O’Connell leaves behind waning adolescence and a fleeting attraction to the youngest archduchess when he begins a military career in the Irish Brigade under Louis XV. But more royal entanglement awaits him in France…

Author Kevin O’Connell again deftly weaves threads of historical fact and fancy to create a colourful tapestry affording unique insights into the courts of eighteenth-century Catholic Europe and Protestant Ascendancy–ruled Ireland. Watch as the saga continues to unfold amongst the O’Connell’s, their friends and enemies, at home and abroad.

Excerpt:

Having served at the court of the Empress Maria Theresa for almost six years, Eileen O’Connell has returned to her family’s home at Derrynane in County Kerry, Ireland for a brief visit. Though she had last departed the O’Connells’ sanctuary as a teenage widow, she returns as one of the most recognised figures at the glittering Habsburg court. During the course of her stay, she has journeyed with her twin sister, Mary, her physician husband and children, to the Baldwins’ home in County Cork.  The sisters have not been close, their differences highlighted by that Eileen is very tall, with a mane of coal-black hair, whilst Mary is of moderate height, blond and fair:

Having seen the children upstairs, Mary joined her sister in the smaller

family parlour for brandy. Eileen had already poured their drinks into two

intricately cut Irish crystal glasses and toasted her twin’s health, even as Mary was

sitting down. Both drank deeply, their cheeks immediately flushing.

Relaxed, Eileen planned on chatting informally, very much hoping to

continue their previously begun discussion about their very different

lives; she was just beginning to tell Mary about using their own not

always easy relationship growing up as a teaching device with her

archduchesses: “. . . and ’twas then that I said to Antoine—you will recall

that she is the littler one—that . . .”

“Eileen,” Mary interrupted sharply, “because you have mentioned

this, I have desired to discuss with you . . . I know not how I might best

perhaps phrase it . . . the direction of your life, perhaps?”

Surprised at her sister’s assertiveness, though instantly intrigued by

the topic, Eileen sat back, cradling her snifter in her hands, inhaling the

fine French brandy’s rich aroma, saying nothing as Mary continued, her

tone suddenly chill, sharp even.

“Is not Abigail well wed? Does she not occupy a position of great

honour and prominence at the court?” she queried; somewhat archly, Eileen

thought, though she remained silent, reflecting even as her sister was still

speaking.

Before Eileen could respond, Mary continued. “In contrast to our

dear sister’s exalted position, do you not in fact remain a servant, in effect

a nursemaid even to these little princesses . . . or duchesses is it, rather? I

mean you wait on them, do you not?”

“Archduchesses,” Eileen corrected sharply, reflexively defensive.

“Expressed correctly, they are each Her Imperial Highness, an archduchess of

Austria and Lorraine,” she said loftily, firmly adding, “and, indeed, I most

definitely do not wait upon anyone; whether I dine with the

archduchesses, with others . . . or alone, it is I who am waited upon,” she

purred.

“Oh . . . yes . . . very well, I stand corrected then,” Mary managed,

charging on, “but this does not alter your position, does it? You are still a

servant, are you not?” she said again, not pausing for any reply. “What I

am attempting to say, Eileen, is,” she sighed, with seeming exasperation,

“when might it be that you will aspire to a good marriage and a position

worthy of your talents . . . indeed, one which will, as does Abby’s, do

honour to our family, to your heritage?”

Eileen, as she rarely ever did, sat speechless, her lips parted, her

cheeks flaming, as Mary went on. “Indeed, is not my own position—well

wed to a prominent physician, mistress of his home, mother of his

children—is it not far, far superior to your own?” she asked, then took

another deep draught of her brandy.

“Sister,” Eileen began softly, “I am not certain you fully understand

my role within the Imperial household. Yes, I have cared for both these

girls, now becoming young women, since they were wee little ones. I

have been their teacher and companion, riding mistress, friend . . .

indeed, ’tis quite fair to say that I am perhaps closer to them than is their

own mother, Her Imperial Majesty.”

Deciding against mentioning that when they were alone, Antoine

now regularly addressed her as “Mama,” as Mary sighed audibly, Eileen

tacked deftly, her tone even. “What you must be aware of is that both

these young girls shall eventually, by virtue of their marriages, ascend

thrones of Europe—one of them perhaps that of France, even. You

must also appreciate, sister, that ’tis I, amongst others—a priest, several

nobles, diplomats—who have spent these years preparing them for these

positions and all that they will entail.”

Eileen noted Mary’s expression change abruptly, her sudden albeit

reluctant deference now obvious.

Eileen should have left the topic at that point; instead, her ego getting

the best of her, she tacked yet again, this time less adroitly. “To be fair—

and though I admit the importance of any of this is perhaps insignificant

to you—you must understand I have, by the grace and favour of the

empress of course, three apartments”—the back of her hand facing her

sister, she held up her right pinkie, fourth and middle fingers for

emphasis—“in three palaces, I have servants” —she exaggerated—“by

virtue of my position, I receive deferential curtseys and bows from my

inferiors—of whom there are many, I view operas and concerts from the

same seats as are occupied by the Imperial family, Bull is stabled with the

horses belonging to the empress and their Imperial highnesses, I dine and

dance with . . . ” Seeing Mary’s eyes roll, Eileen’s voice trailed off, and

she then cleared her throat. “So, you see, sister, ’tis far from being a mere

servant that I am . . . I believe you would agree, were you to come to

Vienna and . . .”

“As I shall never do so, nor would I particularly care to do so . . . I . . .

I shall accept your word as to all that of which you speak,” Mary said, her

now-impatient tone accompanied by a flat gesture of her free hand.

“Though I nevertheless do again strongly urge you, Eileen, to consider

your future . . . After all, you are aging rapidly now, my dear, and a widow

you remain. People will come to believe that . . .” She waved her left

hand dismissively, then bending, she poured more brandy for them, as

Eileen pointedly changed the topic of the conversation.

After retiring, Eileen sat up in her bed in the flickering light of a

single candle. Widow, nursemaid, servant, husband, children . . . children,

husband—the words and their meanings spun in her mind; reflecting, she

thought, though she is lacking in any number of ways, Mary is not a stupid woman.

Eileen reflected further after she had blown out the candle, settling back

on her pillows, lying in the silent dark, recalling now her mother’s recent

counsel about considering marriage and children, as well, Perhaps I should

reflect . . . indeed, yes, I shall consider . . . I must . . . perhaps even soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kevin O’Connell is a native of New York City and the descendant of a young officer of what had—from 1690 to 1792—been the Irish Brigade of the French Army, believed to have arrived in French Canada following the execution of Queen Marie Antoinette in October of 1793. He holds both Irish and American citizenship.

An international business attorney, Mr. O’Connell is an alumnus of Providence College and Georgetown University Law Centre.

A lifelong personal and scholarly interest in the history of eighteenth-century Ireland, as well as that of his extended family, led O’Connell to create his first book, Beyond Derrynane, which will, together with Two Journeys Home and the two books to follow, comprise the Derrynane Saga.

The father of five children and grandfather of ten, he and his wife, Laurette, live with their golden retriever, Katie, near Annapolis, Maryland.

Links: 

  Author Website | Facebook Page | 

Amazon Profile Page Buy the book

click on the banner to see more stops on this tour

O’Connell is a fantastic storyteller. His prose is so rich and beautiful it is a joy to read. The story is compelling and the characters memorable – all the more so because they are based on real people. . . I am Irish but I did not know about this piece of Irish history. It is fascinating but historical fiction at the same time . . . Highly recommended for historical fiction lovers!

(c) Beth Nolan, Beth’s Book Nook

I enjoyed the first part of the Saga awhile back . . . (and) couldn’t wait to continue the story of Eileen and her family . . . this author really does have a way with words. The world and the characters are so vivid . . . Overall, I was hooked from page one. I honestly think that (Two Journeys Home) was better than (Beyond Derrynane) – which is rare. The characters and world-building was done in such a beautiful manner . . . I can’t wait for the next one . . .

 (c) Carole Rae, Carole’s Sunday Review, Book Girl of Mur-y-Castell

Two Journeys Home: A Novel of Eighteenth Century Europe . . . is a gripping story that will transport the reader back in time, a story with a strong setting and compelling characters . . . a sensational romance, betrayal, family drama and intrigue . . . The plot is so complex that I find it hard to offer a summary in a few lines, but it is intriguing and it holds many surprises . . . great writing. Kevin O’Connell’s prose is crisp and highly descriptive. I was delighted (by) . . . how he builds the setting, offering . . . powerful images of places, exploring cultural traits and unveiling the political climate of the time . . . The conflict is (as well-developed as the characters) and it is a powerful ingredient that moves the plot forward . . . an absorbing and intelligently-crafted historical novel . . . .

(c) Divine Zapa for Readers’ Favourite