Excerpt: All My Secrets by Lynn Austin

Chapter 1

New York City July 1898

 

Adelaide

Adelaide Stanhope sat at her father’s graveside, as still and upright as the surrounding tombstones. The enormous Stanhope obelisk loomed over the family cemetery plot where her great-grandfather, grandfather, and now her father had been laid to rest. Grandmother Junietta Stanhope’s hand, gloved in black lace, lay limp and fragile in her own as the service droned on. Adelaide grasped so few of the clergyman’s words that they might well have been in another language—eternity . . . dust . . . life . . . rest.

Father was dead.

He was dead, and everything in Adelaide’s tightly scripted, well-mannered world had been upended, tossed about, and left to flounder like a luxurious steamship, helpless in the grip of a storm.

The scent of roses and lilies, piled on her father’s coffin and heaped all around it, drifted to her on the breeze. The heady fragrance seemed misplaced. It usually accompanied one of Mother’s grand dinner parties or balls, filling their New York City mansion or summer home in Newport with their perfume. Adelaide closed her eyes, picturing Father in his tuxedo and starched white shirtfront, Mother reigning beside him in a dazzling gown and ropes of pearls as they greeted guests in their vast flower-filled foyer. It was a picture she had always taken for granted, imagining that nothing in her life would ever change. What would life be like now, without Father?

She opened her eyes again and glanced at her grandmother’s face, clouded by a veil of black netting. She sat stoically unbowed as if carved from wax, like the figures Adelaide had seen in Madame Tussaud’s museum in London last year. For a parent to lose a child at any age was a tragedy, but Father was Grandmother Junietta’s only child, her only son. For as far back as Adelaide could remember, her grandmother had seemed tireless, ageless, committed to the charitable foundation she presided over—a man’s job, really, but Grandmother seldom played by society’s rules. Adelaide had been close to her as a child, before growing into a young woman and taking her place in the privileged society life she now enjoyed.

Adelaide’s own eyes were dry as well, not only because a proper lady never mourned in public, but because her father, Arthur Benton Stanhope III, was a distant figure to her, a towering statue on a pedestal, a giant in New York’s business world who had spent most of Adelaide’s life in offices and business meetings before his unexpected death. As his third and final child, she knew she had been a disappointment to him from the day of her birth. A third daughter. Not the son he had hoped for. Now he was gone, suddenly and unexpectedly, having died alone in their New York mansion while she and Mother summered at their home in Newport, Rhode Island.

Adelaide still felt numb from the shock of his death and the hurried train journey home. Nothing seemed real except the feathery weight of her grandmother’s hand in hers and the blistering sun above their heads. The scant shade of the funeral canopy offered little relief from it.

The minister closed his book with an “amen.” A sigh escaped before Adelaide could capture it, and she glanced around discreetly, hoping no one had heard. They hadn’t. She’d grown accustomed to being ignored while her two older sisters had lived at home, but with Ernestine and Cordelia successfully married, nineteen-year-old Adelaide would be the focus of Mother’s attention and matchmaking ambitions next. Adelaide had dreamed of a Cinderella wedding, but now Father wouldn’t be there to escort her down the aisle.

She stood when her mother and sister did. Cordelia and her husband had arrived from their home in Boston last evening. There hadn’t been enough time for Ernestine, married to a British earl, to travel from her home in London. Adelaide helped her grandmother to her feet with the others. “Are you all right, Mimi Junie?” she whispered, using the affectionate name from her girlhood.

“Yes, child.” Grandmother gripped Adelaide’s arm with one hand and her intricately carved cane in the other. The cane seemed part of her, an extra limb, and she was seldom without it. She rarely used it as a walking stick though, brandishing it like a weapon to make a point or flourishing it like a maestro waving a baton. But today she leaned upon it as she and Adelaide shuffled forward to drop more roses onto the smothered coffin. Before moving on, Grandmother paused to stare at a floral arrangement with a ribboned banner that read Beloved Son. “My son . . .” she murmured. “My son.” It would have been a blessing if she hadn’t comprehended her loss, but Grandmother’s mind was still sharp.

“Yes, Mimi Junie,” Adelaide replied. “You’ve lost your son and I’ve lost my father. I’m so very sorry. Come, our carriage is waiting.”

Grandmother didn’t move. She looked up from the flowers and scanned the crowd of black- cloaked mourners as if searching for someone. “I wish my other son could be here,” she murmured.

Adelaide’s skin prickled. “Who do you mean, Mimi?”

“My other son . . .” Her hand fluttered as if trying to stir a pot of dusty memories and draw out a name. “You know . . .”

Adelaide swallowed. “You don’t have another son, Mimi. Only my father. He was your only child.” Grandmother stared at Adelaide for a long moment, then shook her head.

“No, he wasn’t.” She shielded her eyes from the sun and gazed into the distance for another long moment as if searching for him before finally allowing Adelaide to lead her to the waiting carriage. Grandmother was obviously confused. She didn’t really have a secret son—did she?

Adelaide shook her head, quickly discarding the outrageous idea, not only because it was an affront to Grandmother’s character, but because such a scandal never would have remained hidden in their tightly knit social world. Fear of family disgrace kept Adelaide, her sisters, and all their peers virtuous.

The carriage swayed as Mimi’s driver, Henry, closed the door and climbed onto his seat.

They rode in dignified silence. Yet Mimi Junie’s puzzling words left Adelaide shaken. Had she lost a son through miscarriage or stillbirth or an early death? Wouldn’t there be a marker in the family cemetery plot if she had? And she surely would have mentioned such a tragedy before today, wouldn’t she? The questions nibbled into Adelaide’s thoughts as she stood with Grandmother, Mother, and Cordelia in their mansion’s enormous dining room for the funeral luncheon, accepting condolences from streams of people. After a long, wearying hour, Grandmother turned to her.

“I’ve had enough, Adelaide. Would you kindly help me to my room?” Dark clouds were erasing the brilliant summer sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance as Adelaide helped Mimi Junie to her bedroom suite and to her chair by the window.

But before leaving, Adelaide crouched in front of her. She needed to know. “Mimi Junie, at the funeral you mentioned another son.”

“Did I?” She stared into her lap, idly pulling off her lace gloves.

“Yes. And it was the first time I’ve ever heard of him. Can you tell me more about him?”

Grandmother dropped the gloves and gathered Adelaide’s hands in hers, holding them with surprising strength. She met Adelaide’s gaze, her faded eyes bright and brimming with love. “You’re named after me, Adelaide Junietta Stanhope.”

“Yes, I—”

“What plans are they making for you?” “What do you mean?”

“Have they chosen a husband for you? Decided your future?”

The change in topics confused her, but she answered dutifully. “Mother thought there were several promising gentlemen in Newport, but with Father gone so suddenly, we’ll have to observe a period of mourning before—”

“It’s your life, not your mother’s. Do you have the courage it takes to break free from the mold that society will try to cast for you? You don’t have to do things their way, you know.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“Your father’s death means that everything is going to change for you and your mother. And for me too, undoubtedly. As we start all over again, we’ll have a chance to make a new life for ourselves and decide how we want to live from now on. Change can be difficult, but it can also be very good for us.”

Adelaides heart picked up speed. “I don’t want anything to change. I want to live the way I always have.”

“Nevertheless, change is coming, you can be sure of that. But that means you’re free to make new choices. To love a man of your own choosing and discover the joy of being loved in return. But it will require courage.”

Adelaide couldn’t reply. Might Mimi’s questions have something to do with her mysterious lost son after all? But no, her beloved Mimi Junie, the upright, formidable grande dame of New York society, would never live a secret, scandalous life, much less urge her granddaughter to live one.

Would she?

There was a soft knock on the door, and a maid entered with a tea tray. The silver teapot was small, and the tray held only one cup and saucer. “Your mother would like you to return to your guests downstairs, Miss Adelaide,” the maid said. There would be no more questions or revelations today.

Grandmother squeezed Adelaide’s hands tightly before releasing them. “Give me a kiss before you go, Addy dear,” she said.

Adelaide did as she was told. She always did as she was told.

 

Junietta

She would have liked for Adelaide to stay a bit longer. The girl had always been Junietta’s favorite among her three granddaughters. That is, if grandmothers were allowed to admit such a thing. She had spent more time with Addy as a child than with Cordelia and Ernestine, who often ran off and left their little sister behind. She’d been a shy girl, sensitive and serious, who’d loved to listen to Junietta tell stories. Bible stories had been her favorites. There was one particular Bible story that had been on Junietta’s mind all day—the one where Jesus happened upon a funeral in which a widow was burying her only son. The Lord had taken pity on the grieving woman and raised her son back to life. What Junietta wouldn’t give to have her son alive again.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Children were supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around. Junietta stared at the silver tray and teapot, her arms too heavy with sorrow to lift the pot and pour tea into the fragile cup. Grief, weighty and suffocating, immobilized her body while her mind refused to stop shuffling through a lifetime of memories and regrets and what-ifs.

Her son was dead. Where had the time gone? His life had passed so swiftly, the days piling up into months and multiplying into years. She could picture A.B. at age nine or ten, curly-haired and bright-eyed and endlessly curious. He’d loved to take things apart to see how they worked, then he would beg her to help him reassemble them again. A music box. The cook’s coffee mill. A pair of binoculars. And one time, his grandfather’s magic lantern. But when A.B. turned sixteen, she had lost him to his father’s and grandfather’s influence. Now she’d lost him forever.

Junietta finally lifted the teapot, but her hand shook as she tried to pour, splashing tea everywhere but in the cup. This wasn’t the first time in her life she’d experienced this debilitating shock and loss. Back then, she had found the strength, somehow, to go on with her life until time finally sanded off grief’s painful edges. She would have to move forward this time, too. Her charitable foundation was much too important to leave to chance. In fact, it was the last thing she had spoken to A.B. about before he died.

He’d surprised her by returning home to New York early from their summer home in Newport. “There’s something important at work that I need to attend to,” he’d told Junietta. She’d taken the opportunity of their time alone together at breakfast one morning to tell him about the symptoms she’d been experiencing: the racing heart, the fatigue so deep that hours of sleep couldn’t erase it, ankles that swelled grotesquely and made wearing shoes impossible, her shortness of breath, her lightheadedness.

He’d been instantly alarmed. “I’ll send for the doctor!”

“I’ve already seen the doctor, dear. Several, in fact. They all say the same thing. There’s no cure for an aging heart that’s wearing itself out.”

“Then you must rest. Get out of this stifling city and spend some time by the sea. Why not come to Newport with me when I go back, and let the fresh salt air revive you?”

“Newport is the last place I would go to get rest! I get dizzy just thinking about the endless rounds of social events that spin like a carousel that’s out of control. And the bland drivel that masquerades as conversation would bore me to death long before my heart was ready to give out. No, I want nothing to do with Newport.”

She saw his love and concern in his worried expression. “Listen, Mother—”

“No, Son, please listen to me. I didn’t tell you about my heart so you would fuss over me and try to mollycoddle me. It’s the charitable foundation that I’m worried about.” She had founded it nearly fifty years ago and had run it ever since, raising and distributing millions of dollars to help the poor. She’d dedicated her life to her work. But she knew she couldn’t run it on her own anymore. “You know how much it means to me, A.B., but I need to step back from it now. Will you help me find someone I can train as my replacement? Someone who’ll care about it as much as I do?”

“Isn’t there someone on your current staff who could take over?”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and while they’re all good at what they do, there’s no one who seems just right for the position.”

“I see. Yes, of course I’ll help. I promise I’ll find someone. But in the meantime, you must promise me that you’ll follow the doctors’ orders and do exactly what they say. That means following directions for once in your life.” He’d smiled when he’d said it and kissed her goodbye. Junietta hadn’t promised him any such thing, of course.

It was the last time she’d seen her son alive. A day later, he had returned home from work in the early afternoon, complaining of a fierce headache. By the next morning he was dead. She had never imagined that he would be leaving this world before she did.

She thought again of Adelaide. With A.B. gone, Addy was all that Junietta had left. She had never been close to her daughter-in-law, Sylvia, whose interests rarely coincided with her own. And Junietta had been unable to have any influence on her older granddaughters, Cordelia and Ernestine, who’d been married off to a Boston Brahmin and an English nobleman. God alone knew what their marriages were like, how inane and purposeless their lives had become. But she still might have a chance to rescue Adelaide. If she could find the strength. If her aging body granted her enough time. She had to convince her beloved granddaughter not to settle for a life of mindless conformity, squandering the few swift years God might give to her.

Junietta took off her shoes and propped her feet on the hassock as the doctors had instructed. Then she reached for her Bible and opened it to her favorite psalm, though she knew the words by heart. They would be her prayer, for Adelaide and for the foundation. “Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom . . . establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands, establish thou it.”

 

Sylvia

The relief Sylvia felt when the last guest departed was enormous. The servants would attend to the remains of the funeral luncheon, and Sylvia could finally be alone. As she left the cavernous dining room to go upstairs, her daughters Cordelia and Adelaide clung to her, offering to go up with her, to stay with her. “That isn’t necessary,” she assured them. “I’m fine.” It occurred to her as she gently freed herself from them that they might need comfort and consolation from her, rather than her needing theirs, but she had neither to give. She couldn’t keep up the calm pretense of courage any longer, nor could she allow her daughters to see her break down. She assured them she would be fine and closed her door.

Sylvia’s bedroom felt warmer than the downstairs rooms, dim and womb-like with the shades drawn against the summer sun. Her lady’s maid helped her change out of her funeral clothes, then asked if she needed anything else. “Nothing, thank you. I’ll ring if I do.” She stood in the center of her room after the girl left and looked around. Everything was in its place, every surface dusted and polished, the bed linens and rugs immaculate and unwrinkled. It looked exactly as it always did, as if nothing in her life had changed, and she had the dizzying urge to tear off the bedspread, throw the pillows onto the floor, dump out the dresser drawers, and knock all the pictures askew so the pristine room would match the uproar in her heart. Her shock was wearing off now that the necessary steps for the funeral were completed. She was starting to comprehend the enormity of her loss.

A.B. can’t be gone. He can’t be! She’d silently repeated the refrain on the endless train journey from Newport. But he was gone. Sylvia was alone. She would be from now on.

She went to the door leading to A.B.’s adjoining bedroom suite and peered inside. It still held his familiar scent. The clothes he’d always worn still hung in his wardrobe. The things he’d carried in his pockets lay on his dresser top, along with his gold watch and chain. But Sylvia couldn’t bear to go inside his room. It was too soon. She closed the door again and sank down at her dressing table.

She hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to him. When he’d decided to return to New York, Sylvia had stayed in Newport, reveling in the parties, the sailing excursions, and the golden glow of summer by the sea. She’d been a little annoyed with him when he’d said he was leaving, because it meant she’d be without an escort at the Vanderbilts’ summer ball. Now she would be without him forever. It was one thing to hold her head high and remain brave through the memorial service, the funeral, and the luncheon afterward. Sylvia wasn’t sure she could continue the act for the rest of her life. She looked at her reflection in the dressing table’s mirror. How was it possible that she was a widow at age forty-six?

“I should have come back to New York with him,” she whispered aloud. She’d repeated those words countless times in the past few days. “There was nothing you could have done,” the doctor had said when she’d repeated them to him. His reassurances hadn’t consoled her. She should have been at her husband’s side when he’d died.

Sylvia stood and began to pace from the dressing table to the window and back again. She had no one to turn to in her time of sorrow. Her society friends were rivals more than confidantes, and Sylvia couldn’t trust that her spilled secrets wouldn’t leak into gossip. She’d always been distant from her bustling, self-assured mother-in-law, even though they’d lived beneath the same enormous roof all these years. Ernestine and Cordelia had married and moved away, leaving only Adelaide, a girl whose shy temperament was so different from Sylvia’s. She would need to remain strong for Adelaide’s sake.

She paused in her pacing and picked up the ivory fan she had used at the funeral. Sylvia had feared that the funeral would never end. It had unleashed an avalanche of memories reminding her of all the funerals she had endured, all the loved ones she had lost. She hadn’t been prepared to bury her husband so soon—but then she hadn’t been prepared to bury any of the others either.

What came next?

Sylvia didn’t know. The family lawyer had assured her he would return to help her settle the estate. Maybe he would know what came next, aside from a year of mourning. A year of living in the shadows as she recovered from her grief while life went on around her. She felt angry with

A.B. for suddenly leaving her. She’d lived comfortably under his protection, never giving a thought about money, enjoying status and power in New York society because of him. But all that was now threatened. The thought terrified her.

The dreadful changes she’d experienced as a child and again as a young woman had been out of her control. This time, she would make sure that she remained in control and that nothing would change. She’d built a good life with her husband, a life she loved. For Adelaide’s sake, for her own sake, and as a memorial to A.B., she would make sure everything continued as before.

She crossed to her bed and lifted the photograph of A.B. that she kept on her nightstand. It shamed her to recall that she hadn’t loved him when they’d married. For all these years, she’d kept the real reason why she had married him a secret. Yet over the years, her respect for him had slowly transformed into affection, then love. Had she told him lately that she loved him? Had she said those words when they were in Newport? Before he returned to New York? It pained Sylvia that she couldn’t remember. How had she allowed days or weeks or even months to pass without saying those precious words?

Sylvia had struggled all day not to give in to the pain and loss she felt, not to let her daughters or the servants or anyone else see her weeping. Jealous rivals had nicknamed her the Ice Queen because of her pale beauty and fair hair, her cool, aloof demeanor. She had perfected that icy role because experience had taught her that it was better to stay distant and cold than to be vulnerable and risk pain. But grief now raged like a fire inside her, thawing the ice. Tonight, Sylvia Grace Stanhope’s heart was breaking. She covered her face as a tide of painful memories welled up.

She allowed them, at last, to overflow in tears.

Taken from Gilded Age by Lynn Austin Copyright © 2024. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved. 

About the Author:

Paul Vryhof Photography, copyright © 2023. All rights reserved

 

Lynn Austin is the bestselling author of nearly thirty novels and was one of the first inductees into the Christy Award Hall of Fame. Her novel Hidden Places was made into a Hallmark Channel movie starring actress Shirley Jones. She and her husband have three grown children and make their home in western Michigan. 

Connect with Lynn through her website, Facebok, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram.

Excerpt: Murder in Postscript by Mary Winters

Winifred gave Amelia an impulsive hug, and Amelia breathed in the beautiful strawberry scent of the child. Edgar hadn’t given her love—­he wouldn’t risk passing on his degenerative condition— ­but he had given her his dear niece, and for that, Amelia would always be grateful.

When the girl was gone, Amelia took the letters into the library, her favorite room in the house. It was something else Edgar had given her that she’d enjoyed very much—­a home with books. While the Feathered Nest had plenty of room for dining and entertaining, it did not afford much room for books, just the special theatricals the family loved and performed. One of her favorite performances was Romeo and Juliet, probably because she and Grady were central characters. Most times her eldest sister, Penelope, took the lead roles. Indeed, Penelope was better at memorizing lines, but Amelia was better at improvising.

She stopped and inhaled a breath. The room smelled of cloves and paper and past cigars. Hundreds of leather-­bound tomes filled the wooden bookshelves that lined the two-­story room. She bypassed the books and made for the large rosewood desk, situated in a bright alcove of windows. It faced a dark green couch, striped chairs, and an ornate oval table. In a nearby corner was a smaller table, with heavy crystal glasses and fine liquor. And on the far wall was a grand stone fireplace, surrounded by two soft damask chairs, comfortable enough for reading and dozing. She’d spent many nights there doing just that.

Slice went the letter opener, revealing the contents for her eyes only. She scanned the penmanship: hurried, sloppy, and slightly smudged from tears. Definitely a relationship problem. Settling into her chair, she began to read the letter.

Dear Lady Agony,

You are a lady of repute. Please tell me what to do. I love the boy next door, but he’s unaware of my feelings. I am certain we possess a special bond, for he smiles at me so. But he’s going to ask another girl to marry him. He told me his plan on the way to the well. I stumbled away, confused, but how I longed to tell him the truth of my feelings. Am I too late?

Devotedly,

Too Late for Love

Amelia dunked her quill in the ink. This one was easy, a drop in the bucket of love letters. She began her response, which would be printed in the magazine. Readers’ letters weren’t included, and a good thing, too. Amelia had a feeling many writers would be embarrassed later by the emotion they’d poured into their requests.

Dear Too Late for Love,

It’s never too late for love. In fact, I prefer the old, and perhaps wiser, adage, Better Late than Never. In your case, it cannot be truer. You love the boy and are late to admit it. Yes. However, there is still time. He hasn’t asked anyone to marry—­yet. Best he knows your true feelings before he proceeds. Even if he does not reciprocate them, you will feel secure in the knowledge that you told him. And that is a feeling you can live with. The other is not.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

The next letter was just as clear-­cut. It was from a reader who was jealous of her friend’s hair, though she didn’t say so outright. The letter accused the friend of spending too much time dressing her long, blonde, thick locks, but it was obvious to Amelia that the letter writer wished for the hair herself.

Another dunk into the inkwell, and Amelia was poised to respond.

Dear Hair, There, and Everywhere,

Some women are born with great hair. Others are born with great wit, vivacity, or kindness. Cultivate one of the latter. Or purchase a wig. The choice is just that simple.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

She waited a moment before opening the last letter, savoring the unknown contents. It would be tomorrow afternoon before she received more letters, the mysteries that made up her day. Because of the popularity of the column, Grady made certain the letters arrived daily so that she wouldn’t fall behind.

She turned the envelope over in her hands, positioning it in front of the light. A few drops of spring sunshine shone through the windows, making burgundy flecks on the wall as it bounced off the nearby decanter of brandy. Soon a housemaid would be in to start a fire, to warm the chill brought on by the late afternoon. Then Amelia would enjoy a glass of sherry before dressing for dinner, a complicated affair that she had never quite mastered.

She noted the seal of the envelope had been hastily done. Dashed out at the last minute, perhaps, the letter might contain time-­sensitive information. Amelia unfolded the paper. The handwriting, no better than chicken scratch, was hard to decipher. Written at a slant, possibly in this morning’s rain burst, it was wrinkled and marked. Yet the writer’s desperation was clear from the first sentence. Amelia scanned the letter twice before dropping her quill, splattering ink on the desk. She grabbed her spectacles and read it a third time. Her eyes must be deceiving her. It was indeed dated this morning.

Dear Lady Agony,

You are my last hope, for I have nowhere else to turn. Could you meet me at St. James’s Park at nine o’clock this evening? Make sure no one follows you. I believe someone is following me. I’ll be at the bench by the pond. You will know me by my red hat. Please make every effort. I’ve witnessed something dreadful, and I fear the worst.

Devotedly,

Charlotte

Postscript: I think my mistress was murdered.

Excerpted from Murder in Postscript by Mary Winters Copyright © 2023 by Mary Winters. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. 

About the Author:

 

Mary Winters is the author of the Lady Agony mystery series. A longtime reader of historical fiction and an author of two other mystery series, Mary set her latest work in Victorian England after being inspired by a trip to London. Since then, she’s been busily planning her next mystery—and another trip!

Connect with Mary through her website, Facebook, and Instagram.

Excerpt: Beneath His Silence by Hannah Linder

Chapter 2

Ella’s hands perspired beneath her elbow-length gloves, but she dared not remove them. If only the hostess would open more windows. A swim in the punch bowl was starting to sound appealing.

Dorthea did not seem to mind the heat—nor did she even seem to notice, for that matter. She appeared solely conscious of the fact that Sir Charles Rutledge’s eldest son was asking her to dance.

“Oh my.” She tilted her head, blushed to a proper degree, then allowed him to escort her into the set.

Ella hid her grin with her fan. Perhaps Miss Fitzherbert found the younger Rutledge even more riveting than his father.

“Miss, do tell me promptly that you are without partner.” A gentleman appeared before her, dumpy and short but with rather pleasing features.

“It is a bit warm, sir. I do not think I feel much like dancing.”

“I say, you’re in quite the wrong place then, are you not?” He chuckled. “We have all come to dance and make merry. I can’t think what else there could be to do.” And with a shake of his head, he bowed and walked away.

Make merry, his words echoed. Any other day, she would have taken the gentleman’s hand and eagerly danced into the night. With great pleasure, she would have strolled throughout the room, laughing and sipping lemonade to her heart’s content.

But it was not any other night, and she had no more desire for laughter than she did for lemonade or dancing.

As another song began to fill the room with a lively tune, Dorthea appeared at Ella’s side. “I came as soon as I could,” she whispered. “There he is. I have only just spotted him.” Her eyes darted to the westerly wall.

Ella could not look. Her throat constricted.

“There is one more thing I must tell you of him—news I heard only tonight. I think you shall find it most interesting.” Dorthea patted her curls as if to assure their placement. “But there is not time to relate it now. I have already promised this dance.” She turned on her heels and dashed away.

Ella was left to herself. The blood ran hot in her veins, yet still, she could not look at him. She hadn’t the strength. He had so long been a faceless monster, a shadowy demon that loomed in every nightmare, every dark corner of her soul.

Oh, Father. She clenched her hands, lifted her eyes.

There was nothing to obstruct her view, nor was there any question as to which gentleman.

Lord Sedgewick stood along the wall with the last shafts of light streaming from the window behind him. He was flesh and bone, indeed.

Dressed in tan pantaloons and waistcoat, with a black tailcoat and white cravat, his appearance was pompous and seemed to boast of his superior position. He stood in much the same manner, straight and rigid, coldly casting his gaze about the room.

His lips were firm and tight, and he appeared ready to escape the inconvenience of his present circumstance. Hair—the deepest brown—was tousled on the top and shorter on the sides. Sideburns invaded either side of his face. His brows were dark and concentrated. If he had looked upon her, she might have frozen.

Yet he never did.

A knot ascended Ella’s throat. She whirled and fled the room, escaping into the quiet, empty corridor. She covered her mouth with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Oh, Lucy. She shook with cold, unbearable passion.

He shall not get away with what he has done to you, Lucy. Her pulse hammered. Upon your grave, I promise.

* * *

Henry listened to the soft, disturbing sound of his own footfalls in Wyckhorn’s corridor. They echoed in his mind until he was empty, bereft.

But it was better than the silence.

In those first few days, perhaps even weeks, he had not noticed the silence. There had been other things to distract his attention. Ridding the manor of her body had been preeminence. Anything so he did not have to look at her.

A nanny had been assigned, as if any woman could restore what was lost, as if any woman could replace the touch of a mother.

The blood had been scrubbed away. There were no more stains. The constable had come and gone, the body buried at last.

That was when, to the most penetrating degree, the curse had settled upon the house.

In dim and haunting fog, this silence had woven its cold fingers through every window and down every corridor. It had inhabited every room, every stairwell. It had managed its way to the garden, touching every bursting bloom, until the petals dried and withered. After a time, the curse had reached as far as the cliffside, where the breeze suddenly lacked warmth and the horizon lost beauty.

Perhaps he might have borne it well if it had stayed within the confines of his own house and land. After all, such a fate was merited. It was his duty, his punishment, to bear whatever God laid to his charge.

But the cursed silence had not merely hovered over Wyckhorn Manor. It had crept through the very portals of his soul and lodged therein. He was forced to carry it day upon day, night upon night—until the silence festered into hate, and the hate into fear, and the fear into torture.

Taken from Beneath His Silence by Hannah Linder. Copyright © 2022. Used by permission of Barbour Publishing. All rights reserved.

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About the Author:

Hannah Linder resides in the beautiful mountains of central West Virginia. Represented by Books & Such, she writes Regency romantic suspense novels. She is a double 2021 Selah Award winner, a 2022 Selah Award finalist, and a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW). Hannah is a Graphic Design Associates Degree graduate who specializes in professional book cover design. She designs for both traditional publishing houses and individual authors, including New York Times, USA Today, and international bestsellers. She is also a local photographer and a self-portrait photographer. When Hannah is not writing, she enjoys playing her instruments–piano, guitar, and ukulele–songwriting, painting still life, walking in the rain, and sitting on the front porch of her 1800s farmhouse.

Connect with Hannah through her website, Facebook, and Instagram.

Excerpt: Blackberry Beach by Irene Hannon

Chapter 1

The mystery woman was back.

Zach Garrett poured the steamed milk into the coffee mixture, creating his signature swirl pattern with the froth—all the while keeping tabs on the female customer who’d paused inside the door of The Perfect Blend, dripping umbrella in hand.

As she had on her first visit two days ago, the lady appeared to be debating whether to stay or bolt.

Wiping the nozzle on the espresso machine, he assessed her. Early to midthirties, near as he could tell—though the oversize dark sunglasses hid most of her features. A curious wardrobe addition, given the unseasonably heavy rain that had been drenching Hope Harbor for the past seventy-two hours.

He handed the latte to the waiting customer and angled toward his Monday/Wednesday/Friday assistant barista. “Bren, you waited on her Monday, didn’t you?” He indicated the slender woman with the dark, shoulder-length blunt-cut hair who continued to hover near the threshold.

Bren spared her a quick once-over as she finished grinding another batch of the top-quality Arabica beans he sourced from a fair-trade roaster in Portland. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember what she ordered?”

“Small skinny vanilla latte.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Nope. I asked, but she said she’d wait for her order at the pickup counter.”

In other words, the woman wanted to remain anonymous.

Also curious.

While it was possible she was one of the many visitors who dropped into their picturesque town for a few days during the summer months, his gut said otherwise.

And since his people instincts had served him well in his previous profession, there was no reason to discount them now.

So who was she—and what was she doing in Hope Harbor?

Only one way to find out.

“I’ll take care of her.”

“That works. I’ve already got customers.” Bren inclined her head toward the couple waiting for their pound of ground coffee.

Zach called up his friendliest smile and ambled down to the end of the serving counter. “Let me guess—a small skinny vanilla latte.”

The woman did a double take . . . took a step back . . . and gave the shop a quick, nervous scan. As if she was scoping out potential threats.

No worries on that score. There was nothing in The Perfect Blend to raise alarm bells. While several of the tables tucked against the walls and cozied up around the freestanding fireplace in the center were occupied, no one was paying any attention to the new arrival. The customers were all reading newspapers, absorbed in books, or chatting as they enjoyed their drinks and pastries in the Wi-Fi-free environment.

The door behind the woman opened again, nudging her aside.

Charley Lopez entered, his trademark Ducks cap secured beneath the hood of a dripping slicker.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He flashed her a smile as he touched the brim of the cap, pushed the hood back to reveal his gray ponytail . . . and gave her an intent look. “I didn’t mean to bump you.”

“No problem.” She dipped her chin and moved aside, putting distance between them. As if his perusal had spiked her nerves.

“Are you coming in or going out?” Charley maintained his hold on the half-open door.

“Coming in.” Zach answered for her. “I’m betting she’s in the mood for a skinny vanilla latte.”

“Excellent choice.” Charley closed the door.

“Bren will handle your order as soon as she finishes with her customers, Charley.” Zach kept his attention on the stranger.

“No hurry.” The taco-making artist who’d called Hope Harbor home for as long as anyone could remember moseyed toward the counter. “I doubt I’ll have much business at the stand, thanks to our odd weather. August is usually one of the driest months on the Oregon coast.”

“Any day is a perfect day for a Charley’s fish taco.”

“I may steal that line. It would be a great marketing slogan.”

“As if you need one. Your long lines are proof that word of mouth generates a ton of business.”

“That it does.” He winked, then directed his next comment to the woman. “If you haven’t visited my truck yet, it’s on the wharf. Next to the gazebo.”

“I may stop by.”

“Please do. First order for newcomers is always on the house.” He continued toward Bren.

Zach frowned after him. Everyone in town knew about Charley’s welcome gift of a free lunch for new residents . . . but this woman hadn’t moved to Hope Harbor.

Had she?

What did Charley know that he didn’t?

She edged toward the exit, and Zach shifted gears. He could pick the town sage’s brain later. In the meantime, why not try to ferret out a few facts himself?

Unless his skittish customer disappeared out the door first.

He hiked up the corners of his mouth again. “My assistant barista told me you ordered a small skinny vanilla latte on your last visit—but I’ll be happy to make a different drink for you today.”

Hesitating, she gave the room one more survey . . . then slid her umbrella into the stand by the door. “No. That’s fine.”

She was staying.

First hurdle cleared.

“Can I have a name for the order?” He picked up a cup and a pen.

Silence.

He arched his eyebrows at her.

She extracted a five-dollar bill and set it on the counter. “Keep the change. And it’s Kat. With a K.” She eased away.

Second hurdle cleared.

“Got it.” He jotted the name. “I’ll have this ready in a couple of minutes.”

She nodded and escaped toward a deserted table in the far corner—out of conversation range.

Blast.

Thwarted at the third hurdle.

He wasn’t going to find out anything else about her.

But what did it matter? Just because he was beginning to crave feminine companionship—and the pool of eligible women in town was limited—didn’t mean he should get any ideas about the first single, attractive female who walked in.

Yeah, yeah, he’d noticed the empty fourth finger on her left hand.

He mixed the espresso and vanilla syrup together, positioned the steam nozzle below the surface of the milk until the liquid bubbled, then dipped deeper to create a whirlpool motion.

Charley wandered over while Bren prepared his café de olla, watching as Zach poured the milk into the espresso mixture, holding back the foam with a spoon to create a stylized K on top of the drink. “Beautiful. You have an artistic touch.”

“Nothing like yours.” He set the empty frothing pitcher aside and reached for a lid as he signaled to the woman in the corner. “I wish my coffee sold for a fraction of what your paintings bring in.”

“Life shouldn’t be all about making money. My stand isn’t a gold mine, but I enjoy creating tacos as much as I enjoy painting. Customers for both can feel the love I put into my work. Like they can feel the love you have for this shop. It seeps into your pores the instant you cross the threshold. A person would have to be über stressed not to find peace and relaxation here.”

The very ambiance he’d hoped to create when he’d opened a year and a half ago.

“You just made my day.”

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Charley motioned toward the foam art. “Why don’t you show that to your customer? Brighten her day.”

Not a bad idea. Perhaps it would elicit a few words from her—or initiate a conversation.

He set the cup on the counter as she approached and offered her his most engaging grin. The one that usually turned female heads. “Your personalized skinny vanilla latte.”

Lips flat, she gave his handiwork no more than a fleeting perusal. “Thanks.”

Not only was the lady immune to his charm, she had no interest in extending their conversation.

Fighting back an irrational surge of disappointment, Zach put a lid on the drink. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” She hurried toward the door, pulled her umbrella out of the stand, and disappeared into the gray shroud hanging over the town.

“I think my attempt to brighten her day was a bust.” He folded his arms as the rain pummeled the picture window.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes the simplest gestures of kindness can touch a heart in unseen ways.”

Zach didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “Assuming she’s willing to let her heart be touched. The lady didn’t exude much warmth.”

“She may be hiding it behind a protective wall. Could be she’s dealing with a boatload of heavy stuff. That can dampen a person’s sociability.”

Zach’s antennas perked up. “You know anything about her?”

“Nothing much—though she seems familiar.” He squinted after her. Shook his head. “It’ll come to me. Anyway, I spotted her on the wharf Monday, sipping a brew from your fine establishment. She was sitting alone on a bench during one of the few monsoon-free interludes we’ve had this week. I got gloomy vibes. Like she was troubled—and could use a friend.”

Zach wasn’t about to question the veracity of Charley’s intuition. The man was legendary in these parts for his uncanny insights and his ability to discern more than people willingly divulged.

Present company included.

How Charley had realized there was an unresolved issue in his past was beyond him. He’d never talked about it to anyone. But the man’s astute comments, while generic, were too relevant to be random. As a result, on more than one occasion he’d been tempted to get Charley’s take on his situation.

Yet as far as he could see, there was no solution to the impasse short of returning to his former world and toeing the line—and that wasn’t happening. The new life he’d built these past two and a half years suited him, and now that he was settled in Hope Harbor, he was more convinced than ever his decision to walk away had been the right one.

“You still with me, Zach?” Charley’s lips tipped up.

“Yeah.” He refocused. “You think she’s a visitor?”

“I’d classify her more as a seeker.”

What did that mean?

Before he could ask, Bren appeared at his elbow. “Here you go, Charley.” She popped a cinnamon stick into his drink, snapped on a lid, and handed the cup over the counter.

“Thanks. It’s a treat to have authentic Mexican coffee available here in our little town.”

“We aim to please.” The door opened again to admit what appeared to be a family of tourists, and Zach lifted his hand in welcome. “Everyone must be in the mood for coffee today.”

“Count your blessings.” Charley raised his cup in salute. “I’m off to the taco stand.”

“I’ll try to send a few customers your direction.”

“Always appreciated. Maybe Kat will stop by.”

“You know her last name?” He kept an eye on the newcomers as they perused his menu board and examined the offerings in the pastry case.

“No. But I may find out if she visits my truck. Or she might come back here again and you can take another crack at breaching that wall she’s put up. See you soon.” He strolled toward the door.

The new customers began to pepper him with questions about the pastry selection, but as he answered, the image of the mystery woman sitting alone on a bench at the wharf—and Charley’s comment that she could use a friend—remained front and center in his mind.

If she was dealing with a bunch of garbage, he ought to cut her some slack for her lack of sociability today. Been there, done that—and it was a bad place to be.

Yet thanks to grit, determination . . . and the kind people of Hope Harbor, who’d welcomed him into the community he now called home . . . he’d survived.

Hard to say if the woman hiding behind the dark shades had similar fortitude . . . and if she was merely passing through, he’d never find out.

But if she stuck around awhile, perhaps in Hope Harbor she’d discover an answer to the worrisome situation Charley thought she might be wrestling with.

Taken from Blackberry Beach by Irene Hannon. Copyright © 2021. Used by permission of Baker Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

About the Author:

Irene Hannon is the bestselling author of more than fifty novels, including One Perfect Spring, Hope Harbor, Sea Rose Lane, Sandpiper Cove, and Pelican Point, as well as Dangerous Illusions and the Private Justice and Men of Valor suspense series. Her books have been honored with three coveted RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America, and she is a member of that organization’s elite Hall of Fame. Her many other awards include National Readers’ Choice, Daphne du Maurier, Retailers’ Choice, Booksellers’ Best, Carols, and Reviewers’ Choice from RT Book Reviews magazine, which also honored her with a Career Achievement award for her entire body of work. In addition, she is a two-time Christy Award finalist.

Connect with Irene through her website, Facebook, and Twitter.

Excerpt: Say No More by Karen Rose

Amos Terrill rubbed his thumb over the lines of the script he’d just carved into the lid of the hope chest. He was almost finished with it, this special project on which he’d been laboring for the past five months, mostly in secret. He’d made countless hope chests, coffee tables, kitchen cabinets, armoires, and jewelry boxes over the thirty years he’d lived in Eden. All of them had been gifts for the membership or items to be sold to bring money into the community coffers.

This was the first time he’d ever made something for himself. Something he didn’t intend to share with anyone.

No one except his Abigail. His heart.

A splinter caught at his thumb and he pulled it out, sucking at the small wound before returning to his task. He could sand the hope chest later. He didn’t have much more time to himself. Everyone knew he stopped working at suppertime, and then people would start dropping by.

Amos, can you fix this? Amos, a minute of your time? Amos, need a pair of strong hands to help with… It didn’t matter what. It was all the same after thirty years.

He picked up the detail blade, his favorite of all of his carving tools. He’d brought it with him to Eden, when he was young and full of hope, ready to change the world.

Now he knew the truth and every day had become a struggle, each harder than the day before.

He had to stay positive. Had to keep smiling. Had to stay patient. Had to nod and pleasantly reply that all was well when he was greeted in passing.

In other words, he had to lie.

He finished carving the last word and took a look at his work. It had become something of a trademark, a personal signature he’d added to all the larger pieces of cabinetry he created.

The words were carved in a scrolling, old‑fashioned script: Surely Goodness And Mercy Shall Follow Me All The Days Of My Life. Psalms 23:6. Anyone in the community would think it simply a beautiful Bible verse, one that matched the song that used to be in his heart.

But it wasn’t. It was a tribute. Penance, even. His way of trying to make it up to a beautiful little girl whom he’d failed. So utterly.

Mercy. He thought of her often, especially after the birth of his Abigail, whose name meant father’s joy. As with most things in his life, Abigail’s birth had been bittersweet, losing her mother just minutes after they’d held their baby for the first time.

He’d thought he’d lose them both. Like he’d lost his first family. Mercy. Gideon. Rhoda. Dammit, Rhoda, I’m so sorry. You tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.

He hadn’t wanted to listen.

But now he knew the truth and he needed to get Abigail out. To safety. To freedom.

He wouldn’t fail her like he’d failed Mercy, Rhoda, and Gideon.

He picked up the hope chest and turned it over effortlessly, a lifetime of woodworking giving him more strength than most men. He began to carve his true signature into the base of the chest, no larger than a dime. A small olive tree with twelve branches. It was exacting, but, at the same time, something he could do with his eyes closed, he’d done it so many times.

“Papa!”

Amos startled, the knife in his hand skipping over the wood, and pain ripped into his finger. “Ugh!” he cried, unable to stifle the sound. “Papa?” Abigail bounded into his workshop, with the same energy with which she tackled everything else in her life. “Tackled” being the operative term. Abigail never walked when she could run, never sat when she could stand. Never whispered. Ever.

His lips curved up into a smile even as he grabbed a clean rag to press to his finger.

“Abi‑girl,” he said with genuine warmth. Abigail was the only one who could summon anything close to happiness for him. She was the only thing that was real and had been for the past six months. Ever since Amos had witnessed Brother Ephraim calmly breaking the necks of Sister Dorcas, her husband, and their sixteen‑year‑old son, three of the dearest people in the world. Amos’s throat burned every time he remembered Brother Ephraim so carelessly tossing their bodies into an unmarked grave.

After which Ephraim had returned to tell the membership that Dorcas and her family had chosen to return to the world after the untimely death of their dear Miriam.

Miriam, who’d walked around with shadows in her eyes. Who, the last time Amos had seen her, had been bruised and bloody and begging to die.

Sister Dorcas had begged Amos for his help. Please help us get her out of here. Please.

Amos had done his best, or he’d thought so at the time, working through the night to fashion a hope chest similar to the one he was now building for Abigail. It wasn’t ornate and hadn’t had a false bottom, but it had been large enough that Miriam had been able to hide inside. Her father and brother had hoisted the hope chest into the bed of Brother DJ’s truck when no one was around to see their muscles strain under the added weight. Miriam was supposed to have climbed from the back of the truck and run for freedom the moment that Brother DJ had slowed enough to make it possible.

But it had all been for naught. Miriam must have been attacked by an animal because her body had been returned to them, too damaged to be identified. And, as punishment for their part in her escape, Sister Dorcas, Brother Stephen, and their son, Ezra, had been murdered in cold blood.

I failed them, too.

But he would not fail again. He would not fail his Abigail.

Taken from Say No More by Karen Rose. Copyright © 2020. Used by permission of Berkley Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

About the Author:

Karen Rose is the award-winning, #1 international bestselling author of some twenty novels, including the bestselling Baltimore and Cincinnati series. She has been translated into twenty-three languages and her books have placed on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany’s der Spiegel bestseller lists.

Connect with Karen through her website, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.