Book Review & Excerpt: Lady in Waiting by Susan Meissner
Lady in Waiting by Susan Meissner
September 7, 2010
Susan Meissner is an author I am currently stalking (literarily speaking). I absolutely love her books and am touched every time by her characters and storyline. Shes the writer of the amazing The Shape of Mercy (my review here) which is so loved by readers that shes able to keep a blog written by the characters from the book.
Yes, she certainly creates memorable characters that you dont forget after closing her books, and Lady in Waiting is no exception! I loved this story, especially because it jumps back and forth between present day and 16th century England. That time period is fascinating to me, and so was the history and drama surrounding Lady Jane Grey.
The Story (from Publishers Weekly): Jane Lindsay never thought shed be alone, but after her husband leaves her, she must face the reality of her marriage and life choices. One small ring, found in the binding of a book bought at an English rummage sale, changes the course of Janes thinking as she researches another Jane, whose name is inscribed in the ring. Readers jump back in time to England after the death of Henry VIII. Lucy Day is ordered to Sudeley Castle, bearing a dress for Lady Jane Grey. Lucy narrates the tale of Lady Jane, pawn in the schemes of powerful men who seek the throne of England even as young Jane Grey is determined to live-and die-on her own terms. Modern Jane studies Lady Jane, coming to realize that she alone must choose how she lives. Both the history and the modern tale are enticing, with Meissner doing a masterful job blending the two.
I highly recommend Lady in Waiting its a must-read, keep-it-on-your-shelf novel that doesnt disappoint!
Buy it from Amazon.com!
This is a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for oldor for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
***Special thanks to Cindy Brovsky of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc., for sending me a review copy.***
Susan Meissner has spent her lifetime as a writer, starting with her first poem at the age of four. She is the award-winning author of The Shape of Mercy, White Picket Fences, and many other novels. When shes not writing, she directs the small groups and connection ministries at her San Diego church. She and her pastor husband are the parents of four young adults.
Visit the authors website.
AND NOWTHE FIRST CHAPTER!
Upper West Side, Manhattan
The mantle clock was exquisite even though its hands rested in silence at twenty minutes past two.
Carvednear as I could tellfrom a single piece of mahogany, its glimmering patina looked warm to the touch. Rosebuds etched into the swirls of wood grain flanked the sides like two bronzed bridal bouquets. The clocks top was rounded and smooth like the draped head of a Madonna. I ran my palm across the polished surface and it was like touching warm water.
Legend was this clock originally belonged to the young wife of a Southampton doctor and that it stopped keeping time in 1912, the very moment the Titanic sank and its owner became a widow. The grieving womans only consolation was the clocks apparent prescience of her husbands horrible fate and its kinship with the pain that left her inert in sorrow. She never remarried and she never had the clock fixed.
I bought it sight unseen for my great aunts antique store, like so many of the items Id found for the display cases. In the year and half Id been in charge of the inventory, the best pieces had come from the obscure estate sales that my British friend Emma Downing came upon while tooling around the southeast of England looking for oddities for her costume shop. She found the clock at an estate sale in Felixstowe and the auctioneer, so she told me, had been unimpressed with the clocks sad history. Emma said hed read the accompanying note about the clock as if reading the rules for rugby.
My mother watched now as I positioned the clock on the lacquered black mantle that rose above a marble fireplace. She held a lead crystal vase of silk daffodils in her hands.
It should be ticking. She frowned. People will wonder why its not ticking. She set the vase down on the hearth and stepped back. Her heels made a clicking sound on the parquet floor beneath our feet. You know, you probably wouldve sold it by now if it was working. Did Wilson even look at it? You told me he could fix anything.
I flicked a wisp of fuzz off the clocks face. I hadnt asked the shops resident and unofficial repairman to fix it. It wouldnt be the same clock if it was fixed.
It would be a clock that did what it was supposed to do. My mother leaned in and straightened one of the daffodil blooms.
This isnt just any clock, Mom. I took a step back too.
My mother folded her arms across the front of her Ann Taylor suit. Pale blue, the color of baby blankets and robins eggs. Her signature color. Look, I get all that about the Titanic and the young widow, but you cant prove any of it, Jane, she said. You could never sell it on that story.
A flicker of sadness wobbled inside me at the thought of parting with the clock. This happens when you work in retail. Sometimes you have a hard time selling what you bought to sell.
Im thinking maybe Ill keep it.
You dont make a profit by hanging onto the inventory. My mother whispered this, but I heard her. She intended for me to hear her. This was her way of saying what she wanted to about her aunts shopwhich shed inherit when Great Aunt Thea passedwithout coming across as interfering.
My mother thinks she tries very hard not to interfere. But it is one of her talents. Interfering when she thinks shes not. It drives my younger sister Leslie nuts.
Do you want me to take it back to the store? I asked.
No! Its perfect for this place. I just wish it were ticking. She nearly pouted.
I reached for the box at my feet that I brought the clock in along with a set of Shakespeares works, a pair of pewter candlesticks, and a Wedgwood vase. You could always get a CD of sound effects and run a loop of a ticking clock, I joked.
She turned to me, childlike determination in her eyes. I wonder how hard it would be to find a CD like that!
I was kidding, Mom! Look what you have to work with. I pointed to the simulated stereo system shed placed into a polished entertainment center behind us. My mother never used real electronics in the houses she staged, although with the clientele she usually worked withaffluent real estate brokers and equally well-off buyers and sellersshe certainly could.
So Ill bring in a portable player and hide it in the hearth pillows. She shrugged and then turned to the adjoining dining room. A gleaming black dining table had been set with white bone china, pale yellow linen napkins, and mounds of fake chicken salad, mauvey rubber grapes, and plastic croissants and petit fours. An arrangement of pussy willows graced the center of the table. Do you think the pussy willows are too rustic? she asked.
She wanted me to say yes so I did.
I think so, too, she said. I think we should swap these out for that vase of Gerbera daisies you have on that escritoire in the shops front window. I dont know what I was thinking when I brought these. She reached for the unlucky pussy willows. We can put these on the entry table with our business cards.
She turned to me. You did bring yours this time, didnt you? Its silly for you to go to all this work and then not get any customers out of it. My mother made her way to the entryway with the pussy willows in her hands and intention in her step. I followed her.
This was only the second house Id helped her stage, and I didnt bring business cards the first time because she hadnt invited me to until we were about to leave. Shed promptly told me then to never go anywhere without business cards. Not even to the ladies room. Shed said it and then waited, like she expected me to take out my BlackBerry and make a note of it.
I have them right here. I reached into the front pocket of my capris and pulled out a handful of glossy business cards emblazoned with Amsterdam Avenue Antiques and its logothree As entwined like a Celtic eternity knot. I handed them to her and she placed them in a silver dish next to her own. Sophia Keller Interior Design and Home Staging. The pussy willows actually looked wonderful against the tall jute-colored wall.
There. That looks better! she exclaimed as if reading my thoughts. She turned to survey the main floor of the townhouse. The owners had relocated to the Hamptons and were selling off their Manhattan properties to fund a cushy retirement. Half the dcorthe books, the vases, the printswere on loan from Aunt Theas shop. My mother, whod been staging real estate for two years, brought me in a few months earlier when she discovered a stately home filled with charming and authentic antiques sold faster than the same home filled with reproductions.
You and Brad should get out of that teensy apartment on the West Side and buy this place. The owners are practically giving it away.
Her tone suggested she didnt expect me to respond. I easily let the comment evaporate into the sunbeams caressing us. It was a comment for which I had had no response.
My mothers gaze swept across the two large rooms shed furnished and she frowned when her eyes reached the mantle and the silent clock.
Well, Ill just have to come back later today, she spoke into the silence. Its being shown first thing in the morning. She swung back around. Come on. Ill take you back.
We stepped out into the April sunshine and to her Lexus parked across the street along a line of townhouses just like the one wed left. As we began to drive away, the stillness in the car thickened, and I fished my cell phone out of my purse to see if Id missed any calls while we were finishing the house. On the drive over I had a purposeful conversation with Emma about a box of old books she found at a jumble sale in Oxfordshire. That lengthy conversation filled the entire commute from the store on the seven-hundred block of Amsterdam to the townhouse on East Ninth, and I found myself wishing I could somehow repeat that providential circumstance. My mother would ask about Brad if the silence continued. There was no missed call, and I started to probe my brain for something to talk about. I suddenly remembered I hadnt told my mother Id found a new assistant. I opened my mouth to tell her about Stacy but I was too late.
So what do you hear from Brad? she asked cheerfully.
Hes doing fine. The answer flew out of my mouth as if Id rehearsed it. She looked away from the traffic ahead, blinked at me, and then turned her attention back to the road. A taxi pulled in front of her, and she laid on the horn, pronouncing a curse on all taxi drivers.
Idiot. She turned to me. How much longer do you think he will stay in New Hampshire? Her brow was creased. You arent going to try to keep two households going forever, are you?
I exhaled heavily. Its a really good job, Mom. And he likes the change of pace and the new responsibilities. Its only been two months.
Yes, but the inconvenience has to be wearing on you both. It must be quite a hassle maintaining two residences, not to mention the expense, and then all that time away from each other. She paused but only for a moment. I just dont see why he couldnt have found something similar right here in New York. I mean, dont all big hospitals have the same jobs in radiology? Thats what your father told me. And he should know.
Just because there are similar jobs doesnt mean there are similar vacancies, Mom.
She tapped the steering wheel. Yes, but your father said . . .
I know Dad thinks he mightve been able to help Brad find something on Long Island but Brad wanted this job. And no offense, Mom, but the head of environmental services doesnt hire radiologists.
She bristled. I shouldnt have said it. She would repeat that comment to my dad, not to hurt him but to vent her frustration at not having been able to convince me she was right and I was wrong. But it would hurt him anyway.
Im sorry, Mom, I added. Dont tell him I said that, okay? I just really dont want to rehash this again.
But she wasnt done. Your father has been at that hospital for twenty-seven years. He knows a lot of people. She emphasized the last four words with a pointed stare in my direction.
I know he does. Thats really not what I meant. Its just Brad has always wanted this kind of job. Hes working with cancer patients. This really matters to him.
But the jobs in New Hampshire!
Well, Connor is in New Hampshire! It sounded irrelevant even to me to mention the current location of Brads and my college-age son. Connor had nothing to do with any of this. And he was an hour away from where Brad was anyway.
And you are here, my mother said evenly. If Brad wanted out of the city, there are plenty of quieter hospitals right around here. And plenty of sick people for that matter.
There was an undercurrent in her tone, subtle and yet obvious, that assured me we really werent talking about sick people and hospitals and the miles between Manhattan and Manchester. It was as if shed guessed what Id tried to keep from my parents the last eight weeks.
My husband didnt want out of the city.
He just wanted out.