Saturday, September 23, 2023

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Vexing Villains by Alice Winters



A Villain for Christmas #1
Summary:

“I want you to help me rob a bank.”

The moment I heard those words, I should have slammed the door in my brother’s face and cracked open a book. Though if I had, I wouldn’t have run into August, the city’s main superhero… and the man of my dreams. He’s sexy, kind, and sweet—everything I’m supposed to dislike.

You see, I’m a villain… well, kind of. Honestly, I’d rather curl up and read than commit crimes, but life doesn’t always go the way I want it to, especially after being raised by some cut-rate villains who can’t even steal toilet paper without getting caught.

Suddenly, I find myself spending time with August and realize that maybe there is more to life than petting my hairless cat, but the issue is… what happens when he figures out that I’m Leviathan, an extremely powerful villain? Can he still love me regardless of who I am?

When actual supervillains start targeting August, I might be forced to show everyone who I truly am, but villains and heroes aren’t supposed to save each other, let alone fall in love.

Although, I’ve never been one to do what I’ve been told.




A Hero in Hiding #2
Summary:

My days are filled with perusing August’s sexy body, reading, and petting my villain cat.

Or they should be.

Of course I can’t just kick back and let the world burn around me because August “cares” about people and while I really… don’t, the idea of my one true love waltzing off into danger has me chasing after him, flinging bad guys as far as I can with my telekinesis.

This sounds easy enough—I can fling people in my sleep—until someone uses an illusion to make me believe the worst. I might be one of the most powerful supers alive, but when it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what’s not, lines begin to blur.

Along with my band of… misfits (I’m trying to be nice here), including a firestarter who seems to excel at burning the clothes off others (I’m never going to complain about a naked August), an excitable assassin who really needs to start asking before he shoots, and an illusionist who is disgustingly normal, we’re going to save the world.

I’m joking; I don’t care about saving the world. I just want to make sure no one touches my man.


A Villain for Christmas #1
Original Audiobook Review October 2020:
I'll admit that with everything going on in 2020 that I forgot it had only been about 10 months since I read this delightful gem.  Now I didn't forget just how delightfully genius and fun A Villain for Christmas was just that it had been only 10 months since reading it.

Having re-read my original review, I don't think I can add much more without giving anything away because even though this was from last year's Christmas releases I have a feeling there is still plenty that have yet to experience it's greatness.  There still isn't enough superhero stories in the LGBT genres for my liking so I know this won't be the last re-read/listen I enjoy of this Alice Winters gem.

I'll just add that this is the first audiobook with Michael Lesley as narrator for me, personally new-to-me narrators can be almost as "scary" as new-to-me authors. I needn't have worried because he does a wonderful job bringing this holiday fantasy to life, making Landon and August even more real than the author's words already did.  I could almost feel the jarring sensation in my arm when I wanted to smack a couple of characters with a frying pan, that's how into the story the author and narrator make the reader/listener, which is a mark of true talent.

Original Review January 2020:
There is just not enough superhero/supervillain(or in the case of Landon's family not-so-super-supervillians) stories in the LGBT genres.  A Villain for Christmas was the first book of 2020 for me and what a way to kick off the year!

This is another one of those stories that I'm not going to say too much about because you really do need to experience Landon and August's journey to fully appreciate the magnificence that is Alice Walker's storytelling.  There is so much goodness in this story and the genuine-ness of the characters, whether they fall on the good or bad side of the scale, is what makes them stand out.  You'll have moments of shaking your head and saying "WTF is wrong with that person?" and you'll have equal moments of "OMG how can one person be so understanding?"  It's these emotions that make this story so hard to put down.

This is only the second Alice Winters book I've read and it definitely cemented my desire to read more of her backlist this year.  She has a way with what I like to call "snark and cuddle" that make her characters not only fun(even if you want to shake them or smack them upside the head with a kitchen appliance) but that much more real, which isn't easy to do in the fantasy world of superheros and villains.  Being a holiday setting only makes the magic of the story that much sweeter.  Definitely a win win for both my holiday and superhero shelf.



A Hero in Hiding #2
A Villain for Christmas was one of my favorite reads of 2019 and audios of 2020 so when I learned there was a follow-up I was beyond excited(how it missed my book lover buying radar for almost 4 months I'll never knowπŸ˜‰).  So often when one has such a heavy wave of anticipation you tend to be disappointed as it never quite lives up to the expectation.  

That was not the case with A Hero in Hiding.  The anticipation and expectations I had brewing in me were blown out of the water.  

August and Landon are just as intriguing and delightful as there were in 2019.  Their chemistry is palpable and anyone who meets them could never be dissuaded about their devotion to each other. I love the blurred lines between good and evil, especially the way Landon sees things.  Together their love has left impressions on each other when it comes to those lines but in the end you know the decisions they make will be the right path to take.

I won't go into the plot so as not to spoil it for anyone but know that you will never be not entertained and you may just find yourself with your abdomen muscles aching from all the deep in your belly laughing out loud that happens.  And in this day and age, we need all the LOL moments we can get.

As for the supporting cast?  We have returning family members and friends as well as a few new ones who I would never turn down reading about in their own Vexing Villains entry *fingers crossed*.

There is just not enough superhero stories in the LGBTQ genres and certainly not superhero/villain tropes.  Add in the blending of humor, heart, action, and dramedy that only Alice Winters could pull off and maintain throughout from cover to cover, A Hero in Hiding is not only a brilliant read it is a full on, hands down, no doubt about it winning gem not to be missed.

RATING:



A Villain for Christmas #1
“Landon, I want you to help me rob a bank.”

I try to ignore my brother, since I clearly didn’t hear him right.

“Won’t you do me a favor?” he asks after letting himself into my house without bothering to knock. Not that knocking would have done him any good since I wasn’t planning on letting him into my house at all anyway.

“No,” I say without bothering to look up from the book I’m reading.

“Just hear me out!” he exclaims.

I lower the book and look up at my older brother Brandon. Thankfully, I don’t take much after him. Not that he’s ugly or anything like that, he’s not, but just because he’s an idiot. And the one thing I don’t want to be is an idiot. “What, Brandon?”

“I want you to help me rob a bank.”

“No! You asked me last week, and I already told you I have better things to do. Like…” I look around as I try to think of something. It’s hard when my life consists of trying to avoid my family and reading every book I can get my hands on. Oh, and did I mention avoiding my family? Honestly, that’s a full-time career when they all have powers that allow them to better annoy the shit out of me. “Work.”

“Mom told me you got fired,” Brandon says as he sits down on the couch next to me.

“I got fired because Mom came in and told the boss that she needed me. When he said I was working and couldn’t just leave, she told him he looks like an overripe nut sac.”

Brandon starts laughing. “That’s so cool.”

“I hate all of you,” I decide as I lift my book back up.

“About the bank. Come on, you borrowed money from me last week.”

I stare at my brother in disbelief. “Five dollars. You honestly think the equivalent of you lending me five dollars is me helping you rob a bank? I’m not going to help you rob a bank again!”





A Hero in Hiding #2
CHAPTER ONE
LANDON
“Hey, August… would you still love me if I accidentally, hypothetically threw a reporter into the river?” I ask as I hold the phone against my ear so I can talk to the world’s… no, the universe’s best human alive while the world’s best cat stands at my feet watching the splashing man.

“Uh… I guess it depends. If it was truly an accident, did you help him out of the river?”

I look over at the man splashing around in the river yelling something like “Help me! I’m so goddamn annoying that even Hell doesn’t want me!”

“No… I haven’t… I mean, hypothetical me has not assisted the man at all, much like when I told him to get the camera out of my face and he refused to… I mean hypothetically,” I say.

“So… let me get this straight… when a reporter annoyed you, you used your telekinesis to chuck him into the river?” August asks.

“Hypothetically, that is correct.”

“Uh-huh… um… I guess just as long as others don’t see and he doesn’t drown, I’m sure it’s fine.”

I look over at the other reporters snapping pictures of me as well as the man in the river. They’re getting a good angle of both of us as I stand watching my victim. “So… throw the other reporters in too? Got it.”

I aim my hand at the reporters and watch just how quickly they put their cameras away. One even whistles a cheery tune as he hurries over to his vehicle.

“Maybe… we don’t throw them in,” August says as I use my telekinesis to lift the only reporter who thought that it was worth it to stay.

“You sure?” I ask. “I mean, he’s already in the air.”

“Positive. Put him down.”

I shrug. “I mean… I guess dropping him would be a good warning as well.”

“Wait, before you drop him, how high in the air is he?” August asks.

I glance up at the man. “How high do you want him to be?”

“Not high,” the reporter cries.

“He said he wants to be super high,” I say.

“I think three inches is a good threat.”

I grumble because I’m positive three inches is not a good threat atall,but I dump him anyway before I head off. “Well, that was no fun.” Zacia (officially known as Balzac), my sphynx who is currently decked out in a T-shirt with one of those green alien heads on it that says “I wanna probe you,” meows at me. I’m pretty sure when I ordered the shirt the listing said “I wanna love you,” but this is better in my opinion.

“Did you get the guy out of the river?” August asks.

I stop walking and look over my shoulder. “I totally forgot about him.”

“Landon!”

I hurry over to the edge of the bridge and see that he’s doing a perfectly fine job of removing himself from the river, and I debate tossing him back in. Eh, it’s already taken up plenty of my time, so I resume walking.

“I thought you had class today,” August says.

“Oh, that stupid thing Valerie wanted me to attend about how to properly act in public? Yeah, I skipped that. I am not interested in being a hero. I amnota hero. You can do your little hero stuff and I will guard your ass and—”

“Oh shit, I just got an alert that there’s a robbery in progress,” August says. “Can you help?”

“Angrily,” I say with a grumble as I turn back to the wet reporter who is glowering at me. “Hey, pencil dick, I need you to drive me to a robbery.”

“I’m not…” He must see the fury in my eyes because he nods and hurries over to his car. He even opens the passenger door for me like a kind gentleman.

I get into the passenger seat as I rattle off the information August is giving me before grimacing. “God, you smell like a dead fish.” Even Zacia thinks he smells nasty judging by the way she’s sniffing the air in his direction.

He shifts his narrowed eyes onto me. “And whose fault do you think that is?”

I grab his water bottle out of the cupholder and shove it into his face. “Hey! Hey! Can you tell me what Chronobender is doing? Hey! Hey! Hey!” I continue to obnoxiously ram it into his face, pretending it’s the microphone he assaulted me with, until he turns to look at me.

“I see.”

I grin, proud of myself. “Yeah? You see how annoying it is?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”

I feel like that was a job well done. “You know what I wanted to do today?”

“No.”

“Take a nap. Read a book. Peruse my Augustine with my eyeballs, and instead, someone decided to rob a bank.”

“Didn’t you use to rob banks?” he asks.

“Did I ask you… Mr. Reporter?”

“It’s Dave.”

“Yeah? Dave? Huh? Did I ask you?”

He grumbles something that he should probably be happy I don’t hear. I stretch and yawn. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when you get there.”

“It’s like two minutes away.”

“Fuck… I didn’t sign up for this shit. You know that? Not at all,” I grumble as I sink against the car door and question everything. Most of all, I question why I can’t just take a nap and read a book.

The reporter, who is more than thrilled at the opportunity to get right up in the action, pulls up near a police car as the officer starts to yell and wave at him until he sees me.

I get out and head over to where August has just arrived on scene. Everyone is thrilled about his arrival but not as thrilled as me.

“You look handsome today,” I say with a smile. “You just look delightfully sexy.”

“Um… thanks. I… you know… the robbery?”

“Oh. I forgot the moment I saw you. Is it just one guy?” I ask as Valerie, August’s manager, hurries after him. She’s a woman… an… irritating woman that I kind of like. She slowly, ever so slowly broke me down and forced me to feel feelings about her. It’s like if a demon fucked a lemon and had little lemon babies, you’d have Valerie.

Needless to say, we’re tight.

Kind of.

Only when she lets me get my way.

Of course, off to the side are some wannabe heroes who will likely accomplish nothing more than getting in August’s way. They seem to run rampant in the city like they think if they have some kind of superpower and a mask, it’s their right to run into danger for a chance of being dubbed a hero or a vigilante or something.

Valerie ignores them and turns back to us. “To my understanding there are two villains inside. A man and a woman, both with powers. The man is a sharpshooter, so—”

“Is that them right there?” I ask as I point to the man holding a woman hostage. He’s come over to the window like he thinks he’s going to make negotiations while the female robber hangs out in the background looking stupid.

“Yes, so August is going to stop time and—”

With a wave of my hand, I whip both robbers up into the air while snapping the hostage away, drive the robbers through the glass door and drop them on the ground in front of Valerie who gawks at them.

“August, that new book I want came out today. Can we go get it?” I have to talk kind of loudly over the groaning noises the robbers are making. Something about their bodies going through extremely tough glass must have been the issue.

August also seems to be gazing at the robbers in mild fascination. “Um… yeah… sure. Just… um… Valerie, are we done here?”

Valerie stares down at the robbers. “It… it took you longer to put your suit on.”

“I know,” August says as he tries to pick it out of his ass crack slyly. I would like to volunteer to help with that.

“You… ugly little bitch…” the male robber says.

“Ooh. August, this robber likes me and wants me to crush his heart,” I say as I hold my hand out, but August claps both hands over it before I can.

“Nope. No… let’s… I don’t want blood on my shoes, you know? We can’t go to the bookstore with blood on our shoes, now can we?”

I debate that then shrug because what if Zacia got blood on her shirt? Her little innocent eyes shouldn’t be subjected to such horrors. “True. Fish Reporter, drive us,” I demand as I search for him, but he’s long gone. Huh. Weird. “Valerie, we need your car.”

“You’re not leaving yet! August has to go in and make sure everyone is safe and pose for pictures,” Valerie says as she taps her foot like she’s impatient about this.

I stare at her as she glowers back, and suddenly, we’re in a death staring match with each other. Which is hilarious because I’m positive I would win yet she’s scary good at it. God, why’s she so evil?

And then she caves. How weak of her. “I suppose you both have worked very hard this week, so the police can handle it just this once,” she says.

I smile and step on the robber on the way to the car. He grunts but says little else during my travels. I even pause right when I’m on the middle of his back for a picture—see? I’m getting the hang of this hero stuff. When I reach Valerie’s car, August gets in the driver’s seat and the crowd parts for us.

“Good job,” August says.

“Thank you!”

“It was… impressive. Like… really impressive.”

“Did it make you horny?”

“Umm… I don’t know about that, but I sure was impressed,” August says while giving me the sweetest smile. How the hell I ever ended up lucky enough to be with the literal nicest man in the world is beyond me. “Okay… it made me a little horny. I just… thought it’d sound weird.”

“God, you’re hot,” I whisper.

“Thank you. You are very hot as well.”

I grin at him as we drive off, leaving the scene of the crime as we find our way over to the largest bookstore in the area. When I met August, he only read a little, so I’ve been trying to show him the wonders of books by buying him every book he even feigns interest in. At the speed he’s reading them, he’ll be done with the stack by the time he’s a hundred and fifteen.

The moment we enter, there is immediate chaos and far too much “It’s Chronobender!” and even a “He can Chronobendme over a table.”

“I’ll fuck you up, whoever said that,” I growl, mostly because I’m irritated I didn’t come up with it myself. I mean come on, I am the man with the jokes; how dare they try to one-up me?

I usher August up the escalator to the top where the fantasy books reside. “What do you think about the series you started?”

“I like it!” he declares.

My eyes snap over to his. “You do? I’m so excited I finally have someone to talk to about it. What’s your favorite part so far? Is it the sexy side character? I love how sassy he is.”

“I… like the cat,” he says.

I stare at him. “I don’t… I don’t remember there being a cat.” How could I forget a detail like this? I have a near perfect memory when it comes to every book I’ve ever read… so how could my brain deceive me like this?

“Yeah, when the main character like… walks into town and the… cat, you know… scampers off.”

“Are you on page one?” I ask in disbelief.

“I mean… maybe… page two, but you know?”

I gape at this man who I have given my heart and soul to. I have ripped my shriveled-up heart out of my chest and passed it over to him, and then he does this to me? “I donotknow. A-Augustine.”

And then he gives me a huge smile, and I forget everything heinous he’s ever said to me, and while he knows that I am putty in his hands he goes, “So there’s an interview tomorrow at the broadcasting station.”

“I thought that shit blew up,” I grumble.

“Well… yeah but they rebuilt it like four months ago.”

“Yeah, but then… I thought it blew upa secondtime,” I say.

“No, it didn’t. Please don’t blow it up.”

“What if—”

August unjustly shakes his head. “No what-ifs.”

“Accidentally—”

“Like you accidentally tossed the reporter in the river?”

I smirk. “Come on, August. You can’t expect me to change in one day.”

“It’s been six months.”

“Yeah, in hero time. Like one day in villain time.”

He grins at me as he sits down in a chair that faces me. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while, so I’ll take a seat right here.”

“You’re smart too. The whole package.”

“That’s me.” Zacia seems to think that sitting on his lap is a better idea than staring at me while I look at books, so she jumps onto him. He cocks his head when he reads her shirt, but he secretly loves it.

I head over to the shelf to begin my adventure before glancing over my shoulder to see August still watching me. He gives me a smile that just delights me because I’m an absolute sucker for his love. “Whatchu watching?”

“Just the sexiest man alive.”

“Oh? Who’s that?” I ask as I feign looking around.

“It’s a secret.”

Seeing as August is the head hero in the city—and by extension I have some weird “kind of a hero but kinda awful at it” title—people aren’t allowed within several feet of us, even out in public. After his adoring fans nearly caused some people to die, there was a strict policy put in place. It means that every time we go out, there are all these crazy fans in heat staring at us but keeping a respectable ten feet from us. I suggested we hire a man with a tape measure to verify that everywhere we go because I thought it’d be amusing, but Valerie shot it down pretty quickly.

August is shockingly used to it, and them constantly crowding around us doesn’t even faze him, while I still,occasionally,toss someone across the roomaccidentallyif I feel like they get too close or if their face irritates me, or if they say something annoying, or if they do something irritating… I really don’t need much of an excuse.

“So if I go to this broadcasting hell, what do I get in return? I need something to look forward to or I won’t be able to handle it,” I say.

“What do you want?”

“You naked.”

His small crowd of onlookers gasp. They’re little perverts like me, clearly.

“Hmm… but you already get that whenever you want,” he says, and there’s another gasp. Dear god, these are some thirsty bitches.

“True… I want to ride in one of those swan boat thingies together. You know like people do in the movies on dates? Where you like pedal it around and stuff.”

August looks surprised as he nods. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“Naked.”

More gasping.

“Oh! August, I had an idea the other day. You know how they make a calendar every year of you in different poses? I was thinking we should do one with you naked. We wouldn’t even have to work another day in our lives. We’d be rich.”

“I love you enough that I am more than willing to give you just about everything you want, Landon, but not that.”

There are a coupletskswith that one. Clearly, this crowd has taste.

I choose a couple of books then see one that my brother Nolan loves and grab the newest in the series before making my way over to August who proceeds to hold my books for me. Zacia doesn’t think it’s enough weight, so she jumps to the top of the pile and begins to groom her paw adorably.

I pick up my phone and snap a picture of them because I absolutely love it when my two favorite beings look cute together.

“So… Valerie wanted me to talk to you,” August starts.

“No.”

“She thought that you’d possibly listen to me even though I informed her that you are a very… independent man who will choose to do what he wants.”

This man clearly gets me.

“I will listen just because I enjoy the sound of your voice, but that’s it.”

“She’s hoping that you’ll wear the suit she made for you.”

“It’s orange. Do I look like a man who’d wear orange? She’s trying to make me look like a pumpkin. Do you want to fuck a pumpkin, August?”

“I mean… those mouth holes do look inviting,” he teases.

I grin at him. “You know someone’s recorded that and it’ll be all over the internet by tomorrow.”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry, Valerie catches all of that and goes to their homes and threatens their lives.”

“I hate it when she does things that make me like her more. Anyway. Is the suit the only thing? Tell her I will wear something if I’m all in black. I want it like a condom where it covers all of me. Wait! No, I want it so there’s a hole on the tip so my hair is spilling out and two eye holes; the rest will be all black latex.”

“Okay… if that’s what my babe wants, I guess that’s what he gets.”

I grin as I find another book before wandering over to the graphic novels. Since it’s across the store and I don’t feel like picking up my books, I just levitate August’s chair, books and all. He yelps and starts grabbing things in surprise as I take him with me to the other side of the store. Zacia is as cool as a cucumber as she digs her nails into August’s shoulder to keep from tumbling off.

“I can walk.”

“That sounds stupid,” I say as I reach the section I want and put him down. He shrugs and sinks back into the chair, telling me he’s enjoying it. “What about graphic novels? You think you’d like them?”

“Yeah, I’ve enjoyed some in the past.”

“Perfect,” I say as I gather up some more that he wears beautifully. “I love bookstores, did you know that?”

“I never would have guessed,” he says with a smile.

Thankfully, August has super strength to carry my pile of books to the counter where I check out.

“Do you want me to carry those?” the cashier asks. I’m pretty sure the books weigh more than her, so the idea of her hefting them out to the car amuses me more than it should, but August declines the offer before I can.

* * *

August moved in with me full time about two months ago. Before that we’d spent almost every night together, so it really didn’t seem to matter that we were technically living separately. The hardest part was convincing Valerie to let me move him into my home since she claimed I got it through nefarious means. I didn’t bother denying that but did explain to her that August should live in luxury, which he now does in my mini mansion. I think she also hated the idea of having to hire enough movers to move all my books so much that she just caved.

He loves it. That’s all that matters.

“So… these books go on your unread bookshelf, right? The bookshelf overflowing with books?” he asks.

“I feel like you’re being sassy but yes. These ones are shinier, obviously, so I needed more.”

“Right,” he says with a grin. “Oh man, there are so many unread books there’s actually no room for more.”

“There’s always room for more. You might just… have to double stack them. If you flip them on their side, you can fit more in,” I assure him.

“Right,” he says as he sets to work trying to find adequate room for my new hoard before watching me pick up a different book to read. “Hold on. You had to have all of these new books to read, yet… you’re going to read one you already read?”

“August… I feel like you don’t understand.”

His eyebrow arches as he watches me. “You’re probably right. I’m not quite sure I do.”

“You will learn. You are merely in a cocoon at this point, August. Soon you will bust out as a motherfucking beautiful butterfly who will fuck up anyone who disrupts our reading time.”

“Ah, I see. Makes total sense,” he says. “What if I put some of these books that don’t fit in a box?”

“Don’t you fucking dare. I have toseethem, August. I have tofeelthem. I have to stroke them.”

August slowly sets one in a cardboard box that had brought more books to me just this morning.

I gasp. “Don’t you dare.”

“They could fit right under our bed.”

I gasp again. “August… I thought youlovedme. Zacia… I know you’re used to two daddies but… but I have to murder your other father.”

“You’re not even going to break up, you’re going straight to murder?” August asks, sounding weirdly disbelieving.

“I don’t want anyone else to ever have you,obviously.”

He shakes his head as he retrieves the books and Tetrises them onto the shelf. “Do you forgive me?”

“Maybe.”

“Good.”

While I do love my family, they’ve always had a very hands-off approach. It seemed like we only ever did something together when they needed me for something ridiculous. Much of my life was spent alone in the house with my books while occasionally being dragged off to some half-price supervillain bullshit. Lost in my fictional worlds, I thought I had everything I wanted, but I realize now how incredibly lonely I was. How I did so much bullshit just for some kind of approval or attention. And with August, I don’t have to do any of that. I don’t have to feel like that.

Having him here has made me happier than I ever thought I could possibly be.

I glance over as he tries to slyly fit the remaining book that he can’t seem to find a place for on the read bookshelf.

“Don’t you dare, you sexy beast,” I shout as I grab the book before he can do such a disgusting deed.

August laughs as he hooks me with his arm and pulls me in to kiss me. “Oh no. What are you going to do now?”

“Clearly, someone needs a time out. And I will enforce that by making you clean Zacia’s litter box.”

“Such a threat!” he teases as I reach up and kiss him again as I sink into him.

How did I ever snag someone like him?

And I didn’t even have to use my telekinesis to make him stay!


Author Bio:
Alice Winters started writing stories as soon as she was old enough to turn her ideas into written words. She loves writing a variety of things from romance and comedy to action. She also enjoys reading, horseback riding, and spending time with her pets.


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A Villain for Christmas #1

A Hero in Hiding #2

Series


Friday, September 22, 2023

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: Frenchman's Creek by Daphne du Maurier



Summary:

This "highly personalized adventure, ultra-romantic" story from the author of Rebecca tells the tale of a woman looking for adventure, only to find it in the arms a rebellious criminal (New York Times). 

Bored and restless in London's Restoration Court, Lady Dona escapes into the British countryside with her restlessness and thirst for adventure as her only guides. Eventually Dona lands in remote Navron, looking for peace of mind in its solitary woods and hidden creeks. She finds the passion her spirit craves in the love of a daring French pirate who is being hunted by all of Cornwall. Together, they embark upon a quest rife with danger and glory, one which bestows upon Dona the ultimate choice: sacrifice her lover to certain death or risk her own life to save him.



1
When the east wind blows up Helford river the shining waters become troubled and disturbed and the little waves beat angrily upon the sandy shores. The short seas break above the bar at ebb tide, and the waders fly inland to the mud-flats, their wings skimming the surface, and calling to one another as they go. Only the gulls remain, wheeling and crying above the foam, diving now and again in search of food, their gray feathers glistening with the salt spray.

The long rollers of the Channel, travelling from beyond Lizard point, follow hard upon the steep seas at the river mouth, and mingling with the surge and wash of deep sea water comes the brown tide, swollen with the last rains and brackish from the mud, bearing upon its face dead twigs and straws, and strange forgotten things, leaves too early fallen, young birds, and the buds of flowers.

The open roadstead is deserted, for an east wind makes uneasy anchorage, and but for the few houses scattered here and there above Helford passage, and the group of bungalows about Port Navas, the river would be the same as it was in a century now forgotten, in a time that has left few memories.

In those days the hills and the valleys were alone in splendor, there were no buildings to desecrate the rough fields and cliffs, no chimney pots to peer out of the tall woods. There were a few cottages in Helford hamlet, but they made no impression upon the river life itself, which belonged to the birds—curlew and redshank, guillemot and puffin. No yachts rode to the tide then, as they do today, and that stretch of placid water where the river divides to Constantine and Gweek was calm and undisturbed.

The river was little known, save to a few mariners who had found shelter there when the south-west gales drove them inshore from their course up-channel, and they found the place lonely and austere, a little frightening because of the silence, and when the wind was fair again were glad to weigh anchor and set sail. Helford hamlet was no inducement to a sailor ashore, the few cottage folk dull-witted and uncommunicative, and the fellow who has been away from warmth and women over-long has little desire to wander in the woods or dabble with the waders in the mud at ebb tide. So the winding river remained unvisited, the woods and the hills untrodden, and all the drowsy beauty of midsummer that gives Helford river a strange enchantment was never seen and never known.

Today there are many voices to blunder in upon the silence. The pleasure steamers come and go, leaving a churning wake, and yachtsmen visit one another, and even the day-tripper, his dull eye surfeited with undigested beauty, plows in and out among the shallows, a prawning net in hand. Sometimes, in a little puffing car, he jerks his way along the uneven, muddy track that leads sharply to the right out of Helford village, and takes his tea with his fellow-trippers in the stone kitchen of the old farm building that once was Navron House. There is something of grandeur about it even now. Part of the original quadrangle still stands, enclosing the farmyard of today, and the two pillars that once formed the entrance to the house, now overgrown with ivy and encrusted with lichen, serve as props to the modern barn with its corrugated roof.

The farm kitchen, where the tripper takes his tea, was part of Navron dining-hall, and the little half-stair, now terminating in a bricked-up wall, was the stair leading to the gallery. The rest of the house must have crumbled away, or been demolished, for the square farm-building, though handsome enough, bears little likeness to the Navron of the old prints, shaped like the letter E, and of the formal garden and the park there is no trace today.

The tripper eats his split and drinks his tea, smiling upon the landscape, knowing nothing of the woman who stood there once, long ago, in another summer, who caught the gleam of the river amid the trees, as he does, and who lifted her head to the sky and felt the sun.

He hears the homely farmyard noises, the clanking of pails, the lowing of cattle, the rough voices of the farmer and his son as they call to each other across the yard, but his ears are deaf to the echoes of that other time, when someone whistled softly from the dark belt of trees, his hands cupped to his mouth, and was swiftly answered by the thin, stooping figure crouching beneath the walls of the silent house, while above them the casement opened, and Dona watched and listened, her hands playing a little nameless melody upon the sill, her ringlets falling forward over her face.

The river flows on, the trees rustle in the summer wind, and down on the mud flats the oyster-catchers stand at ebb tide scanning the shallows for food, and the curlews cry, but the men and women of that other time are forgotten, their headstones encrusted with lichen and moss, their names indecipherable.

Today the cattle stamp and churn the earth over the vanished porch of Navron House, where once a man stood as the clock struck midnight, his face smiling in the dim candlelight, his drawn sword in his hand.

In spring the farmer's children gather primroses and snowdrops in the banks above the creek, their muddy boots snapping the dead twigs and the fallen leaves of a spent summer, and the creek itself, swollen with the rains of a long winter, looks desolate and gray.

The trees still crowd thick and darkly to the water's edge, and the moss is succulent and green upon the little quay where Dona built her fire and looked across the flames and laughed at her lover, but today no ship lies at anchor in the pool, with rakish masts pointing to the skies, there is no rattle of chain through the hawse hole, no rich tobacco smell upon the air, no echo of voices coming across the water in a lilting foreign tongue.

The solitary yachtsman who leaves his yacht in the open roadstead of Helford, and goes exploring up river in his dinghy on a night in midsummer, when the nightjars call, hesitates when he comes upon the mouth of the creek, for there is something of mystery about it even now, something of enchantment. Being a stranger, the yachtsman looks back over his shoulder to the safe yacht in the roadstead, and to the broad waters of the river, and he pauses, resting on his paddles, aware suddenly of the deep silence of the creek, of its narrow twisting channel, and he feels—for no reason known to him—that he is an interloper, a trespasser in time. He ventures a little way along the left bank of the creek, the sound of the blades upon the water seeming over-loud and echoing oddly among the trees on the farther bank, and as he creeps forward the creek narrows, the trees crowd yet more thickly to the water's edge, and he feels a spell upon him, fascinating, strange, a thing of queer excitement not fully understood.

He is alone, and yet—can that be a whisper, in the shallows, close to the bank, and does a figure stand there, the moonlight glinting upon his buckled shoes and the cutlass in his hand, and is that a woman by his side, a cloak around her shoulders, her dark ringlets drawn back behind her ears? He is wrong, of course, those are only the shadows of the trees, and the whispers are no more than the rustle of the leaves and the stir of a sleeping bird, but he is baffled suddenly, and a little scared, he feels he must go no farther, and that the head of the creek beyond the farther bank is barred to him and must remain unvisited. And so he turns to go, heading the dinghy's nose for the roadstead, and as he pulls away the sounds and the whispers become more insistent to his ears, there comes the patter of footsteps, a call, and a cry in the night, a far faint whistle, and a curious lilting song. He strains his eyes in the darkness, and the massed shadows before him loom hard and clear like the outline of a ship. A thing of grace and beauty, born in another time, a painted phantom ship. And now his heart begins to beat, and he strains at his paddles, and the little dinghy shoots swiftly over the dark water away from enchantment, for what he has seen is not of his world, and what he has heard is beyond his understanding.

Once more he reaches the security of his own ship, and looking back for the last time to the entrance of the creek, he sees the full moon white and shining in all its summer glory rise above the tall trees, bathing the creek in loveliness and light.

A nightjar churrs from the bracken on the hills, a fish breaks the surface of the water with a little plopping sound, and slowly his ship turns to meet the incoming tide, and the creek is hidden from him.

The yachtsman goes below to the snug security of his cabin, and browsing among his books he finds at last the thing for which he has been searching. It is a map of Cornwall, ill-drawn and inaccurate, picked up in an idle moment in a Truro bookshop. The parchment is faded and yellow, the markings indistinct. The spelling belongs to another century. Helford river is traced fairly enough, and so are the hamlets of Constantine and Gweek. But the yachtsman looks away from them to the marking of a narrow inlet, branching from the parent river, its short, twisting course running westward into a valley. Someone has scratched the name in thin faded characters—Frenchman's Creek.

The yachtsman puzzles awhile over the name, then shrugs his shoulders and rolls away the map. Presently he sleeps. The anchorage is still. No wind blows upon the water, and the nightjars are silent. The yachtsman dreams—and as the tide surges gently about his ship and the moon shines on the quiet river, soft murmurs come to him, and the past becomes the present.

A forgotten century peers out of dust and cobwebs and he walks in another time. He hears the sound of hoof-beats galloping along the drive to Navron House, he sees the great door swing open and the white, startled face of the manservant stare upward at the cloaked horseman. He sees Dona come to the head of the stairs, dressed in her old gown, with a shawl about her head, while down in the silent hidden creek a man walks the deck of his ship, his hands behind his back, and on his lips a curious secret smile. The farm kitchen of Navron House is a dining-hall once more, and someone crouches on the stairs, a knife in his hand, while from above there rings suddenly the startled cry of a child, and down upon the crouching figure a shield crashes from the walls of the gallery, and two little King Charles spaniels, perfumed and curled, run yapping and screaming to the body on the floor.

On Midsummer Eve a wood fire burns on a deserted quay, and a man and a woman look at one another and smile and acknowledge their secret, and at dawn a ship sails with the tide, and the sun shines fiercely from a bright blue sky, and the seagulls cry.

All the whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them; part of the sea, the ship, the walls of Navron House, part of a carriage that rumbles and lurches in the rough roads of Cornwall, part even of that lost forgotten London, artificial, painted, where link-boys carried flares, and tipsy gallants laughed at the corner of a cobbled mud-splashed street. He sees Harry in his satin coat, his spaniels at his heels, blundering into Dona's bedroom, as she places the rubies in her ears. He sees William with his button mouth, his small inscrutable face. And last he sees La Mouette at anchor in a narrow twisting stream, he sees the trees at the water's edge, he hears the heron and the curlew cry, and lying on his back asleep he breathes and lives the lovely folly of that lost midsummer which first made the creek a refuge, and a symbol of escape.



2
The church clock struck the half-hour just as the coach clattered into Launceston and drew up at the Inn. The driver grunted, and his companion swung himself to the ground and ran to the horses' heads. The driver put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. Presently an ostler came from the Inn onto the square, rubbing his sleepy eyes in astonishment.

"No time to linger. Bring water at once, and a feed for the horses," said the driver and he rose in his seat, and stretched himself, glancing sourly about him, while his companion stamped his numbed feet on the ground and grinned back at him in sympathy.

"Their backs are not yet broken, that's one blessing," he called softly; "perhaps they are worth all the guineas Sir Harry paid for them after all." The driver shrugged his shoulders. He was too tired and too stiff to argue. The roads were damnation, and if the wheels were broken and the horses destroyed he would be to blame, not his companion. If they could have traveled quietly, taking a week over the journey, but this devilish breakneck speed, sparing neither man nor beast, all because of my lady's damned ill-humor. Anyway, thank God, she was asleep for the moment, and all was quiet within the coach. His wishes had misled him, however, for as the ostler returned, bearing a pail of water in either hand, and the horses began to drink greedily, the window of the coach was flung open and his mistress leaned out, no trace of sleep about her, her eyes wide and clear, and that cool, imperious voice, which he had grown to dread during these last days, as commanding as ever.

"Why the devil this delay?" she said. "Did you not stop to water the horses three hours ago?"

The driver muttered a prayer for patience, and climbing down from his seat he approached the open window of the coach.

"The horses are not accustomed to the pace, my lady," he said; "you forget that during the last two days we have covered nearly two hundred miles—besides, these roads are not fit for animals so highly bred as yours."

"Nonsense," came the reply, "the higher the breeding the greater the endurance. In future you will halt the horses only when I give the command. Pay the fellow here what we owe him, and continue the journey."

"Yes, my lady." The man turned away, his mouth set in weary obstinate lines, and with a nod to his companion, and muttering under his breath, he climbed back again to his seat.

The pails of water were removed, the thick-headed ostler gaped without understanding, and once more the horses pawed at the ground and snorted, the steam rising from their hot flesh, and so away out of the cobbled square and the little sleepy town and out again onto the rough and jolting road.

Dona stared moodily out of the window, her chin cupped in her hands. The children were still asleep, that was one blessing, and even Prue, their nurse, her mouth open and her face flushed, had not stirred for two hours or more. Poor Henrietta had been sick for the fourth time, and now lay pale and wan, a tiny edition of Harry, her golden head against the nurse's shoulder. James never stirred; his was the true deep sleep of babyhood, he would not wake perhaps until they reached their destination. And then—what pitiful anticlimax awaited them! Damp beds no doubt, and closed shutters, the moldy, stifling smell of unused rooms, the irritation of surprised, disgruntled servants. And all because of an impulse blindly obeyed, a sudden boiling up of resentment against the futility of her life, those endless suppers, dinners, card-parties, those foolish pranks worthy only of an apprentice boy on holiday, that stupid flirtation with Rockingham, and Harry himself, so lazy, so easy-going, fulfilling too well the part of perfect husband with his tolerance, his yawn before midnight, his placid and sleepy adoration. This sense of futility had been growing upon her for many months, nagging at her now and again like dormant toothache, but it had taken Friday night to arouse in her that full sense of self-loathing and exasperation, and because of Friday night she was jolting backwards and forwards now in this damnable coach, bound on a ridiculous journey to a house she had seen once in her life and knew nothing about, carrying with her, in anger and irritation, the two surprised children and their reluctant nurse.

She was obeying an impulse, of course, as she always had done, from the beginning, throughout her life, following a whisper, a suggestion, that sprang into being from nowhere and mocked at her afterwards. She had married Harry on impulse, because of his laugh—its funny lazy quality had attracted her—and because she had thought that the expression in his blue eyes meant much more than it did—and now she realized that after all… but then those were things one did not admit, not even to oneself, and what was the use, the thing was done, and here she was with her two great children, and next month anyway she would be thirty.

No, it was not poor Harry who was to blame, nor even the senseless life they led, nor the foolish escapades, nor their friends, nor the stifling atmosphere of a too early summer falling upon the caked mud and dust of London, nor the silly chatter in the playhouse, the froth, the frivolity, the bawdy nonsense Rockingham whispered in her ear. It was herself who was at fault.

She had played too long a part unworthy of her. She had consented to be the Dona her world had demanded—a superficial, lovely creature, who walked, and talked, and laughed, accepting praise and admiration with a shrug of the shoulder as natural homage to her beauty, careless, insolent, deliberately indifferent, and all the while another Dona, a strange, phantom Dona, peered at her from a dark mirror and was ashamed.

This other self knew that life need not be bitter, nor worthless, nor bounded by a narrow casement, but could be limitless, infinite—that it meant suffering, and love, and danger, and sweetness, and more than this even, much more. Yes, the full force of her self-loathing had come upon her that Friday evening, so that even now, sitting in the coach, with the soft country air bathing her face, she could conjure up once more the hot street smell that came from the London gutters, a smell of exhaustion and decay, that had merged in some inexplicable way with the heavy, sultry sky, with Harry's yawn as he dusted the skirt of his coat, with Rockingham's pointed smile—as though they all typified a weary, dying world from which she must free herself and escape, before the sky fell in upon her and she was trapped. She remembered the blind hawker at the corner, his ears pricked for the tinkle of a coin, and the apprentice boy from the Haymarket who ambled along with his tray on his head, shouting his wares in a shrill, disconsolate voice, and how he had fallen over some garbage in the gutter and spilled the contents on the dusty cobbled stones. And oh, heaven—the crowded playhouse, the stench of perfume upon heated bodies, the silly laughter and the clatter, the party in the Royal box—the King himself present—the impatient crowd in the cheap seats stamping and shouting for the play to begin while they threw orange peel onto the stage. Then Harry, laughing at nothing in particular as was his custom, became fuddled with the wit of the play, or possibly he had drunk too much before they had set out. Anyway he had started snoring in his seat, and Rockingham, seizing his chance to make a diversion, pressed against her with his foot and whispered in her ear. Damn his impudence, his air of possession, of familiarity, all because she had permitted him to kiss her once in an idle moment, because the night was fine. And they had proceeded to supper at the Swan, which she had grown to detest, her amusement at its novelty having ceased—for it was no longer a stimulant to be the only wife among a crowd of mistresses.

Once it had held a certain attraction, it had sharpened her sense of fun to sup with Harry in these places where no other husband took his wife, to sit cheek by jowl with the ladies of the town and to see Harry's friends first scandalized, then fascinated, and finally whipped into a fever, like curious schoolboys who tread forbidden ground. And yet even then, even at the beginning, she had felt a little prick of shame, a curious sense of degradation, as though she had dressed up for a masquerade and the clothes had not fitted her well.

While Harry's lovable and slightly stupid laugh, his expression of half-shocked dismay: "You've made yourself the talk of the town, you know, the fellows are gossiping about you in the taverns," had not served as a rebuke but as an irritant. She had wished that he would be angry, would shout at her, insult her even—but he only laughed, shrugging his shoulders, and fondled her in heavy, clumsy fashion, so that she knew her folly had not touched him, that inwardly he was really quite pleased that men were gossiping about his wife and admiring her, because it made him a person of importance in their eyes. The coach lurched over a deep rut in the road, and James stirred in his sleep. His little face puckered as though to cry, and Dona reached for the toy that had slipped from his grasp, and he cuddled it to his mouth, and so slept once more. He looked as Harry did when demanding a reassurance of her affection, and she wondered why it was that a quality so attractive and touching in James should seem to her, in Harry, more than a little absurd and a secret source of irritation.

Dressing that Friday night, placing the rubies in her ears to match the pendant round her throat, she had been reminded suddenly of James snatching the pendant, and stuffing it in his mouth, and she had smiled to herself, thinking of him, and Harry, standing beside her, dusting the lace at his wrists, had caught the smile and turned it into an invitation. "Damn it, Dona," he had said, "why do you look at me like that? Don't let's go to the play, hang Rockingham, hang the world, why the devil don't we stay at home?" Poor Harry, how vain, how typical, provoked by a smile that was not for him into instant adoration. She had said: "How ridiculous you are," turning from him, so that he should not touch her bare shoulder with his clumsy hands, and at once his mouth set in that grumpy, obstinate line she knew so well, so that they set out to the play, as they had done to other plays and to other suppers, times without number, with moods ill-tuned and tempers frayed, putting an edge upon the evening before it had begun.

Then he had called to his spaniels, Duke and Duchess, and they had yapped up at him for sweetmeats, filling the room with their shrill barking, leaping and jumping at his hands.

"Hey, Duke, hey, Duchess," he had said, "go seek, go find," throwing a sweetmeat across the room and onto her bed, so that they clawed at the curtains, and tried to spring upon it, yapping horribly the while, and Dona, her fingers in her ears to thrust out the sound, swept from the room and downstairs to her waiting chair, white, and cold, and angry, to be met with the hot street smells and the breathless vapid sky.

Once more the coach shook and trembled in the deep ruts of the country road, and this time it was the nurse who stirred—poor, wretched Prue, her foolish, honest face all heavy and mottled with fatigue, how she must grudge her mistress this sudden inexplicable journey—and Dona wondered whether she had left some young man forlorn in London who would prove false in all probability and marry somebody else and Prue's life would be blighted, all because of her, Dona, and her whim and fancies and savage ill-humor. What would poor Prue find to do at Navron House, but parade the children up and down the avenue and through the gardens, sighing for the streets of London hundreds of miles away? Were there gardens at Navron? She could not remember. It all seemed so long ago, that brief visit after she had married. There were trees surely, and a shining river, and great windows that peered from a long room, but more than this she had forgotten, because she had felt so ill during those days, with Henrietta on the way, and life one endless business of sofas, and sickness, and smelling-bottles. Suddenly Dona felt hungry, the coach had just rumbled past an orchard and the apple trees were in blossom, and she knew she must eat now, at once, without more ado, on the side of the road in the sunshine, they must all eat—so she thrust her head out of the window and called up to her coachman: "We will halt here for a while, and eat. Come and help me spread the rugs beneath the hedge."

The man stared down at her in bewilderment. "But my lady, the ground may be damp, you will take cold."

"Nonsense, Thomas, I am hungry, we are all hungry, we must eat."

He climbed down from his seat, his face red with embarrassment, and his companion turned away also, coughing behind his hand.

"There is a hostelry in Bodmin, my lady," the coachman ventured, "there you could eat in comfort, and rest perhaps; surely it would be more fitting. If anyone should pass this way, and see you by the side of the road, I hardly think Sir Harry would like…"

"Damn it, Thomas, can't you obey orders?" said his mistress, and she opened the door of the coach herself, and stepped down into the muddy road, lifting her gown above her ankles in a most brazen way. Poor Sir Harry, thought the coachman, this was the sort of thing he had to contend with every day, and in less than five minutes she had them all assembled on the grass by the side of the road, the nurse barely awake blinking her round eyes, and the children staring in astonishment. "Let us all drink ale," said Dona, "we have some in the basket beneath the seat. I have a mad desire for ale. Yes, James, you shall have some." And there she sat, her petticoats tucked beneath her and her hood falling away from her face, quaffing her ale like any beggaring gypsy, handing some on the tip of her finger for her baby son to taste, smiling the while at the coachman to show him that she bore no malice for his rough driving and his obstinacy. "You must both drink, too, there is plenty for all," she said, and the men were obliged to drink with her, avoiding the eye of the nurse. She thought the whole proceeding unseemly, as they did, and was wishing for a quiet parlor in a hostelry, and fresh warm water where she could bathe the children's hands and faces.

"Where are we going?" asked Henrietta for the twelfth time, looking about her in distaste, holding her dress close to her so that the mud should not stain it. "Is the drive nearly finished, and shall we soon be home?"

"We are going to another home," said Dona, "a new home, a much nicer home. You will be able to run free in the woods and dirty your clothes, and Prue will not scold you because it will not matter."

"I don't want to dirty my clothes. I want to go home," said Henrietta, and her lip trembled; she looked up at Dona in reproach, and then—she was tired, perhaps, it was all strange, this journey, this sitting by the roadside, she missed her monotonous routine—she began to cry, and James, placid and happy until then, opened his mouth wide, and roared in sympathy. "There, my pets, there my treasures, did they hate the nasty ditch and the prickly hedge," said Prue, folding them both in her arms, a world of meaning in her voice for her mistress, the cause of all the upset, so that Dona, her conscience stung, rose to her feet, kicking at the remains of the feast. "Come then, let us continue the journey by all means, but without tears, for pity's sake," and she stood for a moment, while the nurse, and the food, and the children packed themselves in the coach. Yes, there was apple blossom on the air, and the scent of gorse as well, and the tang of moss and peat from the moors away in the distance, and surely somewhere, not too distant, over the farther hills, a wet sea smell.


A British noblewoman flees the life of the court to run off with a French pirate.

Release Date: September 20, 1944
Release Time: 113 minutes

Director: Mitchell Leisen

Cast:
Joan Fontaine as Dona St. Columb
Arturo de CΓ³rdova as Jean Benoit Aubrey
Basil Rathbone as Lord Rockingham
Nigel Bruce as Lord Godolphin
Cecil Kellaway as William
Ralph Forbes as Harry St. Columb
Harald Ramond as Edmond
Billy Daniels as Pierre Blanc
Moyna Macgill as Lady Godolphin
Patricia Barker as Henrietta
David James as James
Charles Coleman as Thomas (uncredited)
James Dime as Pirate (uncredited)[5]
Al Ferguson as Guard (uncredited)

Awards:
1945 Academy Awards
Best Achievement in Art Direction (Color) - Sam Comer, Hans Dreier, Ernst Fegte - Won





Author Bio:
Daphne du Maurier (1907–1989) has been called one of the great shapers of popular culture and the modern imagination. Among her more famous works are The Scapegoat, Jamaica Inn, Rebecca, and the short story "The Birds," all of which were subsequently made into films—the latter three directed by Alfred Hitchcock.


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Thursday, September 21, 2023

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: The Dead Past by Kate Aaron



Summary:
Puddledown Mysteries #1
Runner Up: Rainbow Awards 2014 Best Gay Historical Romance

Puddledown, England

The year is 1948, the war is over and the evacuees have gone home, although rationing continues. For Hugo Wainwright, who escaped conscription and never had to fight for his country, very little has changed. He lives a quiet life away from the big cities, knowing his desires for other men will lead to disaster if he ever acts on them.

Tommy Granger spent his service on the battlefields of France. He experienced it all: the bloody horrors of war, and the chaos of Dunkirk. Finding employment as groundskeeper in the woods on the outskirts of Puddledown, he lives in solitude, trying to forget all the terrible things he’s seen.

When Hugo stumbles over a body not far from Tommy’s cabin, both men’s lives change forever. There’s a killer in the woods, and the townsfolk are sure Tommy is the culprit. Can Hugo unmask the murderer and prove the innocence of the man he’s falling for, or are the deadly consequences of Tommy’s past about to catch up to him and separate the two men forever?

Original Review February 2015:
This has been on my Kindle for the past year or more and I'm afraid to say, forgotten.  Then, I won a ebook of my choosing by Kate Aaron through Diverse Reader blog and I chose #2 of the Puddledown Mysteries.  So I finished what I was reading and jumped in!  Hugo had my heart from the very beginning.  He is so self tortured over his desires and understandably so considering it's 1948.  When we meet Tommy, he too found his way into my heart and it was pretty obvious where the pair was headed but it was most definitely not an easy road.  Throw in the murders and the cops with their determination to find Tommy guilty and this book had me riveted.

RATING: 



Chapter One
Tea, toast, strawberry jam. It was the same breakfast Hugo Wain- wright took each morning. He rose every day at the first insistent ring of his alarm clock, closed the lever over the clapper, and touched the two brass bells atop the greying white face to stop the hollow, residual echo of the chime. They vibrated a little as he pressed his finger pads against them. His fingertips were smooth, his hands uncalloused save for a lump of hard skin on the side of his third finger, where his fountain pen rested as he wrote. After a quick douse with a flannel in cold water, he dressed in a white vest, blue shirt without collar or cuffs, a brightly knitted pullover, and dark green corduroy trousers with suspenders, well-worn and comfortable. The pullover was a Christmas gift, knitted by old Mrs Andrews during the war, before her eyes got too bad for her to see by lamplight during the blackout. The colours were garish, but she had spent a good portion of her rationing coupons on the wool, and Hugo felt churlish for disdaining it. He wore the pullover as a reminder to be more grateful, to please old Mrs Andrews when he went of an evening to read to her, and to add a splash of colour to his black and white newsprint life.

On this particular morning, after rinsing his breakfast dishes, Hugo put on his overcoat and boots and proceeded out into the crisp air of what was to become a beautiful mid-autumn day.

Working as the Arts and Literature correspondent for the Gazette, a respectable publication with a small but respectable readership, had many advantages, chief amongst them being the freedom to spend his time as he pleased. Hugo had submitted his latest article the previous day, and had plenty of time before him in which to read his next assign- ment and formulate an opinion. He therefore felt no guilt as he strolled through the lanes and streets of Puddledown, greeting townsfolk and neighbours with a cordial tip of his flat cap.

Main Street was busy with housewives and harried mamas, and Hugo quickly changed his path, taking a quieter backstreet which ran behind the bakery and butcher’s shop and haberdasher and greengrocer’s, up through the town and out again into the surrounding countryside of the south of England.

The fields were mostly bare so late in the year; the soil churned and hardened into haphazard troughs and peaks. The occasional green of a ripening cabbage harvest or the tall stems of Brussels sprouts added a splash of oily colour to the washed-out landscape, gaunt trees stretching splayed limbs skyward through the slowly-lifting mist.

Hugo pulled his overcoat closer around himself, rubbed his hands, and thrust them deep into his pockets alongside a stubby pencil, a coin or two, half a paper bag of mints, and a screwed-up hanky: the detritus of a man without a wife at home to make him empty his pockets, as his mama had done when he’d been a little boy.

A small flock of geese flew overhead, their strange honking call sounding oddly flat and muted in the damp and misty air. To Hugo’s right, the hedgerow rose, its myriad twigs crisscrossed and laced higher than his head, obscuring his view of the fields and, beyond, the shingle- roofed houses of the town. To his left, the road dipped into a gully Hugo knew in spring would be filled with rushing water, before rising again where the first trees of the woods stood bare and isolated from their brothers, Nature’s pioneers.

Hugo examined them as he passed, noting their peeling bark, the occasional fallen branch, here a whole trunk leaning haphazardly against its neighbours. As winter rolled in and the winds got up, some would fall, mighty giants slain with a deafening crack and a groan of limbs, roots snapping, hauling the very earth in their wake. Such was the nature of things.

The forest belonged to the local manor house, managed by a groundskeeper and maintained, as it had been for centuries, to encour- age the pheasants and other game which the local Lord hunted in season with his lofty friends. Hugo crossed the road and entered the woodland, following an ancient path which gave right of way through the forest and would bring him home in a looping five or six mile amble.

The path would cross right by the groundskeeper’s cabin, fallen into disrepair over the long, bleak years of the war, when young men had been needed on the Western Front and not tending His Lordship’s game. The last time Hugo had passed this way, it had seemed some improvements had begun: the door was freshly painted, new shingles nailed to the roof, and curtains hung in the windows once more. Hugo had gathered from this that a new groundskeeper had at last taken up residence, although who the man was, and from whence he’d come, Hugo did not know. Never one to listen to idle gossip, if the townsfolk had mentioned a new arrival, Hugo hadn’t heard.

There was nobody visible at the cabin when he passed, although he took a moment to look around and shout hallo. Groundskeepers woke early, Hugo reasoned, and judging by the thin plume of smoke drifting from the cabin’s chimney, the fire was well on its way to dying down. No doubt the man had been out doing his job since before the sun had come up.

Shrugging, Hugo moved on.

The forest was quiet, many of the songbirds having left already for warmer climes, and those that remained were no doubt silently watching Hugo stride past, the hard ground crunching under his stout boots, his breath swirling in smoky plumes around him. Hugo liked to be fit. A pudgy child, for whom sports had been a torment, he had walked and run off the puppy fat in these very woods, and listened with horror to his mother’s tales of life in London, where she had lived for a spell with his papa, a city so steeped in dirt and sin that to tread its streets was to invite robbery. One stepped outside clean and glowing but returned black and grey with soot and smoke.

He rarely walked through the woods these days—in hunting season it wasn’t safe, for a start—but he enjoyed the tranquillity on this fine, misty morning, the way the fog shrouded the path and made it seem as though he was the only soul alive and abroad, sauntering through a landscape of shadowy ghosts.

Hugo popped a mint into his mouth, enjoying the sharp burst of flavour and the hard clack of the sweet against his teeth. He whistled a few tuneless notes for the sake of hearing them flatten and fade in the dead air.

A splash of colour on the ground between the trees caught his eye, and he paused, looking carefully at the spot. A reddish smear on a trunk just off the path, that he would have dismissed as a discolouration of the bark were it not for the blue and white paisley pattern of a scrap of material lying sodden on the hard earth beyond it, jumped out at him. Crunching the mint nervously, Hugo stepped off the path, startling as a twig cracked underfoot, the sound like a gunshot, shattering the silence of the woodland.

He paused, listening. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, his palms sweating. He rubbed them against his corduroy trousers. It was a scrap of material, he reasoned as he continued his approach through the eerily silent forest, his skin crawling as he imagined a thousand eyes upon him.

He saw the hand first. Bone-white with blue blotches, fingers clawed, the nails seeming freakishly long and inhuman. It was a small hand, Hugo noted, feeling oddly detached. It was like the whole world slowed and tilted sideways and, if asked later, Hugo would say it was as though he didn’t inhabit his body in that moment but was above it, floating somewhere in the bare canopy of the tree branches, looking down on himself as he looked down on that hand.

The hand was attached to an arm, clad in a tweed overcoat which seemed too big and bulky for the frail form it contained, and the arm led to a body: a small body, light, contorted at the oddest angles, like a broken, discarded doll. The paisley was a headscarf, Hugo now saw, hanging in tatters around a face frozen in the rictus of death, its mouth open in a final, eternal scream.

Hugo’s gorge rose and he staggered back, a shaking hand over his mouth as his stomach heaved, sending him into a fit of dry retches. He stood trembling for long moments, trying to calm his thundering heart and queasy gut while his brain pieced together what he had seen.

A blue eye, cloudy with cataracts, glazed and fixed in wide astonishment. A lined face, elderly, skin which in life would have been papery and marbled with bluish veins now chalk-white and waxy. Long wisps of grey hair, threaded with silver. A bun, perhaps, untangled in a struggle. For surely there must have been a struggle. The old woman had not come to these lonely woods to die, of that Hugo was certain. Scratches on her exposed wrist, the torn headscarf, and the ugly, gaping wound in her chest attested to the fact her death had been a violent one.

Hugo had only seen one dead body before. His mama had passed badly enough, taken by a fever which produced hot and cold sweats, shakes, and a hacking cough. For day after endless day, Hugo had watched her disintegrate before him, one piece of flaking skin, one gob of mucus at a time, until there was nothing left but an empty husk and a death-rattle which seemed to go on and on.

Yes, his mama’s death had been bad enough, but nothing compared with how this woman had met her grisly end.

Moved now by empathy—for the body had once been alive, and not so long ago: someone’s friend, or wife, or mother—Hugo approached again, fighting down the rising tide of nausea from his roiling stomach. He knew very little about death, about the decomposition of the human body, but the corpse was intact and seemed frozen stiff, although as a result of rigor mortis or simply a night exposed to the elements in the wintry woods, Hugo couldn’t tell.

He should get help, he realised. There was a small police station in the town. One of the local constables could take over, could offer Hugo a soothing cup of sweet tea and ask clipped, businesslike questions about the discovery.

A fresh panic overcame Hugo as he realised he hadn’t worn his wristwatch, didn’t even know what time it was. What would he say when the constable asked him the simplest of questions? What would they think when he didn’t know the answers? Would he look guilty? And what if—Heaven forbid—he ran all the way to the town, brought the constable back to the woods, and couldn’t find the body again? The pathway had few distinguishing features, the bare forest like a warren, a maze of never changing scenery. How would he ever find this exact spot again?

Hugo took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He was an intelligent man, a sensible man. The logical thing would be to leave a marker on the path so he could be sure of the location. If only he had worn his woollen scarf! He fumbled in his pockets, groping for anything which could be of use. He thumbed a large copper penny, the old notion of placing coins over a corpse’s eyes to pay the ferryman occurring to him. The stuff of superstition, of course, and besides, he couldn’t touch the body. Hugo at least knew that.

He was still fumbling in his pockets when the silence of the forest was broken by a slow scraping sound. Hugo froze, all the hairs on the back of his neck rising once more, listening as the strangely metallic scrape, scrape moved closer.

Palms slicked with cold and nervous sweat, Hugo took short, shallow breaths, and hoped the thunder of his heart was not audible through his sensible layers of winter woollens and overcoat. The sound moved closer, an irregular, unearthly thing, and Hugo’s imagination ran riot, conjuring the shining sickle of Death himself, scratching a path through the bare branches of the trees.

The mist swirled through the woods in a confounding eddy of movement and shadow, separating here to reveal only the silent, unmoving trees, and thickening there to the density of a body, a misshapen body, dark and malevolent. And still the sound came closer.

A swirl of fog to Hugo’s right made him start, half-turned towards the path to flee, an alarmed cry lodged deep in his throat. At the last instant he recovered, recalled that grown men didn’t scream and run from imaginary terrors, and held his ground, hypnotised by the darkening shadow of a figure, grotesquely outlined by a shaft of sunlight streaming through the canopy behind it.

The shadow moved closer until Hugo could discern the shape of a man about his own height, maybe an inch or two shorter. Not a big man at all. Slim of frame, although broad in the shoulders, their breadth emphasised by the square cut of a thick wax jacket edged in leather. The man wore a dark cap pulled low over his face so all that was visible to Hugo was a granite jaw peppered with two or three days’ growth. His hands were surprisingly slender, the fingers long and almost delicate, although roughened and calloused, tobacco-yellowed, and blotchy red in the cold air.

The scraping sound, Hugo now saw, was caused by a shovel the man dragged carelessly, bumping and catching at the sparse undergrowth and the hard-packed ground. It slid over an exposed rock and there—scraaaape—was the sound which had caused Hugo’s heart to thunder so. But the man also dragged something else, something even more terrible than a shovel in the woods on a cold October morning, for in the same hand as the shovel he gripped the drawstring of a hessian sack, seeping and stained with blood.

Hugo’s terror rose to fever pitch as the figure advanced towards him—towards the body hidden in the cold, lonely woods, where nobody ever went—and just as Hugo was about to pass out or run, the man looked up, paralysing him with his black-eyed stare, with eyes as black as sin.






Author Bio:
Born in Liverpool, Kate Aaron is a bestselling author of the #1 LGBT romances What He Wants, Ace, The Slave, and other works.

Kate swapped the North West for the Midwest in October 2015 and married award-winning author AJ Rose. Together they plan to take over the world.


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The Dead Past #1
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