Welcoming Liz Harris and her book - Darjeeling Inheritance - to my blog

Today I'm welcoming Liz Harris and her book - Darjeeling Inheritance - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde)

I'm delighted to share an excerpt with you all but first I will introduce the book.

Darjeeling Inheritance

Darjeeling, 1930

After eleven years in school in England, Charlotte Lawrence returns to Sundar, the tea plantation owned by her family, and finds an empty house. She learns that her beloved father died a couple of days earlier and that he left her his estate. She learns also that it was his wish that she marry Andrew McAllister, the good-looking younger son from a neighbouring plantation. 

Unwilling to commit to a wedding for which she doesn’t feel ready, Charlotte pleads with Dan Fitzgerald, the assistant manager of Sundar, to teach her how to run the plantation while she gets to know Andrew. Although reluctant as he knew that a woman would never be accepted as manager by the local merchants and workers, Dan agrees.

Charlotte’s chaperone on the journey from England, Ada Eastman, who during the long voyage, has become a friend, has journeyed to Darjeeling to marry Harry Banning, the owner of a neighbouring tea garden.

When Ada marries Harry, she’s determined to be a loyal and faithful wife. And to be a good friend to Charlotte. And nothing, but nothing, was going to stand in the way of that.

Publication Date: 1^st October 2021

Publisher: Heywood Press

Page Length: 365 pages

Genre: Historical Romance 

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Darjeeling-Inheritance-Colonials-Liz-Harris-ebook/dp/B0938Y6XVS

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Darjeeling-Inheritance-Colonials-Liz-Harris-ebook/dp/B0938Y6XVS

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Darjeeling-Inheritance-Colonials-Liz-Harris-ebook/dp/B0938Y6XVS

Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/Darjeeling-Inheritance-Colonials-Liz-Harris-ebook/dp/B0938Y6XVS

Now for the excerpt - 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ada lay still in her bed beneath the mosquito net and listened to the muffled sound of the conversation below.

Charlotte and Mrs Lawrence had been talking downstairs for some time, their voices raised occasionally in sharpness. She hadn’t been able to discern any words, but it wasn’t difficult to guess the subject of the conversation—Mrs Lawrence wanted to go back to England as soon as possible, and Charlotte, in a state of insanity borne out of grief, was determined to learn about estate management before she got married.

But whatever either said, the reality was that Winifred would have to remain at Sundar until Charlotte came to her senses.

Finally, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, first Winifred’s slower steps, and then Charlotte’s lighter tread, and then she heard their doors close.

Silence fell upon the house.

She turned restlessly on to her side. If only she could lose herself in sleep!

She’d been longing to do so since the moment she’d come to bed, but sleep had eluded her—frustratingly so, as she’d wanted to dazzle them all at her wedding.

Winifred Lawrence and Charlotte weren’t the only people on the brink of change—she, too, was. In the morning, she’d be casting aside the last vestige of her past life and taking on the role that she’d had the greatest good fortune to be given, and she wanted to look her very best on the first day of that new life.

Although, perhaps in a way, her new life had begun the moment she’d been introduced to Charlotte on the platform and they’d boarded the train for Southampton together, the arrangements for her to chaperone Charlotte back to India having been made in advance by Harry and Charles.

As she’d sat in the train across from Charlotte, she’d inwardly resolved that despite their slight difference in years, and the obvious naïvety of Charlotte, she’d make sure that they became good friends. And she’d promptly buried the old Ada Eastman and become the woman who was travelling to India to marry Harry Banning.

A woman without a past.

From the moment she’d accepted Harry’s written proposal, she’d sworn to herself that she’d never again let herself think back to the sheer exhilaration of being with George Kendall, and to the passion she’d felt for him, a passion she’d had no right to feel, being in a position of trust as governess to his daughter, Julia, and sitting down daily with George and his whey-faced wife.

She turned on to her back and stared up at the mosquito net. Who’d have thought that the governess job she’d been so unwilling to do would have opened the door to so much unexpected pleasure?

Becoming a governess had been the only suitable position she could undertake, given her circumstances. Although her father had been a High Sheriff, her family had little money, and with a dearth of prospective husbands in the small town in which they lived, she’d been obliged to seek paid employment.

Being respectable and educated, she’d been hired as a governess by a local family who lived in a nearby hamlet, but she’d found it so stifling to be in so small a community, with virtually no hope of meeting any eligible men, that when the opportunity to move to London and take up the post of governess to George’s daughter had presented itself, she’d jumped at it.

She’d never forget the day she first saw George.

Upon arriving at the house, she’d been ushered into the front hall by the housekeeper just as George had been coming down the stairs. While the housekeeper had been telling him her name and that she’d been appointed by his wife, she’d stood beside her travel bag, her eyes cast down with a modesty appropriate for a governess. When the housekeeper had finished talking, a rush of air told her that he’d turned towards her, and she’d sensed his gaze run down the length of her body.

Unable to resist seeing what he looked like, she’d glanced quickly up at his face, and had almost gasped out loud—he was quite the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

Tall and lean, he had glossy black hair that was longer at the sides than was commonly worn. A lock of hair had fallen across his high forehead, giving him a somewhat rakish look. And his eyes! From beneath dark brows, his ice-blue eyes burned into her face, the initial curiosity in them giving way to open desire.

She’d felt a strong sensation deep in her stomach.

The sound of a woman’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs had broken the mood of the moment, and she’d quickly returned her gaze to the pine floorboards, her heart still beating fast. George had said a hasty goodbye to his wife and left the house, his musky scent clinging to the air in his wake.

From that day on, she seemed to be forever meeting him in the corridors, in the hall, on the stairs, at dinner, and with each passing day, her hunger grew for what his every glance promised.

By the time the longed-for day arrived that she and George were completely alone in the house, they’d stood facing each other across the bedroom. An expectant silence weighted the air between them. And then, at the same instant, they’d fallen into each other’s arms and given in to a passion that overwhelmed them and left them gasping for breath.

In the weeks that had followed, she’d willingly yielded to that passion again and again—she, who’d read countless novels in which a young woman had fallen into destitution after her married lover, despite his many declarations of undying love, had rejected her upon the discovery of their illicit affair.

Within her head, she’d known the risk she was taking. But in her heart, she’d been firmly convinced that the intensity of their love was so great that neither would ever be able to part from the other, and she’d eagerly welcomed his attentions at every possible opportunity, longing for the day when they could be together forever.

Those weeks with George had been the most thrilling, most exciting weeks of her life. For every single minute of every single intoxicating day she’d felt nerve-tinglingly alive.

Until that terrible morning.

Liz Harris

Born in London, Liz Harris graduated from university with a Law degree, and then moved to California, where she led a varied life, from waitressing on Sunset Strip to working as secretary to the CEO of a large Japanese trading company.

Six years later, she returned to London and completed a degree in English, after which she taught secondary school pupils, first in Berkshire, and then in Cheshire.

In addition to the ten novels she’s had published, she’s had several short stories in anthologies and magazines.

Liz now lives in Oxfordshire. An active member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Historical Novel Society, her interests are travel, the theatre, reading and cryptic crosswords. To find out more about Liz, visit her website at: www.lizharrisauthor.com 

You can connect with Liz Harris via these platforms -

Website: www.lizharrisauthor.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/lizharrisauthor

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lizharrisauthor

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/liz-harris-b866341a/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/liz.harris.52206/?hl=en

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Liz-Harris/e/B009V1G8UA

You can also learn more about the book and the author by visiting the other blogs on the blog tour.

https://www.coffeepotbookclub.com/post/blog-tour-darjeeling-inheritance-the-colonials-by-liz-harris-lizharrisauthor

 

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe

 

 

 

Welcoming M C Bunn and her book -Where Your Treasure -to my blog

 Today I'm welcoming M C Bunn and her book -Where Your Treasure Is - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde)

I'm delighted to share an excerpt with you all but first I will introduce the book.

Where Your Treasure Is

Feisty, independent heiress Winifred de la Coeur has never wanted to live according to someone else’s rules—but even she didn’t plan on falling in love with a bank robber.

 Winifred is a wealthy, nontraditional beauty who bridles against the strict rules and conventions of Victorian London society. When she gets caught up in the chaos of a bungled bank robbery, she is thrust unwillingly into an encounter with Court Furor, a reluctant getaway driver and prizefighter. In the bitter cold of a bleak London winter, sparks fly.

 Winifred and Court are two misfits in their own circumscribed worlds—the fashionable beau monde with its rigorously upheld rules, and the gritty demimonde, where survival often means life-or-death choices.

Despite their conflicting backgrounds, they fall desperately in love while acknowledging the impossibility of remaining together. Returning to their own worlds, they try to make peace with their lives until a moment of unrestrained honesty and defiance threatens to topple the deceptions that they have carefully constructed to protect each other.

A story of the overlapping entanglements of Victorian London’s social classes, the strength of family bonds and true friendship, and the power of love to heal a broken spirit.

You can purchase a copy via -

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/m0K2DP

 Now for the excerpt -

With a howl, the man flung the wash jug against the wall.

Winifred stopped crying. A mess of cheap, broken china scattered the floor. Water dribbled down the wall.

The man clutched the washstand, his head bowed. “I wanted to wear you out, so’s I could get some rest. You’re so pig-’eaded! I wasn’t goin’ to ’urt you. Couldn’t you see that?”

“No,” she answered in a small voice. “You’re too rough.”

The man nodded and offered a rag from the basin. She shook her head.

“I don’t mean to be. I likes softness. I wants it, but it’s roughness I’m used to.”

Winifred considered what “softness” might mean to him. “Well, it’s not the way I’m used to being treated.”

Court heard the quiet defiance and liked her for it. She refused to be broken. He felt in his pocket for his neckerchief and dipped it in the basin. “Your face, let me see what I done.”

“No, don’t!” Her voice wavered.

Court knelt, holding out both his hands. He edged forward very slowly, coming at her from the side. She pressed as far back as possible into the corner and lifted her chin, grimacing and eyeing him with equal caution. Suddenly, he had her.

“Let me see,” he said in his low, gruff voice.

“Oh, that stings!” Wincing, she tried to push away his hand. He ignored this. His touch was assured, his tone dry and matter-of-fact. He moved her jaw and asked questions. No, her teeth felt fine. Yes, her head ached. No, she wouldn’t be sick again. Except for her bruises, especially those on her wrists, she didn’t hurt. “You talk like old Dr. Frost.”

“I’ve been in lots o’ fights, so I’ve met a few ’o calls themselves doctors.”

The backs of his hands were like leather, the knuckles scarred like his face. “You really are a prizefighter, aren’t you?”

He sat on the mattress and leaned against the wall, resting his arms on his drawn-up knees. Like her, he seemed weary, even unhappy. How cold the room was!

He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Don’t no one tease you at ’ome?”

She frowned and folded her hands. “Not like that. He’s a gentleman.”

Court felt this was a fair shot. It was her right to remind him of his place. But with her finally quiet, he felt like a stand-in actor who’d lost his script. They would be together for hours, maybe all night, for it still sleeted heavily. He raked his wounded hand through his hair, then examined the bite marks. Had she wanted a cab for hire, he would have known how to act, what to say. Avert eyes, bow head, and await commands. “Yes ma’am,” “no ma’am.” A few coins later, the shreds of his dignity intact, he could’ve driven away with a tale to tell Sam and Seamus at the Boar and Hart about his brush with a grand lady. How strange, her being there with him at all. A fairy queen in her gorgeous emerald gown. It was like a story from the Arabian Nights.

“What about you?” she whispered.

Court was startled. “Me? No, there’s nobody.”

Winifred felt unaccountably embarrassed. Why had she asked him such a personal question? “I only meant it’s getting late. What would happen if you let me go? Would Geoff be very angry?” The man’s rueful laugh indicated her question’s absurdity.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere in this weather. I’m knackered. Me legs is blocks o’ ice. Try to sleep.” He pulled up the blanket and closed his eyes. Soon he breathed deeply, his face hidden on his arms.

Winifred drew the other blanket around her and huddled inside her cloak. Long minutes passed. A draft blew through the rough floorboards. Wind rattled the window panes and jiggled the door. To keep awake, she examined the room again. A shaving kit lay on the washstand. Perhaps it held a straight-edge. If she moved the washstand and climbed onto it, she might be able to dislodge the nail. Then what? Soon, it would be dark. They were south of Saint Paul’s and the Thames, and miles from Hampstead. Her pocket was full of jewels and her purse was full of money. She would be on her own. Cautiously, Winifred withdrew her arms from her cloak. When the man did not move, she pulled off her corset and stuffed it under the mattress. If she had to run, at least she’d be able to breathe.

The man’s shoulders rose and fell with his deep, even breaths. Though he was dirty, he did not smell worse than any man who’d worked hard outdoors. It was only sweat, and horse. Even the blankets weren’t so bad, only stale. Like him, she was dead tired; but she dared not sleep. Her mind roared. The words he’d shouted as he tore about the room like a penned-up animal; the fury with which he’d smashed the jug; the way his shoulders sagged as he clung to the washstand.

When she first saw him at the bank, he reminded her of Morrant. What if her friend had been in this man’s place, or was one of the men in the soup kitchens where she’d served in the East End, or a brickmaker back home? But this wasn’t Morrant. It was one of London’s poor millions. How strange that out of that human tide, this one soul and hers had been swept together. She took off her cloak and tapped his arm.

Court sat up. “What? ’Ere, don’t cry! Geoff won’t be back for ages.”

She wiped her cheeks and held out her cloak. “I’m not! It’s the cold. Here, take half.”

Court was surprised, not to mention grateful. He felt in his pocket for his neckerchief. “You’re not afraid o’ much, are you? Too spoiled or too stupid, I’ll be bound. Not many could’ve stood up to Geoff in that alley. And you gave me ’ell!” He smiled and touched the tip of her nose with the wet cloth, and she gave the smallest smile in return. “There now, that’s better.”

The woman raised her eyes. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?” she whispered.

Court dabbed gently at the bright welt. He almost wished he had never seen those eyes—almost, but not quite. “I can’t.”

M C Bunn

M. C. Bunn grew up in a house full of books, history, and music. “Daddy was a master storyteller. The past was another world, but one that seemed familiar because of him. He read aloud at the table, classics or whatever historical subject interested him. His idea of bedtime stories were passages from Dickens, Twain, and Stevenson. Mama told me I could write whatever I wanted. She put a dictionary in my hands and let me use her typewriter, or watch I, Claudius and Shoulder to Shoulder when they first aired on Masterpiece Theatre. She was the realist. He was the romantic. They were a great team.”

Where Your Treasure Is, a novel set in late-Victorian London and Norfolk, came together after the sudden death of the author’s father. “I’d been teaching high school English for over a decade and had spent the summer cleaning my parents’ house and their offices. It was August, time for classes to begin. The characters emerged out of nowhere, sort of like they knew I needed them. They took over.”

She had worked on a novella as part of her master’s degree in English years before but set it aside, along with many other stories. “I was also writing songs for the band I’m in and had done a libretto for a sacred piece. All of that was completely different from Where Your Treasure Is. Before her health declined, my mother heard Treasure’s first draft and encouraged me to return to prose. The novel is a nod to all the wonderful books my father read to us, the old movies we stayed up to watch, a thank you to my parents, especially Mama for reminding me that nothing is wasted. Dreams don’t have to die. Neither does love.”

When M. C. Bunn is not writing, she’s researching or reading. Her idea of a well-appointed room includes multiple bookshelves, a full pot of coffee, and a place to lie down with a big, old book. To further feed her soul, she and her husband take long walks with their dog, Emeril in North Carolina’s woods, or she makes music with friends.

“I try to remember to look up at the sky and take some time each day to be thankful.”

You can connect with the author via these platforms -

Website: https://www.mcbunn.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MCBunn3

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mcbauthor/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mcbunnauthor/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/bunn6220/_saved/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/m-c-bunn?list=about

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B08W9PN6NV

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21256508.M_C_Bunn

You can find out more about the author and the book by visiting the other blogs on this tour.

https://www.coffeepotbookclub.com/post/blog-tour-where-your-treasure-is-by-m-c-bunn-july-26th-september-27th-2021

 That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe

 

 

Welcoming Siobhan Daiko and her book - The Girl From Venice - to my blog

 

Today I'm welcoming Siobhan Daiko and her book - The Girl From Venice - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde)

I am delighted to share a review with you all but first I will introduce the book.

The Girl From Venice

Lidia De Angelis has kept a low profile since Mussolini's racial laws wrenched her from her childhood sweetheart. But when the Germans occupy Venice in 1943, she must flee the city to save her life.

Lidia joins the partisans in the Venetian mountains, where she meets David, an English soldier fighting for the same cause. As she grows closer to him, harsh Nazi reprisals and Lidia’s own ardent anti-fascist activities threaten to tear them apart.

Decades later in London, while sorting through her grandmother’s belongings after her death, Charlotte discovers a Jewish prayer book, unopened letters written in Italian, and a fading photograph of a group of young people in front of the Doge’s Palace.

Intrigued by her grandmother’s refusal to talk about her life in Italy before and during the war, Charlotte travels to Venice in search of her roots. There, she learns not only the devastating truth about her grandmother’s past, but also some surprising truths about herself.

A heart-breaking page-turner, based on actual events in Italy during World War II

Trigger Warnings:

Death

Miscarriage

PTSD

Rape

Publication Date: 29^th June 2021

Publisher: ASOLANDO BOOKS

Page Length: 300 Pages

Genre: Romantic Historical/Women’s Fiction

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3uWpgut

Amazon US: https://amzn.to/33PXR1e

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/3bzJ3In

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2SPVWaE

The book is also available on Kindle Unlimited.

Now for the review -

This was not a good time to be a Jew. Lidia De Angelis wants to be a doctor like her father, but the rise in antisemitism and the values of the Nazi Party means that she can no longer attend university. When the Nazis crossed into their country and the Jewish inhabitants of Venice began to leave in their droves, Lidia wants to leave as well, but her father flatly refuses to leave. Lidia has no choice but to stay with him. What happens next is a story about one woman's desperate courage in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

The Girl from Venice is the kind of book that really gets under your skin. It makes you stop and think about how truly awful it must have been to be living under foreign occupation, even more so if you were a Jew.

Siobhan Daiko has decided to tell the story of Lidia through two very different, but very compelling narratives. The first narrative is that of Lidia the second is with her granddaughter, Charlotte. They are both from very different times, but both characters are exceedingly likeable and their stories are desperately moving, so be sure to have some tissues at hand because you are going to need them! I enjoyed following Charlotte as she discovers the truth about her late grandmother's life. Likewise, I thought Lidia's story was really gripping and very insightful.

This is one of those books that will keep you up reading well into the night. I can honestly say that it was brilliant from start to finish. This is certainly a book I can see myself coming back to over and over again.

 Siobhan Daiko

Siobhan Daiko is an international bestselling historical romantic fiction author. A lover of all things Italian, she lives in the Veneto region of northern Italy with her husband, a Havanese puppy and two rescue cats. After a life of romance and adventure in Hong Kong, Australia and the UK, Siobhan now spends her time, when she isn't writing, enjoying the sweet life near Venice. 

You can connect with Siobhan Daiko via these platforms -

Website: https://siobhandaiko.org

Twitter: https://twitter.com/siobhandaiko

Publisher Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AsolandoBooks

Author Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/siobhan.daiko

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/siobhan-daiko-74993651/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/siobhandaiko_asolandobooks/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.it/SiobhanDaiko/_saved/

Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/siobhan-daiko

Amazon Author Page: author.to/SiobhanDaiko

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7091256.Siobhan_Daiko

You can also learn more about the book and the author by visiting the other blogs on this tour.

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe
 

 

 

 

 

Welcoming Heather Miller and her book - Tho I be Mute - to my blog

Today I'm welcoming Heather Miller and her book - Tho I Be Mute - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde)

I'm delighted to share an excerpt but first I will introduce the book as always.

Tho I Be Mute

Home. Heritage. Legacy. Legend.

In 1818, Cherokee John Ridge seeks a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. While there, he is overcome with sickness yet finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite a two-year separation, family disapproval, defamatory editorials, and angry mobs, the couple marries in 1824.

Sarah reconciles her new family’s spirituality and her foundational Christianity. Although, Sarah’s nature defies her new family’s indifference to slavery. She befriends Honey, half-Cherokee and half-African, who becomes Sarah’s voice during John’s extended absences.

Once arriving on Cherokee land, John argues to hold the land of the Cherokees and that of his Creek neighbors from encroaching Georgian settlers. His success hinges upon his ability to temper his Cherokee pride with his knowledge of American law. Justice is not guaranteed.

Rich with allusions to Cherokee legends, ‘Tho I Be Mute speaks aloud; some voices are heard, some are ignored, some do not speak at all, compelling readers to listen to the story of a couple who heard the pleas of the Cherokee.

Publication Date: 13th July 2021

Publisher: Defiance Press and Publishing

Page Length: 340 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction/Romance

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tho-Be-Mute-Heather-Miller-ebook/dp/B08ZB276Y2

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Tho-Be-Mute-Heather-Miller-ebook/dp/B08ZB276Y2

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Tho-Be-Mute-Heather-Miller-ebook/dp/B08ZB276Y2

Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/Tho-Be-Mute-Heather-Miller-ebook/dp/B08ZB276Y2

Now for the excerpt -

Chapter 5: Laundry, Sarah Bird Northrup

Later that afternoon, against the bright light, I squinted and found a walking silhouette against the sheeted walls, fluttering, stretching their wings to the lofting wind. The dark shadow’s gait was slow but steady, rising on the left side, assisted by a single crutch. From the ground, the profile wore boots that clung to thin, tall legs. It wore a fitted, frock coat, casting the black outline of blousing sleeves and vest, whose buttons gave circular shape to adorn the torso’s front. The silhouette’s head rode atop its neck with stately grandeur, chin pronounced, and short, wavy hair brushed away from the forehead. John’s gold eyes found me between hanging sheets, which fell in dense waves like white charm peonies held aloft against firm shrubbery.

With only a glance at him, I focused on my task. “You are earlier than usual.” His shape was a few feet from me. I stretched from the waist, stepping down the line, and grabbed another peg. I avoided his gaze. His gravity made my arms heavier.

“Dr. Gold is coming by this afternoon, so I must be well,” he said with a hint of tiredness likely caused by his walk from the wagon near the yard. He often spoke of his family’s expansive farm, so I imagine him bored, sitting in class studying crop rotations when he wanted to read President Jefferson.

“Good.” It was all I managed to say, mispronouncing the word with a clothes peg between my lips. I unfurled another sheet. If Dr. Gold was coming, that explained why Jane and Mother made their premature departure from the washboard and tub. I wonder why they chose not to tell me.

I paralleled the line, and John pantomimed my movement with a momentary delay. Pulling the peg from my mouth, I sighed and trapped the right end of the sheet, frustrated with my tired arms and endless work. Jane’s mood was not the only one to sour this afternoon.

John sensed my temperament and looked at me inquisitively. “What’s troubling you, Miss Sarah?”

“Nothing, just washing day.” My impatience hid the truth. “Mother and Jane still think I am younger than I am.”

“So, you’re ready to fly the nest?” he asked with a measured pace and chuckled, thinking of something I found difficult to read from his expression.

“No, I just do not wish their constant reminders of things I do by habit.” He did not deserve my tired curtness.

He hummed a single note and replied, “Since I have been from home, I have taken care of myself a great deal. As soon as I return, it is the same for me. My mother reminds me to cork the ink and to take off my boots before falling asleep. I can hear her say it now as if she stood here among the drying.”

I stopped moving, and we saw one another in the absent space on the line. “You must miss home. Your mother and father wish for your return. Your father told me so when he was here.”

“I miss them, but Elias eases some of my loneliness for home. He is my father’s brother’s son.”

“Yes, I remember. He said so. He’s your cousin?” Surely, John knew the word.

“Yes,” he said. “We are as close as brothers, and his father is my father in many ways.

Therefore, that is a better description. He plans to leave soon to attend Andover Theology School. Here, Elias has more friends than I do, but I am a better student. He is witty and personable. He is a wonderful storyteller, a skill I do not have.”

John was saddened by Elias’ pending departure. His expression brought lonely thoughts to my mind. Affirming what I already knew to be true, “. . . and you want to make people think. Your talents are a gift from God. It is a noble weight you seek to carry.”

“It is why I was sent here: to study, to learn the ways of your lives. It is what our elders insist must happen. Jefferson warned the Cherokee to learn what it is to be American. My people must seek the education provided to us. Now, Cherokee land carries my people, but in the future, I fear we may have to learn to carry it on our backs.”

“Made any discoveries . . . about us?”

“Mostly how hurried everyone seems, except you.”

He paused mid-thought and followed me, speaking with a younger expression on his face, one more reminiscent of his age. He seemed to catch the memory of his home in the wind, squinting against the fading sun. “Light. I miss the light. I miss running my horse along the edge of the Oostanaula River in the morning’s glow. I miss green haze above acres of grass bordered by trees as far as one can see. I miss council meetings with enormous fires under starry skies in autumn. Mountains and coves pebbled with spectrums of color. . . I miss . . .”

I interrupted his musings, changing the subject. “Have you slept with your boots on, John?” My mind held to what he’d said earlier; I covered my mouth with my hand, hiding my grin.

“Only when my mother cannot see me.” He returned the smile I hid as I laughed louder than I meant to.

“Your cousin isn’t the only student that makes others laugh. You do too. Why would anyone sleep with their boots on? I cannot imagine that comfortable at all.”

Repeat: flip, flip again, pegs on the seam.

“It only happens when I’m tired from working the ferry or from the days in the orchards harvesting apples. I collapse on my bed and fall asleep. Mother wakes me and, seeing my transgression, reminds me again, ‘Take your boots off before you sleep!’” He imitated her tone with higher pitches. “Staying awake to copy English verses, I wake at my desk, face marked with paper seams. Alas, boots remain. I slept with them on several nights last summer. There was something I needed to finish.” With wit and a grin, he said, “Please, don’t tell my mother.” 

Heather Miller

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-three years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she is writing it herself, hearing voices from the past.

Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Misérables. Her favorite role is that of a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a future RN. There is only one English major in her house.

While researching, writing, and teaching, she is also working towards her M FA in Creative Writing. Heather’s corndog-shaped dachshund, Sadie, deserves an honorary degree.

You can connect with the author via these platforms -

Website: https://heathermillerauthor.com/home/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HMHFR

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HMillerAuthor

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/heather-miller-896627208/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hmillerauthor/

Pinterest: https://pin.it/26kOsvl

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/tho-i-be-mute-by-heather-miller

You can also learn more about the book and the author by visiting the other blogs on this tour.

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe