New Release ~ May 1, 2014
Genre: Fiction/Romance/Historical
Release Date: May 1, 2014
Digital ISBN-10: 1631120328 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-032-9
Print ISBN-10: 1631120336 ISBN-13: 978-1-63112-033-6
Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html
In the
bitter winter of 1752, Evangeline Grey is determined to return to London, claim
her inheritance, and lead a solitary, uneventful existence. York
holds too many sad memories for her now, and she's ready to leave it
behind.
When she
finds out that her guardian has designs on her -- and her pending
fortune -- Evangeline manages to escape, but her journey south is fraught
with uncertainty and danger. Mourning the murder of her brother,
still reeling from her aunt’s recent death, and close to penniless until she
finds her way back to London, she's never been more alone.
And then,
on a desolate Northern English moor, she meets a
benevolent stranger who changes everything.
Kendall
Beaumont is a man running from a few demons of his own. On his way to his
home in remote Almsborough, he stops to help the pretty, young runaway.
The future seems fairly bleak for the both of them -- until he
decides to make her an offer she can't refuse...
About Hannelore Moore:
In 2012, Hannelore published a short story in Timeless, a young adult anthology from Cool
Well Press. Since then, her work has appeared in The Rusty Nail literary magazine and on the Flash Fiction World website, among other
places. In June 2013, she won The Iron Writer Challenge #17. Hannelore is a
rabid Anglophile, as you'll discover when you read her work, and recently
published her first novel, Tower Bridge.
You can find more information about her on Hannelore's
Happenings (http://hanneloreshappenings.blogspot.com/)
How to reach Hannelore Moore:
Twitter: @HanneloreMoore1
Excerpt of The Ice Goddess:
1752
Evangeline
I’m worried about my Aunt Caroline. Her laughter
is infrequent these days, and she seems to be walking through the house in a
sort of haze. Once, in the dining room, I even saw her clutch onto the back of
a chair, as though she were steadying herself. When I rushed over to ask what
was wrong, she gently held up her hand to prevent any help I might offer and
said she was fine; she just hadn’t slept well the night before.
As I stand by the window and stare out into the
dull, February afternoon, I have a marvelous hope: perhaps she is with child.
That would make her unbelievably happy. She’s always wanted a baby but was
never so fortunate with her first husband, Andrew.
I turn to see Gregory walk into the small study,
and I smile at him slightly, wondering if he suspects the same thing about his
wife. I think he’s surprised by my expression, for it’s rare that I interact
with him at all.
After two years, I still can’t get over Gregory’s
youth and good looks. He’s so handsome with his chiseled features and pale blue
eyes that it’s almost distracting. He wears wool breeches and one of his
heaviest dress coats, for the day is exceedingly cold, despite the bright,
dancing fire in the grate. He was muttering about the price of perukes the
other day – maybe that’s why he’s powdered his own dark-blond hair and pulled
it back into a queue. From what I understand, he’s nothing like Andrew Bingham,
who was portly and jolly and near sixty when he died. Indeed, in Andrew’s
simple, scholarly house, filled with books and maps that I treasure, Gregory
sometimes appears at a loss.
I’ve always suspected that he wasn’t too pleased
when Em and I came from London to live here. Nevertheless, he’s treated us with
kindness — or maybe a better word is indifference. For some reason, though, my
brother has openly showed disdain towards him ever since we arrived in York. Em
never told me exactly why Gregory bothered him so, but perhaps he saw or
heard things that were kept from me. Then again, Em treats most people
scornfully.
Gregory toys with the chess set on the elm tripod
table. Lately, I’ve been running into him more often, it seems. That musky
cologne he wears always precedes him. He wanders into various rooms when I’m already
there or ends up at the stables planning to ride when I’m preparing my own
horse for an outing. Right now, he picks up a knight made of veined white
marble and studies it absently.
“Would you like to play?” I ask, wishing I were
more comfortable with him so I could broach the subject of my aunt. But I can
wait. Such news is out in good time.
“Play?” he echoes, looking up at me, and the light
in those eyes makes me think he’s talking about something else. There’s a lilt
in his voice as he says, “Not just now, Evangeline.”
I nod. It’s probably better, anyway. We had a game
once, and I won, easily. Gregory was angry about that, although he tried to
pretend otherwise. Em stood in the background, smiling broadly, not attempting
in the least to hide his glee over Gregory’s loss.
We can hear the pounding at the front door from
here. As surprising and desperate as the summons is, I’m glad of it, for
Gregory’s eyes haven’t left me. They’re steady and contemplative. I get nervous
when people pay too much attention to me, always thankful for anything that
might distract them.
We both step out of the study as Caroline starts
down the stairs. Our butler is leading David, the innkeeper’s son, through the entryway.
I push Gregory to the back of my mind because too many things about this new
scene disturb me. Why is David here, wearing that torn black greatcoat? He set
off to Oxford with Em just a fortnight ago to serve as a valet. Em, you see,
wouldn’t hear of living on his own without a manservant. The boy is dirty and
ragged, quite a different creature from the proud, well-scrubbed assistant we
sent south. At that time, he preened in his new clothes, looking as much the
proper young man as Em. Even my brother, usually self-absorbed with his own
concerns, complimented him on his aplomb.
And then there’s Aunt Caroline, approaching David
now, her eyes worried and afraid. She looks terrible. I realize she wasn’t
feeling well today, which explains why she decided to rest after dinner, but
the malady afflicting her is more than a simple headache. There’s something
dreadfully wrong with her. She should have stayed in bed. I know she is too
curious, though, and evidently struggled downstairs again to see who was
calling. Despite the fact that she wears a loose sack dress, it’s obvious she’s
lost weight. Against the dull, snuff-brown linen of her garment, her skin is
pale. Not fashionably so, but sallow and waxy and damp with perspiration. I try
to convince myself that women appear this way in the first months of their
pregnancy, but I give that up quickly enough. My aunt isn’t with child and
probably never will be.
She leads David into the withdrawing room. Gregory
and I follow, even though I want to run in the opposite direction. Out the
front door, to the stables so I can saddle my horse and ride far away from
here. I watch, becoming detached, as she tells David to sit before the fire. The
boy doubles over in a worn upholstered chair and begins to cry. I don’t want to
feel what he’s feeling; I don’t want to know what he’s going to say. After a
while, he calms down, for, despite her illness, Caroline’s easy presence
soothes him. She has a way of doing that, of making people comfortable.
“Can you tell me now?” she asks in her sweet
voice.
David stares at the unadorned, wooden hearth, and
then, with dull, heavy words, he relates a story about highwaymen and the
Oxford coach. Somewhere south of Nottingham, they blocked its progress. The
occupants were mercilessly shot, including Em. Only David managed to escape. It
has taken him this long to return to York, and he misses his mother very much —
more than he ever thought he would. But before he saw her, before he went home,
he wanted to come here to let us know what happened.
I continue to look at David as he speaks, refusing
to believe him. Em can’t be dead. Not Em, who has so much planned for
himself. He intends to write a great novel, just like Mr. Fielding, his idol.
And as long as I can remember, he’s looked forward to teaching at Oxford. He
loves poetry and prose and hopes to help others appreciate the beauty of the
written word. A mere pistol shot wouldn’t hurt someone like him. His sarcasm
and that condescending manner of his make him invulnerable.
“No,” I say to David, almost apologetically. “Not
true.”
Gregory steps over and takes my hand in his, but I
continue to study David. The boy is wrong. He has to be.
“Do you think I’m making this up?” David says.
“Why would I tell such a lie?”
“You’re mistaken.” I shake my head and feel very
dizzy all of a sudden. Gregory has to steady me, apparently, by wrapping his
arm around my shoulders.
“Have Abby take Evangeline up to her room.” I hear
Aunt Caroline say, and the next thing I know, I’m climbing the faded wooden
stairs, my lady’s maid at my side. We are at my threshold and then in my room,
and it’s so incredibly cold. Abby leads me to my plain bed and I have the
presence of mind to sit down on the edge. I stare past her, seeing nothing.
“You must rest.” I hear the catch in her voice and
wonder why she would be upset, because it’s obvious that David is wrong.
I nod anyway, to appease her, and allow her to
prepare me for bed. The day is gray and never seems to end.
