Publisher: St. Martins' Press
Publication Date: October 2019
It’s 1875, and New York’s Gilded Age is in full swing. After fleeing her abusive husband, Alva Webster spent three years being pilloried in the newspapers of two continents. Now he’s dead, and she’s returned to New York to start over, restoring Liefdehuis, a dilapidated Hyde Park mansion for her new home decoration book and hopefully her reputation in the process. So when the eccentric and brilliant Professor Samuel Moore appears, threatening her fresh start with stories of a haunting at her house, she refuses to give him access. Alva doesn’t believe in ghosts. A pioneer in electric lighting and a member of the nationally-adored Moore family of scientists, Sam’s latest obsession is ghosts. When he learns about a house with a surprising number of ghost stories, he’s desperate to convince its beautiful owner to let him study it. Can he find his way into her house…and her heart? About the
The Widow of Rose House is a debut novel and a perfect paranormal romance for the season. The story follows Alva who has returned to the US to start over after her husband is murdered. She originally left the US under an umbrella of scandal. Determined to make a life for herself, she buys a house that is rumored to be haunted with the intention of making it over and publishing a book about it.
The best part of this book is Sam and his determination to woo Alva. I loved this character and he is on my book boyfriend list. He's a genius, inventor, sometimes scatterbrained and hopelessly enamored with Alva. Their first love scene was so refreshing. His patience and understanding of Alva 's past made me love him more. I was just so fun to watch these two fall in love. I also loved Henry and Sam's family. I'm not sure if this is going to be a stand alone, but I would love to see Henry, Benedict and Maggie get their own books.
As for the ghost story, I liked the twist on the ghost and how it worked. That's all I will say about it so I don't spoil anything. The setting was sufficiently creepy and good way to get you in the mood for the spooky season. I highly recommend this debut novel. I am excited to see what this author some up with next!
Enjoy this excerpt!
New York City, February 1, 1875
“Excuse me,” a deep voice said. “Mrs. Webster?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Couldn’t she stand outside for
one minute without some intrepid lothario assuming she must be waiting for him? In the less than seventytwo hours she’d been back in the States,
she’d been propositioned eleven times. Twice by friends of her father’s.
She glanced over her shoulder at the man, receiving an instant impression of big, though he stood mostly in the shadows. “I don’t
know you,” she said, her voice flat. “Go home to your wife.”
“But I don’t have a wife,” the man said. He took a hesitant
step towards her, leaving the shadows, and her eyebrows lifted. He looked more
like a laborer than a man finishing a dinner at Delmonico’s, for all he was
dressed in a suit and tie. Sort of dressed, she amended; the suit looked
like it had been made for someone two inches shorter and two inches narrower
across the shoulders. “Do I need a wife to talk to you? Is it a
chaperone sort of thing? I have a mother, but she’s in Ohio.”
Alva blinked. “You’re not very good at this,” she observed.
“I’m not a man, but I don’t think it’s standard behavior to invoke one’s mother
at a time like this.”
They stared at each other in puzzlement. He was attractive
in the sort of way she’d always imagined the heroes of western folktales to
be: tall, broad shouldered, with a strong nose and a square jaw. He could stand
to add barber to the list of people he needed to see, though, the one that
started with tailor. Actually, looking at the way his dark blond hair fell into
his eyes, she thought he’d better have it start with barber and go from there.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said finally. “Perhaps
if I introduce myself—my name is Professor Samuel Moore.”
He held out his hand. She looked at it, looked up at him,
and did not extend her own. Bafflingly, he smiled at her, as though she’d done
something rather clever.
Was he really a professor? He certainly didn’t look like
one, not that it mattered, because she made it a policy, these days, never to
talk to strange men—
“A professor of what?” she heard herself saying, although
she was pleased it at least came out with a nice air of sarcasm and disbelief.
“This and that,” he said, still smiling. “Engineering,
mostly.” She looked at his rumpled clothes. Yes, she could see that, one of
those men who always had a tool in one hand and a grease can in the other. She
didn’t know they were giving professorships out to men like that, but why not,
after all? She was as appreciative of things like trains and working carriage
wheels as the next
person.
And now she’d gone and encouraged him. Stupid. “I
see,” she said as coldly as she could manage. “Well, I’m not
interested, so I’ll wish you good evening.”
“But how can you know if you’re not interested?” He shook
his head in confusion, still smiling at her. The smile was . . . impressive.
“I haven’t even explained my proposition, yet.”
“I find that if you’ve heard one proposition, you’ve heard
them all,” she replied. Stop talking to him, you idiot. “They’re not as
unique as men would like to believe.”
“But—who else has approached you? Was it Langley, from
Yale?” His tone turned plaintive. “How did he hear about this before
me?”
“Langley—who?”
“Piers Langley,” he said. “No? I can’t think of anyone else
reputable—look here, if you’ve been approached by anyone from that quack Santa
Fe institute you should know they’re absolute frauds.”
“Institute?” Alva said faintly. “What on earth are
you talking about?”
“Your house, of course. I hadn’t realized I was so behind on
the news.” His face fell—What must it be like to let all your emotions
float freely on your face?—but he nodded gravely. “If it’s Langley, though,
he’s an excellent researcher, and a decent human, too.”
“It’s not Lang—what do you want with my house?” It
was her turn to sound plaintive.
“But that’s what—” He stared at her, his brows crunched together. “Oh god. I wasn’t—I wouldn’t—”
To her astonishment, a distinct touch of pink appeared in
his cheeks. He cleared his throat.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Henry warned me—that is, I
shouldn’t have; my proposition is not of an intimate nature.”
“I’m coming to understand that,” she said.
“You thought . . . do men . . . they must—good lord.”
She began to feel in charity with this befuddled giant. “In
deed,” she said. “I quite agree. But I must ask again—what is it you want with
Liefdehuis?”
“To study it,” he said. “One of my personal interests is in
metaphysical energies, you see, and from what I’ve heard, your house may prove
a most interesting case. Your ghost story is so recent, you know. I hardly ever
hear one claiming to be that new—”
He broke off as she shook her head. “You almost had me convinced that you were unlike the majority of your sex,” she said. “And now I see
you are. I’m just not sure insanity is much of an improvement.”
To her surprise, he smiled again. “You’re not the only one
who thinks so,” he said. The embarrassment had left his face; he was quite
relaxed once more. A man who apologizes for a propo- sition and grins at an
insult, Alva thought. Where did you come from, Professor Moore?
“And I’ll admit there’s no conclusive evidence yet,” he continued, “but what I have collected looks extremely promising. Certainly
promising enough to warrant extensive study.”
A hint of cold pierced her thoughts. Firmly, she banished
it. “You’re talking about ghosts,” she said.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Or I could be studying some kind of
alien intelligence that just happens to concentrate in areas cor responding to
local folklore.”
“Alien intelligence.”
“Invisible alien intelligence,” he clarified. “At
least invisible to the naked human eye. But ‘ghost’ is probably the easiest
term.”
“Really.”
“People tend to go a bit strange when you talk to them about
invisible alien intelligences,” he confided. “Which is odd, when you think about it, because why are the shades of one’s dead
ancestors any less unsettling?”
She found herself nodding before the rest of her wits caught
up with her. “No,” she said, not because the word corresponded with any
particular question, but because she had the feeling the only way to survive
here was to stick to very blackandwhite words. His nuances were both
compelling and sticky. “I’m afraid I won’t give you access. I don’t believe in
ghosts, and I’m about to start several months’ worth of building work.”
“Don’t decide yet,” he begged. “I’m willing to pay you for
the privilege, and I promise I won’t be in the way . . . although there is rather
a lot of equipment, so I suppose—”
The boy hailing cabs caught her eye and gestured as a hansom pulled up beside him.
“That’s mine,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Good
evening.”
“Wait!” he said. “I’ll—I’ll send you a letter. Henry said
that was the way to do it—I’ll write you and explain more.”
“It won’t help,” she said as the cab boy helped her into the
carriage. “I’m sorry. Goodbye, Professor Moore.”
Finally, he sighed acceptance and raised his hand. “Good
evening, Mrs. Webster.”
As the cab pulled away from the sidewalk, though, she looked
back at him, to find him staring after her with his hands shoved in his pockets
and that apparently irrepressible grin back in place. An uncomfortable
lightness expanded in her chest as she watched him standing headandshoulders
taller than the passersby around him, looking back at her as though he would be
perfectly happy never to look at anything else ever again.
What couldn’t I get, if I could look at people like that?
she thought, and settled grumpily back against her seat.
About the author:
 |
| Credit: Lantz Simpson |
Author DIANA BILLER lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their very good dog.
THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE is her debut novel.
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