Before I put another book in the giveaway pile, there's a thought-provoking quote I thought I should record for future reference ('cause I like it and I agree):
I've resisted letting the Scripture speak to me as insight into God on a regular basis. And I'll confess that I've done this mostly because I haven't liked the way Scripture has been used on and around me in my life, the way others have read it in bits and pieces that corresponded to their worldviews, the way they have read those particular bits literally and focused on the things with which they agreed and ignored the things they didn't.
How can people of faith make the Bible an important part of their lives despite all the ways it's been read and misread, used and misused over the centuries?
We have to start with an understanding that what the Bible has to say is not just what its primary advocates in our culture think it has to say. And reading it in a way that pulls those other things--peace, justice, love, forgiveness, reconciliation, radical faith, daily practice--back to the forefront.
--from pages 84 and 85 of No Idea by Greg Garrett
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt
The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt
Copyright 2008
Mariner Books - Fiction
257 pages, incl. notes
The Invention of Everything Else is a fictional account of a friendship between Nikola Tesla, the inventor who held the original patents for radio and alternating current electricity, and a young lady who worked as a maid in the New Yorker hotel. It's set primarily in the 1940's and it's . . . a little weird. But, it's also rather lovely, in its way. Occasionally, the story goes backward in time to fill in a little bit of historical background about Tesla.
Tesla was a Serbian engineer who moved to the U.S., lived in hotels, never married, was obsessed with his inventions but thought they belonged to the world, loved pigeons and considered one particular pigeon his wife. He was friends with Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, whom he refers to as "Sam" in the book. The author used an actual incident that took place with Clemens in Tesla's lab in the book. Hunt really did imprint her fictional tale upon the reality very nicely but there were times that I didn't quite understand why the book went in a particular direction and I think perhaps that has to do with my lack of knowledge about Tesla.
Tesla was obviously an unusual fellow. I thought he was decently portrayed as a man who lived for science and never stopped thinking of new ideas but who became more bizarre as the years passed. I liked the fact that he wasn't described as simply obsessed; he was very emotional about the theft of his ideas and the cruelty of man. It would have been easy to portray him as completely lacking in emotion, but Samantha Hunt did her homework. He was apparently a man of extreme highs and lows; and, the author made it clear how easy it would be for a man who was basically jerked around, considered flaky if not totally alien, and certainly misunderstood to eventually withdraw and think of pigeons as his best friends.
Louisa, the hotel maid who "befriends" Tesla in the book, is totally fictional. Louisa accidentally becomes acquainted with Tesla because she's a snoop. She closes the door whenever she cleans a hotel patron's room, although she doesn't steal. She's just interested in the lives of others and likes to read their papers, peek in their drawers and suitcases, and so forth. When Louisa reads some papers in Nikola Tesla's room, she gets caught. But, Nikola and Louisa have something in common: Louisa keeps pigeons.
I enjoyed The Invention of Everything Else until about the last third and then it became increasingly baffling. What I think the author was trying to say was that Tesla was used and misunderstood which led to the financial ruin, isolation and emotional mess of his later years. At any rate, in the book there's a friend of Louisa's father who claims to have built a time machine, a young man who seems to show up wherever Louisa goes (whom her father's friend claims she'll one day marry) and . . . well, I'm just not sure what was going on toward the end.
What worked best for me was the portrayal of Tesla as an aging man, reflecting on his life, knowing he's nearing the end of his years, sad and hurt about the many betrayals that have led him into deep debt and alone with piercing regret, his only friends the pigeons he cares for on his windowsill. Tesla's story was obviously fictionalized but the author did a fine job of bringing his story to life.
What didn't work was the wholly fictional story overlying that history. Louisa was interesting and I liked the relationship between Louisa and her father, but I didn't feel like the friendship between Tesla and Louisa was developed enough. The story of their friendship, in fact, degenerated and became a little too hallucinatory for my taste in the end. Throughout the book, however, Tesla's story remained fascinating to me, if at times inscrutable and there was never any point during which I considered abandoning the book.
3.5/5 - Lovely writing, interesting and apparently very accurate historical framework -- I did feel like I learned a great deal about Tesla. A marvelous work of writing that lost something as it neared the conclusion.
I think I'm just in the midst of a blogging slump because I usually don't have as much trouble writing about books as I have in recent weeks. Generally, you can't shut me up. Also . . . a new oddity . . . like every other book I've recently read, I seem to have come up with plenty to say about The Invention of Everything Else the moment I turned off the computer. How distressing. Let's blame the time change, shall we? I've finished two more books and hope to review those, along with a nice little pile of children's books, soon.
I recieved my copy of The Invention of Everything Else from the publisher, via Shelf Awareness. My thanks to Mariner Books. I will pass my copy on to a happy new home.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Mr. Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester
Mr. Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester
Copyright 1948
Reissued by Back Bay Books, 1998
310 pages
A little background as to why I read this book. My husband and I got a boxed set of "adventure movies" by the A & E network for Christmas and the first 4 of the Hornblower movies (there are 8) were included in that set. We watched them on laundry-folding nights. Seriously, that's what we do. We make huge mountains of clean laundry and then spend an evening folding and watching a movie. I had only seen bits and pieces of the series, in the past, when my husband watched them. He's seen them all and read most of the books.
Well . . . Ioan Gruffudd, Robert Lindsay, Jamie Bamber, Paul McGann . . . seriously, the movies would have had my approval if you'd just held up a photo of those guys in costume. Hornblower has an awesome cast and the movies are beautiful, adventurous, impressively acted. I just loved them. This is funny because my husband always thought they'd be far too violent for my taste.
After we'd watched the first 4 movies, I went in search of the next 4. Meanwhile, having discovered that I don't just find the stories tolerable but I'm, in fact, wild about the adventure, I went in search of Mr. Midshipman Hornblower. We had a copy, but who knew where it had disappeared to? My husband, as I've mentioned before, is Mr. Chaos and the Hornblower books are his.He gradually located most of the books -- 8 out of 9 of them -- but never did manage to find the first in the series (by order of Hornblower's experience, not the order in which they were written, as they weren't written from Midshipman to Admiral in timeline order).
I got online and found a copy was available at PaperbackSwap. Then, I had to wait for its owner to dig out from under the snow because he was stuck at home (in Washington, D.C.) during the big blizzard and the book was at his office.
Finally, I got my hands on the book and read it. And, it is every bit as wonderful as I'd imagined and then some. I found myself wanting to quote entire pages. C. S. Forester was a witty man and some of the lines in the movies are taken straight from the pages of the books.
A handsome young man in a plum-coloured coat with a lace stock greeted Hornblower when he stepped on the deck.
"Welcome, sir, to the Pique," he said in French. "I am Captain Neuville, of this privateer. And you are--?"
"Midshipman Hornblower, of His Britannic Majesty's ship Indefatigable," growled Hornblower.
"You seem to be in an evil humour," said Neuville. "Please do not be so distressed at the fortunes of war. You will be accomodated in this ship, until we return to port, with every comfort possible at sea. I beg of you to consider yourself quite at home. For instance, those pistols in your belt must discommode you more than a little. Permit me to relieve you of their weight."
He took the pistols neatly from Hornblower's belt as he spoke, looked Hornblower keenly over, and then went on.
"That dirk that you wear at your side, sir. Would you oblige me by the loan of it? I assure you that I will return it to you when we part company. But while you are on board here I fear that your impetuous youth might lead you into some rash act while you are wearing a weapon which a credulous mind might believe to be lethal. A thousand thanks. And now might I show you the berth that is being prepared for you?"
Don't you love the language? Even more impressive and lovely are the manners.
"Mr. Hornblower!" said Eccles. "My respects to the captain, and we're ready to get under weigh."
Hornblower dived below with his message.
"My compliments to Mr. Eccles," said Pellew, looking up from his desk, " and I'll be on deck immediately."
Of course, there are plenty of light moments in between adventures at sea and on land.
Midshipman Hornblower was walking the lee side of the quarterdeck, as became his lowly station as the junior officer of the watch, in the afternoon, when Midshipman Kennedy approached him. Kennedy took off his hat with a flourish, left foot advanced, hat down by the right knee. Hornblower entered into the spirit of the game, laid his hat against his stomach, and bent himself in the middle three times in quick parody ceremonial solemnity almost without trying.
"Most grave and reverend signor," said Kennedy. "I bear the compliments of Captain Sir Ed'ard Pellew, who humbly solicits Your Gravity's attendance at dinner at eight bells in the afternoon watch."
"My respects to Sir Edward," replied Hornblower, bowing to his knees at the mention of the name," and I shall condescend to make a brief appearance."
"I am sure the captain will be both relieved and delighted," said Kennedy. "I will convey him my felicitations along with your most flattering acceptance."
Both hats flourished with even greater elaboration than before, but at that moment both young men noticed Mr. Bolton, the officer of the watch, looking at them from the windward side, and they hurriedly put their hats on and assumed attitudes more consonant with the dignity of officers holding their warrants from King George.
5/5 - Sparkling dialogue, exciting seafaring adventure, rock-solid descriptions of Hornblower's emotional state and straightforward, exceptional writing flair.
Yeah. That means I loved it and I plan to read the entire series. Highly, highly recommended to any and all. There are plenty of nautical terms but I had no problem with them, although the occasional scene only partially made sense. That's because I didn't bother to retrieve our nautical lexicon (which I gave to my husband when he was reading Patrick O'Brien's Aubrey/Maturin series). They didn't last long and don't dominate the book; the stories are very readable. I can't say enough positive things about this series, even after having read only the first in a series of nearly a dozen.
I was very, very distracted whilst writing this post because I kept looking up photos of the cast. If you haven't seen the movies, I also highly recommend them. There's plenty of graphic violence (lots of screaming and moaning during battles and a good bit of blood) so you might want to watch them after the kids are in bed, but they make laundry-folding a bold adventure.
So Long, Insecurity by Beth Moore
So Long, Insecurity: you've been a bad friend to us By Beth Moore
Copyright 2010
Tyndale House Publishers - Christian Nonfiction
352 pages, incl. brief notes
Insecurity is more than a complex emotion. It is a lie about our God-sanctioned condition. While something may cause us to feel sad, confused, angry, or threatened, we have the power to choose whether or not it gets to assault our security. When we decide to be strong willed about what God strongly wills, that, beloved, is the epitome of empowerment. The next time someone says or does something to you that has the capacity to dent your security, instantly think of one of these thoughts toward that person:
--You can hurt my feelings, but you cannot have my security. I won't let you. It's mine to keep. You cannot have it.
--You can criticize me and even be right about what I did wrong, but you do not get to damage my security. It's mine to keep. You cannot have it.
--You might have embarrassed me, but I refuse to let it fall on me so heavily that it smothers my security. It's mine to keep. You cannot have it.
--You may be so intimidating and threatening that I feel I have to hand a lot of things to you, but I refuse to hand over my security. Who you are doesn't get to dwarf who I am. My security is mine to keep. You cannot have it.
I read So Long, Insecurity several weeks ago and simply have been busy and distracted, hence the delayed post. You can read a preview chapter from So Long, Insecurity, here. I thought the book got off to a slow start, but once the author got past a good deal of introductory material about how she came to write the book and why she believes it's such an important topic, I was rather stunned at how meaningful the material was.
One of my favorite parts, on pp. 37-38, in which she lists some "false positives". She starts with a fill-in-the-blank:
"You know, _________, people who don't know you really well would never be able to imagine that you struggle with insecurity. After all . . . "
This sentence leads into a full page of examples, such as:
. . . you're married to the most fabulous man in the world."
Prominent false positive: A great man would make me secure.
. . . you're gorgeous! I'd give anything to see that in the mirror!"
Prominent false positive: Beauty would make me secure.
I think we all can say that at some point someone has told us they assumed our lives are perfect because of one false impression or another, so that resonated with me. As I was reading those "false positives", I thought of myself but I also often thought of friends who fit into each category. I know, for example, a drop-dead gorgeous woman who is stunningly insecure. The fact that she's beautiful really has nothing at all to do with her self-image.
Moore goes on to describe how women become insecure in the first place and she describes a number of scenarios that had never occurred to me. I felt like I learned a surprising amount about other females -- for example, why some women go out barely dressed in provocative clothing and high heels to places where they're asking for trouble. I never understood that mentality or the fact that it stems from insecurity, sometimes from acting out after sexual abuse. Nor had I heard the male viewpoint about women and their self-confidence or insecurity, which she asked for and repeated verbatim from their emails. It was utterly fascinating.
I thought this book was amazing. It's made me think twice about my inner dialogue, in recent weeks, and I'm planning to save it for at least one reread and pass it around to some friends.
4/5 - Solid, Christian self-help, directed specifically at women (but men could certainly learn from it, as well). Christianity is not a prerequisite for reading this book, but there is plenty of Bible scripture and Beth Moore is a Christian minister/speaker/writer, so those who are not Christian should go into it expecting the author's suggestions to be based on the Bible and Christian beliefs.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Bookfool in Green (but, actually, it's moss green)
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien (#1 for Vietnam Reading Challenge)
The Things They Carried by Tim O'BrienCopyright 1990
Broadway Books - Literature/War
246 pages
No more fantasies, he told himself.
Henceforth, when he thought about Martha, it would be only to think that she belonged elsewhere. He would shut down the daydreams. This was not Mount Sebastian, it was another world, where there were no pretty poems or midterm exams, a place where men died because of carelessness and gross stupidity. Kiowa was right. Boom-down and you were dead, never partly dead.
Briefly, in the rain, Lieutenant Cross saw Martha's gray eyes gazing back at him.
He understood.
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.
There were birds and butterflies, the soft rustlings of rural-anywhere. Below, in the earth, the relics of our presence were no doubt still there, the canteens and bandoliers and mess kits. This little field, I thought, had swallowed so much. My best friend. My pride. My belief in myself as a man of some small dignity and courage. Still it was hard to find any real emotion. It simply wasn't there. After that long night in the rain, I'd seemed to grow cold inside, all the illusions gone, all the old ambitions and hopes for myself sucked away into the mud. Over the years, that coldness had never entirely disappeared. There were times in my life when I couldn't feel much, not sadness or pity or passion, and somehow I blamed this place for what I had become, and I blamed it for taking away the person I had once been. For twenty years this field had embodied all the waste that was Vietnam, all the vulgarity and horror.
Now it just was what it was. Flat and dreary and unremarkable.
The Things They Carried is, quite simply, one of the most moving, beautifully written books I've ever read. The book opens up with a literal description of the things Vietnam soldiers carried, from weapons and ammunition to Bibles, photographs, tranquilizers and memories of home.
As the book progresses, the reader gets to know the characters. Although The Things They Carried was originally written as a series of short stories, it's not jumpy or rough. It reads like a novel, in my opinion; the characters are consistent throughout. As in reality, some die and are replaced; and, the book jumps forward and backward in time. But even the dead remain in the minds of their friends and in that way often continue to make appearances.
I've had a little trouble putting my thoughts about this book into words, so I'm going to do a self-interview between I and Myself for the rest of this review.
I: What led you to read this book? And, why does the world seem to be conspiring against the writing of this review?
Myself: Primarily the Vietnam War Reading Challenge and I don't know, galdernit, but there's something weird going on. Every time I sit down to type, the phone or doorbell rings, someone sits down to talk to me or decides to read jokes aloud for an hour (Kiddo) . . . shoot, even the cat distracted me by falling out of her chair.
Anyway, I've had a copy of The Things They Carried on my shelf for many years but it probably would have sat around, eventually growing green fuzz, if not for this wonderful challenge. Many thanks to Anna and Serena for the nudge.
I: Ah, yes. Nudges are good. Poor kitty. She's got to quit hanging her head off the side of the chair like that. What did you like about The Things They Carried?
Myself: Everything. It's a literary masterpiece -- the writing is just breathtaking. The characters are three-dimensional, vivid and real enough that I still occasionally think about them, although it's been several weeks since I finished the book. The author did a fabulous job of hitting the emotional aspect of going to war, fighting a battle that he didn't understand and which was so unpopular that men often took their own lives when they returned home. There were many tears but at times I smiled. It's a deeply moving account of not only what it was like to serve in Vietnam, but also how he felt when he was drafted and considered fleeing to Canada, why he chose not to run, how he eventually became hardened while others fell apart.
I: Was there anything you disliked about the book?
Myself: I have absolutely nothing negative to say about this book. It's a hard read because of the subject matter but I don't think that's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's an important book. Several people I've talked to or who have left comments, here, have mentioned that The Things They Carried is "not for the faint of heart" and that is certainly true. It can be graphic and horrifying, but it's graphic only in a way that it must be, if that makes sense. It's a truthful book.
I: What did you think of the characters?
Myself: They were almost visible entities; it would not be surprising if they walked out of the pages of the book -- that's the caliber of writing we're talking about. Kiowa was my favorite character, a Native American who carried a Bible, had a huge heart and a great sense of humor . . . and came from my home state. I was not surprised to find that he (although fictionalized, and I can't say to what extent) was the author's best friend. He was portrayed with deep affection while others were sometimes described as callous or childish or immoral. I'm not sure if the author meant to say so, but I think in his way he made it clear that an individual's true character shows in a situation as stressful as war.
I: Rating?
Myself: Perfect. Off-the-scale, mind-boggling genious perfection.
I: That's pretty high praise.
Myself: The highest. Just tell everyone to read The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien.
I: Okay. Everyone!! Read the book! I guess we can go to bed, now?
Myself: Yes. The end. Finis. More reviews forthcoming in the next few days, I hope. We had a lovely weekend with son and future daughter-in-law but that blankety-blank "spring forward" business has made us a wreck. Nightie-night, all!
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard (review)
The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose BurkardCopyright 2010
Harvest House - Regency Inspirational Romance
287 pages
Includes discussion questions and Regency glossary
Five years after the wedding of Ariana Forsythe to Phillip Mornay, aka "the Paragon", Ariana and her husband are still madly in love and the proud parents of two small children. At their manor house in the country, they have a number of guests; among them, Ariana's sister Beatrice and their mother, Mrs. Forsythe.
Beatrice is sixteen and eager to come out in society, so she spends a good deal of her time trying to persuade Ariana to move her household to London in time to chaperone Beatrice during the Season. Beatrice is convinced that with her sister's connections (spelled "connexions" in the book), Beatrice is practically guaranteed a wealthy match -- if not one to a man so well off as the Paragon, at least to a man of means who will keep her in style.
Mr. Peter O'Brien arrives to request a position at Glendover vicarage, although he assumes the errand is a waste of time. The vicarage is on the Mornay estate; Phillip and Peter have a history and it's not a good one.
The Prince Regent, meanwhile, wants the Paragon on his side, politically, and has offered him a Viscountcy. Phillip has not responded and the Prince impatiently sends a man named Tristan Barton. Barton has rented the nearby Manor House, where he hopes to hide away his pregnant sister, whose beloved, a Lord, has spurned her at the insistence of his parents.
There may be some minor spoilers in this section. I'm not sure if there's anything that will ruin the reading, but just in case . . . . consider this fair warning, if you please.
With two eligible men hanging about the country manor house, Beatrice finds herself in an interesting position. Mr. Barton appears to be a man of means and expresses an interest in her almost immediately. Little does she know, the man has an ulterior motive; he believes that to be connected in any way to Mornay can only be helpful to his reputation and he needs plenty of help. Barton has already gambled away his family's estate and is the reason for his sister Anne's ruin.
Mr. O'Brien is a kind, gentle man of the church but all Beatrice can see in him is a future with strict limitations, even when he is offered a position as vicar of nearby Warwickdon. The vicarage is charming and near her sister's large estate, but it's small by comparison. Surely, Beatrice can do better.
I think it's safe, now. You can come down out of the tree. Careful, now. Don't scrape your knees.
When a deadly fever makes its way to the estate and Ariana must be confined alone to prevent the spread of illness to her children and guests, the characters of the two men are revealed. But, Beatrice is stubborn. Will she choose the right man? Or, will Beatrice end up the wife of a gambler who intends to marry only to secure a better position?
The Country House Courtship
is, at least on the romance end, predictable because it's a romance and obviously, nobody's going to be happy with a drearily-ever-after ending. Romance must end with true love. However, to get to the end point, there are plenty of interesting developments in this story. It didn't seem to me that there was a whole lot of plot; but, on reflection, I can see that a lot happened and I was immensely entertained. The Country House Courtship was the perfect book for me, this week. It's light, romantic, sometimes funny, adventurous and clean.The word "inspirational" in the description means there is some emphasis on Christianity and God, but I don't think the author waxed religious often enough to offend anyone who just wants to read a sweet romance. I liked the characters I was supposed to like, felt a pang for poor Anne, despised Mr. Barton. It was fun reading and I highly recommend it to romance and historical fiction fans. A small glossary at the back of the book helps to clarify some historical information about the Regency time period. The book takes place in 1818 in Middlesex, England.
4/5
- Entertaining, romantic, well researched and pleasing. There were occasional moments when a modern word or phrase sneaked through, but I don't think Linore Rose Burkard is shooting for a place as the new Georgette Heyer. There's enough authenticity to convince without so much as to become a burden. The predictability was offset by plenty of interesting developments that were unexpected.The Country House Courtship
is the third in a series. It is not necessary to read the books in order as each story stands alone fine, but I think doing so adds to the enjoyment as the series does have a continuing set of characters.In other news:
Still madly cleaning, tidying, shifting in anticipation of this weekend's visitors. It's great. We're finding square footage that has been missing for years. Also, we are awaiting the arrival of a kitty tree and Fiona is rather desperately climbing anywhere and everywhere, in the meantime. She is one heck of a fine jumper. And, boy, can she make a mess.
I'm reading slowly because of chores and our weekend will be eaten up by family fun, so I anticipate returning to blogging and blog-hopping (which I finally managed to at least start, yesterday) by Sunday or Monday.
Happy Weekend!
Bookfool, up to elbows in dust and very happy about it
The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard (sneak peek)
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Linore Rose Burkard is the creator of "Inspirational Romance for the Jane Austen Soul." Her characters take you back in time to experience life and love during the era of Regency England (circa 1811 - 1820). Fans of classic romances such as Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Sense & Sensibility, will enjoy Linore's feisty heroines, heart-throb heroes and happy endings.
Enjoy the free resources on Linore's website: http://www.LinoreBurkard.com/resources.html
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927999
ISBN-13: 978-0736927994
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
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London, England, 1818
Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost.
His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)
But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.
Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal.
He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast.
“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”
Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”
“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”
He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.
He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.
When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.
Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?
He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.
Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man.
******
Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex
Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.
Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.
“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.
“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”
“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”
Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.
“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together--except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?”
“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman.
“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.
Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.
Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course.
“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”
Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.
“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”
Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”
“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.
And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”
Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.”
“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company.
“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.
“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.”
Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!”
“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”
Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!”
“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”
Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age--and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.”
Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion.
Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.”
Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.
He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.”
Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?”
She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!”
She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.
“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”
Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant.
Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.
“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”
“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.
She looked amused. “Who is it from?”
He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.
Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”
“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.
“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”
“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”
“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”
Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”
“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”
“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied.
“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.
Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly.
“That does not signify!” said her mother.
“It does, to me!”
“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.
“But it does, mama!”
“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.
“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”
“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”
“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”
“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.
Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.
All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be?
Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost.
His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)
But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.
Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal.
He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast.
“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”
Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”
“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”
He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.
He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.
When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.
Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?
He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.
Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man.
******
Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex
Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.
Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.
“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.
“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”
“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”
Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.
“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together--except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?”
“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman.
“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.
Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.
Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course.
“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”
Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.
“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”
Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”
“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.
And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”
Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.”
“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company.
“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.
“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.”
Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!”
“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”
Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!”
“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”
Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age--and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.”
Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion.
Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.”
Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.
He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.”
Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?”
She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!”
She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.
“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”
Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant.
Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.
“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”
“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.
She looked amused. “Who is it from?”
He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.
Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”
“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.
“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”
“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”
“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”
Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”
“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”
“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied.
“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.
Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly.
“That does not signify!” said her mother.
“It does, to me!”
“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.
“But it does, mama!”
“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.
“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”
“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”
“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”
“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.
Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.
All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Some weeks are like that
Miss Fiona and I have been diverted; she by numerous toys to play with and corners of her new home to explore, I by the necessity to get the house ship-shape for visitors and the need to spend time playing with my adorable new feline, because if I don't she runs around looking vaguely crazed and tearing into the garbage (oooh the chicken bones, they are so tempting) until, exhausted, she falls flat -- literally. She is hilarious. I can't even begin to tell you how much we're loving our new kitty. We do need a trashcan with a lid, though.I've been periodically trying to write my review of The Things They Carried and I must admit . . . that book is freaking intimidating. It's so perfect that I'm afraid anything I say will be subpar. But, I'll keep trying.
Reading-wise:
I've just finished The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard. I read the second book in this lovely inspirational Regency romance series, last year, and enjoyed it enough that I jumped at the chance to review the latest installment. The Country House Courtship is a little shy on plot, but it was perfect for the moment; I was in the mood for something light, predictable and upbeat. A sneak peek chapter along with my review will be posted on Friday.
Over the weekend, I closed another marvelous book: Mr. Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester. My husband and I enjoyed the Hornblower TV movies and he has read most of the books, but Mr. Midshipman Hornblower was my first taste of the series and I'm hooked. Completely hooked. We have 9 of the 11 books, so I won't have to go far when I'm ready to read the next in the series, Lieutenant Hornblower.
The Hornblower books were actually written out of sequence but Back Bay Books has shuffled the books so that they're chronologically ordered and a list of books is conveniently printed on the back cover. You have to appreciate Back Bay for that. Ever notice how difficult it can be to figure out the order of a series? It would be nice if all series books had a list of the book titles and order of release on the back. Imagine the shopping ease.
I'm currently reading The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt, The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory and Stormy Weather by Paulette Jiles. It's been a little slow going on all of them, even though all three are enjoyable in different ways, simply because I'm all over the map. If I'm not busy moving furniture or playing with the cat, I'm outside snapping pics of the birds or sleeping off a migraine. Spring is definitely upon us. We're allegedly expecting vicious storms, this afternoon (tornado season has officially begun; but, the sun is currently shining), the mosquitoes are out (!!!!) and trees are budding. Winter was nice while it lasted.
Books In, Books Out:
There have been an awful lot of books coming and going, lately. We've been doing some major shifting, still working on trying to fit various items large and small from my mother's house into our already-crowded home. The really great thing about this process is that it gives us a chance to go through our books and other possessions and weed, weed, weed. We have been living in this house for nearly 19 years and accumulation has tagged along on the coat-tails of settling in.
On Sunday, I filled two large bags with book discards and listed a handful on Paperback Swap (all of which were promptly snapped up, even though none were recent titles). In the past 3 days, though, quite a few books have arrived in my mailbox. You should see the cramming job my mailman has done; he's become a master of the book-parcel jigsaw.
Would you like to see the books that have arrived? If so, I'll take a picture of them when I've emptied my memory card. The new point-and-shoot camera that I received for Christmas is excellent for taking photos of book stacks (and little kitty faces).
As of this moment, only three people have signed up for the Sterling Children's Book giveaway, which is just crazy. Go sign up if you teach little ones, have small children or nieces, nephews, grandkids or neighbors you'd like to share with. It's huge -- 3 people will win 8 books each and the audios of all 8 titles can be downloaded totally free.
Back to work I go. Happy Wednesday!
Bookfool with a mission: Clean House or Bust
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Winners of Simon Van Booy's Awesome Books
And, the winners are . . . Love Begins in Winter:
Shari Dash Greenspan
Lover of Books
Kookie
Cynthia
The Secret Lives of People in Love:
softdrink
Marisa
Paula
Erin in Boston
Congratulations! I'll be in touch with all of you by email, but if you don't hear from me (because sometimes email is hinky), please get in touch with me via my email in the sidebar -----> by Wednesday morning. Thanks to all who joined in and especially those who very kindly followed my nitpicky rules!!
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Spring is coming!
As soon as the berries are stripped from this tree, it will bud. I only know that because I'm a really observant chick and you can't possibly escape noticing the robin invasion, which happens annually (although one year we had cedar waxwings, instead -- that was fun). Miss Fiona has spent quite a bit of time in the window, watching the robins during the past couple of days.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Cesar Takes a Break by Suzanne Collins Thoms: Review, audio program and *giveaway*
This drawing is now closed to further entries. Results forthcoming!
Cesar Takes a Break
by Suzanne Collins Thoms
Illustrated by Rogé
Copyright 2008
Sterling Kids - Children, ages 4-8
40 pages
Cesar is a classroom lizard who has just received a journal in which to write down his experiences when this lovely children's book opens. In journal form, he talks about his good fortune: he is lucky to have 25 friends who shower him with gifts and tell him their secrets.
But, when his "friends", the students who've adopted him as their class pet, leave for spring break, Cesar is not sure what to do with his time. At first, he's lonely and bored, but then he plays on the principal's computer, snacks in the lunch room and finds some new friends. Cesar and his new pals, all of whom are classroom pets, fill their week with fun activities -- playing hockey in the teacher's lounge, reading books in the library, putting on a play.
At the end of the week, Cesar considers leaving the school to see the world. But, then he realizes that his class needs him. He can't wait till the next spring break. Cesar Takes a Break ends with a page of "Fascinating Facts about Green Iguanas".
There was a single sentence that bafffled me, at the beginning of Cesar Takes a Break, but otherwise, I loved Cesar's little adventure and the occasionally sneaky word play. For example, when a turtle named Peace goes off to see the world and the other animals say he never makes it past the lunchroom door, Cesar says, "Still, we should give Peace a chance."
Sterling Kids has created free audio program to go with 8 of their children's books and I think it's so wonderful that I asked to join in on the promotion and giveaway. You can view a video of The Making of Cesar Takes a Break, the audiobook. I have a little trouble getting embedded videos to show up, hence the link.
If you view the video, you'll see people reading the various voices as they record the audio. I've listened to the audiobook and enjoyed it, but what I'm most excited about is that the audios are completely free. I asked Wendy of Sterling Kids if parents can legally burn the audios to CD or load them to an iPod for portability and she said, "Absolutely!" You can listen to the audios and download the audio books, along with a special "jokecast" at the Listen-AlongStorybook website.
When my children were small, we adored book and audio combinations. We took a stack of books, a bin of toys and the audios along on road trips to help keep the children occupied and they were a wonder. Not only do your children get to work on their listening skills, but they are encouraged to make reading a part of their lives, wherever they go.
To celebrate the new Listen-Along program, Sterling Kids is doing a huge giveaway.
3 lucky readers will receive all eight of the Sterling titles currently featured on the Listen-Along Storybook site! To enter this giveaway, prance on over to Listen-Along Storybook and let me know which title is your favorite, plus follow the other rules. You have to be good at following rules.
The rules. Break not the rules or you shall suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune:
1. Tell me the title of the book that appeals to you the most (as described in the green, italicized paragraph with link, above).
2. Leave your email address - this is a MUST. No email, no entry.
3. One entry per person or address. There are no opportunities for extra entries. Winners must be residents of U.S. and Canada only - no P.O. Boxes.
4. Drawing will be held on Sunday,MayMarch 21 (Sorry, forgot what month it is). Winners will have 48 hours to send their mailing address; I advise following this blog to avoid missing out on the winners list but following is not a requirement for signing up.
Note: I received a review copy of the Listen-Along Storybook Cesar Takes a Break. I was not provided any monetary compensation for this post. I chose to participate in this promotion because I think it's awesome. My copy of Cesar Takes a Break will be passed on to a mother with small children.
Cesar Takes a Break by Suzanne Collins Thoms
Illustrated by Rogé
Copyright 2008
Sterling Kids - Children, ages 4-8
40 pages
Cesar is a classroom lizard who has just received a journal in which to write down his experiences when this lovely children's book opens. In journal form, he talks about his good fortune: he is lucky to have 25 friends who shower him with gifts and tell him their secrets.
But, when his "friends", the students who've adopted him as their class pet, leave for spring break, Cesar is not sure what to do with his time. At first, he's lonely and bored, but then he plays on the principal's computer, snacks in the lunch room and finds some new friends. Cesar and his new pals, all of whom are classroom pets, fill their week with fun activities -- playing hockey in the teacher's lounge, reading books in the library, putting on a play.
At the end of the week, Cesar considers leaving the school to see the world. But, then he realizes that his class needs him. He can't wait till the next spring break. Cesar Takes a Break ends with a page of "Fascinating Facts about Green Iguanas".
There was a single sentence that bafffled me, at the beginning of Cesar Takes a Break, but otherwise, I loved Cesar's little adventure and the occasionally sneaky word play. For example, when a turtle named Peace goes off to see the world and the other animals say he never makes it past the lunchroom door, Cesar says, "Still, we should give Peace a chance."
Sterling Kids has created free audio program to go with 8 of their children's books and I think it's so wonderful that I asked to join in on the promotion and giveaway. You can view a video of The Making of Cesar Takes a Break, the audiobook. I have a little trouble getting embedded videos to show up, hence the link.
If you view the video, you'll see people reading the various voices as they record the audio. I've listened to the audiobook and enjoyed it, but what I'm most excited about is that the audios are completely free. I asked Wendy of Sterling Kids if parents can legally burn the audios to CD or load them to an iPod for portability and she said, "Absolutely!" You can listen to the audios and download the audio books, along with a special "jokecast" at the Listen-AlongStorybook website.
When my children were small, we adored book and audio combinations. We took a stack of books, a bin of toys and the audios along on road trips to help keep the children occupied and they were a wonder. Not only do your children get to work on their listening skills, but they are encouraged to make reading a part of their lives, wherever they go.
To celebrate the new Listen-Along program, Sterling Kids is doing a huge giveaway.
3 lucky readers will receive all eight of the Sterling titles currently featured on the Listen-Along Storybook site! To enter this giveaway, prance on over to Listen-Along Storybook and let me know which title is your favorite, plus follow the other rules. You have to be good at following rules.
The rules. Break not the rules or you shall suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune:
1. Tell me the title of the book that appeals to you the most (as described in the green, italicized paragraph with link, above).
2. Leave your email address - this is a MUST. No email, no entry.
3. One entry per person or address. There are no opportunities for extra entries. Winners must be residents of U.S. and Canada only - no P.O. Boxes.
4. Drawing will be held on Sunday,
Note: I received a review copy of the Listen-Along Storybook Cesar Takes a Break. I was not provided any monetary compensation for this post. I chose to participate in this promotion because I think it's awesome. My copy of Cesar Takes a Break will be passed on to a mother with small children.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna Moran
The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna MoranCopyright 2010
Ballantine Books - Historical Fiction
347 pages
Johanna Moran's website
When Henry Oades accepts a job in New Zealand, his wife Margaret is not happy. She and the children will have to leave her parents, her home country and everything they know behind. But, it's an opportunity Henry can't pass up. Despite her misgivings, the family packs up and leaves London for Wellington, New Zealand, where Margaret works hard at enduring and patiently awaits the day her family will return to the home she loves.
Things are going well until a single night of tragedy changes their lives, forever. While Henry is away, the Maori raid their home, leaving their house in cinders, the family gone -- possibly abducted, maybe dead. The single body inside their house could be Margaret or her best friend. Nobody knows. When Henry is unable to find his family, he acknowledges that they must have been killed and moves to Berkeley, California, where he marries a young widow with a brand new baby. He is happy for the first time since his family disappeared . . . then Margaret and the children show up on his doorstep.
I'm going to steal one sentence from the cover blurb: "Narrated primarily by the two Mrs. Oadeses, Johanna Moran's powerful imagining of what happens when Henry and his two wives face prosecution for bigamy explores the intricacies of marriage, the construction of family, and the courage of two remarkable women."
I'm going to let the kitten interview me about this book. Take it away, Fiona.
Fiona: Why did you choose this book, slave -- I mean -- Bookfool?
BF: I'm shallow enough to have chosen it purely based upon the 19th-century New Zealand setting.
Fiona: Did that setting satisfy you? And, what did you do with my jingly ball?
BF: The New Zealand description was somewhat less evocative than expected, but I still liked the general historical feel. Last time I saw your jingly ball, you'd knocked it under the piano bench.
Fiona: Thank you. Were you aware that this book is based on a true bigamy case?
BF: Not till I had the book in my hands. That made it doubly interesting to me.
Fiona: What did you think of the characters?
BF: I thought Henry was a great guy, but maybe a little too much like my husband -- so determined to get ahead in his career that he gave almost no thought to his family's discomfort at being moved to a place where they never ceased to feel like foreigners. Margaret seemed a little angsty at first, but then she had no choice but to toughen up. I think she was my favorite character. Nancy, the second wife, really got on my nerves.
Fiona: What did you think of the storyline?
BF: Fascinating. In fact, I found the story so utterly mesmerizing that I read it in a single day (very unusual for me).
Fiona: Was there anything you disliked about the book?
BF: I was a little bemused by Henry's decision-making. I wanted him to make a different choice of wives -- when the time came for him to decide which woman he still considered his legal and moral wife, that is. That's just dickering about the storyline, though. It is what it is. One thing I disliked about the book was that it was sometimes heinously graphic. There were some bits I wish the author had tiptoed around a bit because they were gory or disgusting.
And, I recall wishing the author would just give poor Margaret a break. Her life was one endless stream of awful. It would have also been nice if Margaret had given Henry a butt-kicking, a time or two. I suppose one could say the bits of angst on the sides of both women may have been more authentic to the times than a lot of the current "tough heroine" attitudes we're accustomed to, but sometimes the women were really tiresome.
Fiona: Pardon me while I wash my ears.
BF: Awwww. That's so cute!
Fiona: Thank you. I feel so much cleaner. How would you rate this book?
BF: 4/5 - Excellent reading, lovely writing, well-paced and gripping. There were some minor things I disliked about the The Wives of Henry Oades (particularly the yucky bits), although I thought there were times it needed to be graphic to show the horror of each situation. In general, I was so captured by the story that I would feel wrong giving it anything less than a 4/5 or a "B" rating.
And, you get an "A" for those pink toes. Thank you, Fiona, for taking the time out of your busy napping and laser-chasing schedule to interview me.
Fiona: LASERRRR!!!!!
BF: Must go play with the kitty. Many wahoos to all!
Other reviews:
My copy of The Wives of Henry Oades is an ARC that I received from the publisher. Many thanks to Ballantine Books for the review copy, which will be passed on to a friend in Iowa, where the corn grows tall in the summer and the winters are long and harsh (which apparently leads to some wonderful reading time by the fire).
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
The Last Surgeon by Michael Palmer
The Last Surgeon by Michael PalmerCopyright 2010
St. Martin's Press - Medical Thriller
373 pages
Michael Palmer's Website
Gillian Coates didn't believe the police when they said her sister's death was suicide. Nick Garrity is determined to find a missing war buddy with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Both believe something very wrong is going on, but they're in for a monstrous surprise . . .
A man who takes pleasure in making murders look like suicides or accidents:"non-kills," he calls them. A very evil man is taking lives. People are dying, but nobody has connected the dots and more lives are in danger. Can Nick and Gillian figure out the connection before it's too late and the last surgeon is gone?
I'm going to lean more toward sharing my thoughts about this book than reviewing the content, for once. The killer in this book has been compared to Hannibal Lecter of Silence of the Lambs in at least one review. I've successfully avoided both the book and movie versions of Silence of the Lambs, although I enjoyed Thomas Harris' Black Sunday, many years ago. I like Harris' writing and that is true of Michael Palmer, as well; I just don't like reading about characters who are pure evil. So, that was one (probably unfair) strike against The Last Surgeon. I don't take pleasure in reading about the kind of character Gillian and Nick eventually had to face.
Second strike - I had just finished reading Mass Casualties by Spc Michael Anthony, a memoir about the time Anthony spent working as a surgical assistant in Iraq, when I began reading The Last Surgeon. There were some discrepancies between the way Anthony described his experience and the fictional account of Nick's time as an Army surgeon in Iraq by Palmer and they really bugged me. So, the first time I attempted to read The Last Surgeon, I didn't get very far. I needed time to let go of reality and step into a fictional world.
The wait didn't help. I think I can safely say it's a rare "thriller" that I find thrilling, these days, (strike three) and The Last Surgeon simply didn't do it for me. I did finish the book, although I considered abandoning it several times. And, this in spite of the fact that the ending is quite satisfying, as the bad guy gets payback involving a suitably torturous amount of pain. This book just wasn't the right one for me, at least at this moment in time.
I'm going to skip the rating because I would rate it as I felt, not by content, and I don't think it's a terrible book, although it's definitely a bit contrived. An average read that requires a heroic amount of effort to suspend disbelief (which I didn't manage to summon), I found it implausible in many ways. But, that's not always a problem. Sometimes I'm able to put up with implausibility for the sake of entertainment. In this case, it appears that the evil character bothered me enough that I wasn't able to let go of disbelief and just enjoy the book.
While this book didn't do much for me, thriller readers who don't mind an extremely scary killer (and those who enjoy being creeped out) may enjoy The Last Surgeon. My personal favorite by Michael Palmer is an older title, Flashback. I read it so long ago (the copyright date is 1988 and it was reissued in 1995) that there's no review at this blog, but I remember it made my heart pound. My thanks to the author and St. Martin's Press for the review copy of The Last Surgeon.
Other reviews:
California Literary Review
Caribou's Mom
Booklorn
Recent acquisitions:
I don't do Mailbox Monday posts because I'm too forgetful, but at least I've remembered to keep the last two weeks' acquisitions together. Top to bottom (this is apparently the point at which the spacing gods freak out):Postcards From a Dead Girl by Kirk Farber - from HarperPerennial
All My Patients Are Under the Bed: Memoirs of a Cat Doctor by Dr. Louis J. Camuti (from PBS)
A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo - Recommended by CJ for the Vietnam reading challenge (from PBS)
White Tiger by Aravind Adiga - Recommended by a nice British fellow whose reading I rudely interrupted in Costa Rica because I wanted to know what he thought of the book (from PBS). He politely told me it was excellent.
Dawn of a Thousand Nights by Trisha Goyer - A WWII novel that's been on my wish list for quite some time (from PBS)
The thing about life is that one day you'll be dead by David Shields - A biography that I read about at an author's blog (from PBS)
The Lotus Eaters by Tatjana Soli - I asked to be squeezed into the blog tour for this one and the author very kindly agreed to squishing me in. (from author for TLC Book Tours)
The Unseen by T. L. Hines - I have no idea how I came across this one in the first place, but it was on my wish list and a copy became available. (from PBS)
Not shown in photo: Cesar Takes a Break by Susan C. Thoms, Illus. by Rogé - for the Sterling Listen-Along Storybook promotion, which I'll be talking about tomorrow. It's a very cute children's book about a classroom-pet iguana who must occupy himself when the students are away on vacation. (from Sterling Kids)
Monday, March 01, 2010
Making Rounds with Oscar by David Dosa, M.D.
Making Rounds with Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat by David Dosa, M.D.Copyright 2010
Hyperion Books - Nonfiction
225 pages
Let's get the FTC info out of the way up front. I begged for a copy of Making Rounds with Oscar when I saw info about the book and a very kind rep from Hyperion sent me a copy. Cat-deprived little me was dying to read anything at all about cats to get my feline fix (and the offer still stands -- I will always review cat books of any kind).
Unless you live under a rock, you've probably heard about Oscar, a cat who became famous for curling up with nursing home residents within hours of their deaths. Oscar's ability to determine which patient is going to pass away at Steere House, the nursing home in which he lives, has made it easier for nurses to determine when to call family members to let them know it's time to say their last goodbyes; and, Oscar has served as a comfort to many.
David Dosa is the doctor who brought Oscar to fame when he published a journal article about the cat's special abilities. He is not particularly fond of cats, which lends the narrative an interesting perpective; he was initially skeptical of Oscar's ability and writes about the cat with a tiny bit of distance.
In spite of the fact that Dosa is intimidated by felines, the story of Oscar is beautifully written. With a touch of surprise and a boat-load of scientific curiosity, he describes how the nurses at Steere House began to take note of how accurately Oscar predicted the coming deaths of patients, often stunning the staff by curling up with a patient thought to still have days while rejecting another expected to die right away.
In search of answers to the mystery and curious about how family members felt about Oscar's presence, Dr. Dosa began asking family members of the deceased if he could interview them and found that not only were they willing to talk about Oscar, most were eager to talk to the doctor as it gave them a chance to reminisce about their loved ones.
Making Rounds with Oscar isn't just about the cat, though. Dr. Dosa is a specialist in geriatrics and the patients on the third floor of Steere House, where Oscar resides, suffer from dementia. With extraordinary compassion, Dr. Dosa describes his patients as formerly-vibrant individuals touched by a devastating, fatal illness and illuminates the suffering that family members experience as their loved ones "unlearn".
Dr. Dosa also touches on the state of our health care system and how coming reform is likely to make long-term care even more unaffordable. His comments are frightening and critically important to Americans, and a subject with which I'm personally acquainted. My sister and I dealt with temporary nursing-home care for my mother. It was, quite frankly, terrifying. Medicare paid for only about 10 days' worth of post-hospitalization recovery and after that, we were told, if she needed long-term care we would have no choice but to begin selling off her possessions to cover the cost. My mother had attempted to get insurance coverage for such care several years before her final illness but was denied by everyone she contacted.
I shall now step down off my soapbox and return to the subject. I loved Making Rounds with Oscar. It's a quick, touching read that I highly recommend to anyone and everyone -- not just cat lovers.
5/5 - A clearly-written tale told with a tenderness for dementia patients as well as objectivity and scientific curiosity about a very special feline.
Huge, gushy thanks to Lauren at Hyperion Books for the review copy!
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