Indigo Excerpt: Esther Arrives at Brickle Hall
To say the estate was magnificent would be an understatement. Set high on a hill, surrounded by forest and lush grounds as far as the eye could see, it was every American’s vision of an English stately home. That it had been neglected and would require a huge investment to bring it back to life was also apparent. Dirty windows, crumbling stonework, chipped statuary, rotting putty all bedecked a gigantic, turreted, ancient-looking beauty.
To think that this lovely old dame was all mine was almost more than I could handle. I felt even more jetlagged than I had in Charleston, but I was so excited that I was somehow functional. I was a little nervous about sleeping in the house though. Would the beds be so dusty that I’d sneeze my head off? What about eating? I pictured a monster refrigerator filled with decayed food and had to stop myself from gagging. Silly me. I should have brought provisions with me. What was I thinking racing off like that with no plan and no supplies? None of this was like me. I was normally a calm, organized, logical person, and here I was acting like Indiana Jones. But I was here now and I had to make the best of it. This life change, from Los Angeles to South Carolina to England, was a growth opportunity and I would seize it with both hands.
I dug in my bag and pulled out the keys, almost laughing at the idea that a mere piece of metal could unlock a universe such as the one before me. As I inserted the key into the old, creaky front door lock my hands shook, and I couldn’t get it to fit properly. I wiggled it this way and that, shoving and pulling back and watching the rust fall out of the opening. Apparently my cousin hadn’t been in the habit of using this door. Perhaps I should try one of the other entrances, I thought. Wishing I had brought along some WD 40 I gave the key one last shot. The lock gave a choke, spat out more rust, and accepted it.
Indigo Excerpt: Esther Investigates
I decided it wouldn’t hurt to collect forensic evidence in the case of Lawrence Pater. The murder weapon, a piece of cloth, would not yield fingerprints though, so I’d have to see if the culprit had touched anything in Pater’s cabin.
When I got there I discovered that there was indeed some evidence, and not in the form of fingerprints, although I took those too. As chance and luck would have it, I found a thread on the floor, a piece of gray wool that looked exactly like the one I had found on Amos Baker. Could it be that the two men, Pater and Baker, had been murdered by the same person? It could indeed, and what was also interesting was that slaves didn’t wear wool. All their clothing was made of cotton. The murderer had to be someone else.
After scouring the cabin for fingerprints, I was able to determine that they all belonged to the deceased. Whoever had killed the overseer had not touched anything, or at least nothing that showed prints. But that didn’t matter. I now knew that I was after someone—probably a man, considering the strength needed to stab and strangle two healthy men—who wore gray wool. Unfortunately, upon examining the closets of both Jesse and Daniel, I discovered that this was a very common occurrence in the lowlands.
Indigo Excerpt: Esther Meets Jesse
The next day I was eating breakfast when a tall, rather disheveled dark-haired man barged into the dining room, just like that. There was something in his eyes that looked desperate and dangerous and made me nervous. If Daniel hadn’t been there I think I might have run, especially since as soon as the newcomer caught sight of me he stared in the most peculiar way. But then Daniel got up and embraced him, and I knew that somehow it must be all right. I still felt nervous though because as he held Daniel the visitor was still looking at me over his shoulder.
“Jesse!” Daniel said as he clapped the big man on the back.
“Daniel!” the man returned with a hug and a smile. They were obviously keen to see each other.
Surely this wasn’t one of my fiancé’s lovers. He was handsome enough, that was for sure, but I knew that Daniel was trying to hide his proclivities, and this was hardly the way to go about that.
“Esther, my betrothed,” Daniel beamed. “Meet my brother, Dr. Jesse Peacock, fresh from England.” He sniffed and made a face. “Perhaps not so fresh after all.”
That explained that. Of course. Now I could see the resemblance, and I could also see that Jesse was extraordinarily good looking, much more so than Daniel. Both brothers had beautifully sculpted jaws, Roman noses, and thick, flowing eyebrows, but where Daniel was all gold and light, Jesse was dark and mysterious, with light olive skin that gave him a distinctly Spanish appearance. His eyes were as black as Pixy’s skin, while Daniel’s were a light shade of brown that was more like tortoise shell. Jesse was taller too—maybe six three or four to Daniel’s six foot one or two. I knew from what Daniel had told me that Jesse was the youngest of the four Peacock siblings and was about my age, twenty-seven. That he had made it all the way from England exactly in time for our wedding was nothing less than astonishing. Obviously he had left before Daniel and I had even met. Other than that I knew absolutely nothing about him. For all I knew he was as uncouth as Daniel.
Jesse took my hand and kissed it, but I could see the surprise in his eyes. “My brother has good taste,” he said diplomatically. He was still staring at me though, and I was beginning to feel nervous.
Indigo Excerpt: Jesse Goes to Esther’s Room
When Jesse finally came to my room at about eleven I was in a state of panic. First I couldn’t decide what to wear. Should I strip down to my shift, keep my dress on, something in between? With Daniel I’d gone for the shift but he was my husband. I figured that was expected. But with Jesse I was lost. In the end I decided to keep my dress on but do away with some of the undergarments, of which there were many.
Then there was my insecurity. I had set things up to be romantic—candles everywhere, which of course you’d have anyway before electricity came in—but I was trying to be particularly atmospheric and arrange them just so. I had also brought in extra flowers, and even some vanilla strategically dabbed in various corners. It was romantic, but all I could think was, What if he’s playing with me, what if we’re not compatible, what if he doesn’t like me after all, what if I don’t like him, what if, what if, what if? But as soon as he closed the door behind him I could see that none of that mattered. That he wanted me was obvious, and not just from his face. That I still wanted him was in no doubt whatsoever. What was a miracle was that we didn’t throw ourselves at each other and tear off each other’s clothing. Instead he stood at the door and said quietly, “I brought some brandy.”
Indigo Excerpt: Maisie Falls into the Well
I was getting dressed for my wedding and Pixy was brushing my hair when I heard a commotion downstairs. Several people were yelling and wailing—ululating is the word that comes to mind—and I rushed down to see what was happening, leaving her to follow after me. As I descended the stairs I saw two female slaves, both of them in tears, screaming at Daniel hysterically. It took me a moment to figure out what they were trying to say, and just as I did I saw Jesse run out the door with the two of them following him. It gradually emerged that a young girl had fallen down our well and one of the male slaves had tried to go down after her, but the rope had broken and he had fallen in too. The rest of the men were out in the fields or away on other tasks and the women who were left on the scene didn’t know what to do. Hence they had rushed to the house.
Pixy began to cry herself, obviously wanting to run after Jesse and the women but worried that she wasn’t supposed to leave me. “Come on,” I yelled, and pulled her by the hand.
In less than a minute we had reached the well, which stood in the yard a ways off from the house. Several of the slave women were looking down into it, wailing and crying. Jesse was lowering himself down, one foot braced on each side for traction. If his legs hadn’t been as long as they were I don’t think he could have managed, but as it was he seemed to be getting a pretty good grip.
“Esther, tie a bucket to a good strong rope and lower it down,” he yelled to me as he descended into the darkness. “Throw a second rope down too.”
“We need a bucket,” I said to the women at the well. “And two ropes.”
One of the women started running and I followed her to the dairy. She made a beeline for a corner where some rope was stashed.
“Don’t got no bucket,” she said.
“There has to be one,” I said.
“They supposed to be here,” she said frantically. “I don’t see none.”
“Where else could they be?” I said.
“By de well,” she said. “But dey ain’t there.”
“Where else?” I said.
“In de shed,” she said, taking off like the Flash.
I ran after her and in another few seconds we had attracted the attention of some of the field hands.
“Bucket!” she screamed as a man stared. He looked confused, then realizing what must have happened he ran to the icehouse next to the river, lifted a bucket full of ice, tipped out the contents, and came running. The three of us ran all the way back to the well and tied the bucket to the rope the other slave had found. The male slave lowered the bucket into the well and threw another rope down, holding tightly onto the end.
“I’ve got her,” I heard Jesse yell up. “But she’s hurt badly. I need to get her up now.”
“What about the man?” I yelled down.
“Broken legs,” Jesse yelled up. “I’m trying to keep his head above water. Hurry or it will be too late!”
Why I Wrote Indigo
Paula Berinstein
Love, fear, and curiosity. That’s the simple
explanation for why I’m writing my Indigo series, but I suppose you want to
know more.
I said love but that isn’t really the right word. Passion
captures the feeling more accurately. Indigo was born out of my passion for
Outlander, starting with the books and graduating to the TV series. From the
moment I picked up the first book . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Outlander is my passion
I almost didn’t read the series at all. Years ago when I
was browsing in a used bookstore the proprietor looked over my shoulder,
selected a battered copy of the first Outlander book, and gushed, “You have to
read this. You’ll never be the same.”
I appreciated her enthusiasm (she’s a really nice lady)
but I wasn’t impressed. My tastes just aren’t the same as anyone else’s, no
matter how much I love or respect them, and I barely knew her. The cover and
blurb didn’t do anything for me either but I thought, “Fifty cents—okay. It’s
not as though it’s a huge gamble.” So I took the book home where it sat on my
shelf for a verrrrry long time until one day, I don’t remember why, I picked it
up and started reading.
OMG, fireworks! The love story, the villains, the
courage, the angst, the history! I couldn’t put it down. I barreled through it
and came up gasping.
Photo credit: Antonio Manfredonio, CC BY-SA 2.0
<https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
How I felt when I first read Outlander
Needless to say I devoured the entire series, or at
least as much as has been released so far. (We’re all still waiting to see how
it turns out.) I talked about it with friends, became fascinated with the whole
field of history (not just Scottish, but everything), and thought and thought
about the stories until one day I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to write my
own Outlander. Which brings us to reason number two for Indigo: the
great motivator, fear.
Photo credit: Multiple Authors, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I was so afraid I couldn’t do it!
If a writer ever tells you she’s never experienced fear
during the course of her career don’t believe her. At that point in mine I’d
published quite a few novels in my Amanda Lester, Detective series and was
confident about my ability to continue in that vein. But a historical novel?
The idea of that scared me to death, as well it should. Could I even do it? I
didn’t think so. I’m not a historian, and although I know a fair amount about
American and English history I don’t know nearly enough to write a book, or I
didn’t then. How authors do that I couldn’t imagine. It seemed that it would
take a lifetime just to get the background you’d need.
Photo credit: Tom Murphy VII, CC BY-SA 3.0
<http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Paula the historian?
The more I thought about the task the more daunted I
felt until in the end it was pure stubbornness that kept me going. I was scared
to death that I couldn’t do it, and that pushed me forward. I’d be damned if
I’d fail.
Here’s where the third reason comes in. I am a voraciously
curious person and I desperately wanted to try out some ideas. The main
question I wanted to answer was, “What if a modern character were thrown back
to another time where everything was different?” How would she adapt? Could
she adapt? It’s one thing for Claire Randall to make a go of it in the
Outlander stories. She grew up with an intrepid uncle who taught her to be
tough. But what if a character were just an ordinary person with average coping
skills? Would they be able to rise to the challenge?
Furthermore, what if that person was used to a society
in which all people were entitled to basic rights and freedoms but ended up in
one based on slavery? Would she try to change things, and if she did what would
happen?
I had to know the answers to these questions. Even more
than passion and fear, my curiosity was what kept me going. I hope I don’t end
up like Pandora, but I just have to know. It’s my fatal flaw.
Photo credit: Jules Lefebvre, Public domain, via Wikimedia
Commons
I may act like Pandora but this sure doesn’t look like me
Thank you so much for featuring my book! And my goodness, you included all the excerpts. You’re awesome, Joy!!!
ReplyDeletexo Paula