Tuesday, August 6, 2019

Announcing Evergreen!

It’s 1901—a brave new century—and seventeen-year-old Grace Boisvert thinks it’s high time to forget that she’s a dryad; being able to talk to trees just doesn’t seem very useful in the automobile age. A little hair dye to touch up her green roots, and she’s off to join her best friend Alice Roosevelt for a visit to glamorous Newport, RI, with her family’s warnings not to fall for any human boys ringing in her ears.

As it happens, the only interesting boy in Newport, Kit Rookwood, clearly prefers Alice to her. But that changes when he and his family unexpectedly follow the girls to a secluded Adirondack camp to join the rest of the Roosevelts. All of Kit’s considerable charm is now focused on Grace, and she finds herself falling in love—and not just with the breathtaking forests.

But sometimes stern family warnings really should be heeded and ancient magical heritages not forgotten, especially when it turns out that not everything—and everyone—are quite what they seem...

That’s the premise of my new young adult historical fantasy, Evergreen, coming out on November 5, 2019 from Book View Café... and I’m very excited! Do you remember my Not the Nineteenth Century posts from a few years back, featuring profiles of people like Newport doyennes Mamie Fish and Ava Vanderbilt? This book is what inspired those posts—and oh my goodness, the research for this book was pure catnip—not only the history and culture of 1901, but the research on the locations (the Newport mansions and the camps of the Adirondacks) the natural history (trees! mountains!) and the folklore around the tree nymphs the Greeks called dryads.

And isn't the cover simply gorgeous?!

I’m delighted that this book is finally coming out, and I hope you’ll enjoy it. It will be available for preorder on most of the usual ebook vendors over the next few weeks, and a print edition will also be offered. In the meanwhile, here’s a little sneak preview...

Chapter One 


Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

July 1901

“Dorothy? Come help me, won’t you?” Grace Boisvert beckoned to her younger sister from the bathroom doorway. She wore an old brown flannel wrapper, and her long, freshly washed hair dripped down her back. “And stop making all that noise or you’ll wake Grand-mère.”
“Nothing wakes Grand-mère when she’s napping after lunch. Not even me.” Dorothy paused in her headlong gallop down the upstairs hall, brown braids flying—she’d been re-reading Black Beauty for the seventeenth time—and looked bright-eyed at Grace. “What do you want help with? And why don’t you want Grand-mère to know what you’re doing?”
Why couldnt she have had a less perceptive little sister? Fortunately, she’d learned from experience the best way to manage Dorothy: she put a finger over her pursed lips and raised an eyebrow.
It worked every time; Dorothy tiptoed to her. What is it? she whispered.
Grace gently closed the door behind them. I need to do my hair.
Dorothy perched on the mahogany lid of the toilet. “So why are you doing it while Grand-mères asleep?
Because I want to try something different. Grace paused, but it was too late to reconsider. All she could do was hope Dorothy would be interested enough that she wouldnt tattle. It would be a shame if she did, because this purchase had cost three weeks pocket money. She pulled a small, paper-wrapped parcel from one of the deep pockets of her robe. 
“Ooh, what is it?” Dorothy craned to see it.
“I got it in town at Jordan Marsh.” Grace unwrapped the parcel to reveal a bottle with an elaborate gilded label.
“‘Mademoiselle’s Secret. For the hair. Used by Famous Parisian Beauties since 1854,’” Dorothy read aloud. “‘The Most Natural Tints Beyond Those Provided by Mother Nature.’” She looked up at Grace. “Why wouldn’t Grand-mère like it? It’s French, isn’t it?”
Grace set the bottle on the marble counter by the sink and picked up her brush. “Yes, but it’s not how she does it. I’m tired of her black-walnut-hull-and-coffee-bean stuff. It smells funny and stains horribly if you get it on your skin. I want to try something modern.”
“Eighteen fifty-four isn’t exactly modern, you know.” Dorothy hopped up, took the bottle, pried the stopper from it, and sniffed. “But it does smell better.”
Anything smells better.” Grace leaned toward the mirror, peering at her hairline. An eighth of an inch of rich green showed there. She should have done her hair days ago, but guests at lunch three days running had meant disruption to Grand-mère’s nap schedule. “All right,” she said briskly. “Hand me that pail, won’t you?”
Dorothy complied. “When do you think my hair will start to turn green?”
“When it’s ready. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up. It’s a rotten chore, having to dye it all the time. Not to mention wearing corsets and putting up with visits from the red-haired lady every month.” Grace set the pail under the hot water tap in the sink and turned it on, then consulted the bottle of Mademoiselle’s Secret—in “honeyed chestnut,” which she’d chosen in honor of the enormous chestnut tree outside her bedroom window that sang her to sleep every night. “It says one cup per gallon of water—goodness, that’ll be most of the bottle!—and to soak the hair until the desired shade is obtained—”
“What are you supposed to do? Stand on your head in the bucket?” Dorothy collapsed on the floor, snorting giggles.
“Hush!” Grace prodded her with one slippered foot. “Now, let’s see…if we put the pail on the toilet lid, I can sort of bend over it, and you can make sure all my hair is in it and pour the stuff over the back of my head so it gets down to the roots.” Then, because Dorothy was starting to look mutinous, she added, “And I’ll help you do the same when it’s your turn.”
“No you won’t. By the time it’s my turn, you’ll probably be off getting married or something.” Dorothy glowered up at her.
Grace stopped reading the label and looked down at her sister. “Yes, I will. Even if I’m married I’ll come and help you. You know I always keep my promises. Now, let’s see how this works.”
Without another word, Dorothy watched while she mixed the dye and helped her get all her hair into the pail, then carefully poured the liquid over the back of her head where it wasn’t fully immersed.
“What are you using to pour it?” The lapels of Grace’s wrapper had flopped down over her chin and ears, making it difficult to both see and hear. At least if Dorothy got any dye on her brown robe, no one would notice.
“Your tooth glass,” Dorothy said cheerfully. “I hope it won’t stain it. If it does, you can bury it in the trash dump and tell Mum you broke it.”
Grace closed her eyes. You’re the one who asked her to help, Miss Clever Boots.
“At least you don’t have to do what Grand-mère did and rub your forearms with lemons to bleach out the green hair there,” Dorothy continued. “I asked her why she didn’t shave ’em instead, but she said that wouldn’t be ladylike. I don’t see how rubbing ’em with a lemon is, though.”
“Neither do I.” Maybe she should be a blonde instead, and sit in the sun with lemon in her hair. But she’d always dyed her hair brown, and becoming blonde would be far too noticeable. “I wish I knew how long I need to stand like thi—”
“Did I hear the doorbell?” Dorothy paused in mid-pour.
“No, it’s just the ringing in my ears,” Grace muttered. Standing bent over the toilet with her hair in a bucket was starting to make her dizzy.
“I’ll go check.”
Grace heard the clink! of the glass being set on the marble counter and the creak the lower door hinge always made when opening. “Dorothy, get back here!” she called, loudly as she dared. “Rose will answer the door!”
But it was too late. Dorothy was down the hall, shrieking, “Who is it, Rose?” over the banister down to the front hall. So much for Grand-mère’s nap…and her French dye. Grace gathered up her hair and tried to squeeze as much liquid as possible from it, then wiped her hands on her brown robe before the dye could stain them.
Dorothy came thundering back down the hall and flung the bathroom door wide open. “Grace! It’s Alice!”
Alice?” Grace found a towel and wrapped it around her head, flipping it back as she stood up. “You’re telling tales again, aren’t you? Just like you did that time when you said Dick Aspinwall was at the door asking to take me skating.”
“I’m not!” Dorothy had the grace to look sheepish. “She’s really here!”
She wasn’t supposed to get here till the day after tomorrow!
She said she wanted to surprise you. Come on! She’s dying to see you! 
Grace looked hard at her sister. She appeared sincere… Well, the only way she’d find out was to at least peek over the banister. “Mrs. Lee isn’t here too, is she?” She hastily tipped the pail of dye down the toilet. Dared she flush it? No; Alice—if she was actually here—would hear it and tease her.
“No, just Alice. Come on!” Dorothy was practically dancing a jig. “She don’t care if you’re wearing your old wrapper. She told me so.”
“Never mind—I’m coming up,” an amused voice called from the stairs. “Where are you?”
“In here!” Dorothy danced back out into the hall, gesticulating. Grace grabbed the bottle of hair dye and plunged it into her pocket. The last thing she needed was Alice demanding to know why she was dyeing her hair—as close as they were, there were some things that had to be kept secret—like the fact that Alice’s best friend was a dryad.
“Grace Boisvert! You are still in your robe. Are you just getting up? It must have been quite a party last night. Wish I’d been there.” Alice appeared, dressed for travel in a canvas coat and hat with veil, in the bathroom doorway.
“No parties, goose. I was, er, washing my hair. When did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today?” Grace stepped forward to give her a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
Alice Lee Roosevelt was her dearest friend. She and Grace had known each other since they were babies and had been inseparable during Alice’s twice-yearly long visits to her maternal grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Lee, who lived next door. They wrote each other copious letters when Alice was away, and always picked right up where they’d left off when she arrived at the Lees’.
“Must have slipped my mind,” Alice said apologetically, but her eyes glinted with mischief. “I say, it’s not as old and tatty as mine,” she added, holding Grace at arm’s length and scrutinizing her robe.
“I’ll bet you’ve got one made out of ermine and velvet, now that your papa’s the vice- president!” Dorothy said from behind them, sounding awestruck.
“We don’t go in for ermine and velvet robes in America, though I must say I wouldn’t mind it if we did.” Alice sighed. “By George, it’s good to be back, if only for a few minutes, anyway. Life has been a whirlwind—you’ve no idea!”
“Lucky dog. I wish mine were. Let’s go to my room.” Grace tucked her arm in Alice’s and propelled her down the hall. Dorothy seemed ready to follow after them, but a high, imperious voice from the other end of the hall called, “Dorothée!” She pouted, but didn’t dare disobey. When Grand-mère called, you went.
Once in her room, Grace shut the door behind them. “Very well—what’s been so whirlwind-ish?” she demanded. “Have you already been to Washington? Your last letter was from New York.”
Alice threw herself onto Grace’s four-poster bed, careless of her modish hat and duster coat and the ruffled dotted swiss counterpane. “No Washington yet—Mother doesn’t want to bring the children there until the fall. I’ll miss New York terribly—I had such fun there this winter with Aunt Bye!—but Washington will be fun too if I have any say in the matter.” She threw her hand across her brow in mock distress. “I came here directly from the station—well, I stopped to kiss Grandmother first—but I’ve so much to tell you, I don’t know where to start.”
“Why don’t you start with telling me why you’re here two days early and what you meant by ‘if only for a few minutes?’” Grace settled in the low slipper chair by the fireplace grate. This was how they always sat—Alice on her bed, she on the chair. “Aren’t you staying for a regular visit this time?”
Alice rolled onto her side, reaching up with one hand to pull out her hatpin and remove her large hat, now rather crushed. “Almost. I’ve got plans, and you’re going to be part of them.”
“What kind of plans?” Grace knew better than to say an unreserved yes to any of Alice’s plans. Some of her previous ones had earned them scoldings and being sent to bed without supper—not that she regretted any of them, except maybe for the time they’d hidden the chicken in Mrs. Lee’s parlor organ. But Alice had never shirked her share of their punishments.
“Wait till you hear!” Alice sat up. “Grace, how old are we?”
“Seventeen, of course. What does that—”
“Yes, seventeen—and you’ve already graduated from high school. Which means we’re old enough to—to do things!”
“Like what things?”
       “Like—oh…” Alice pretended to examine her fingernails. “Like go to Newport this summer?

Evergreen. Coming November 5 from Book View Café. ☺


QNPoohBear said...

Congratulations on finally having this book see the light of day. Do you have any plans for author appearances in Newport? FYI, in case you didn't know, Alyssa Maxwell's newest Gilded Age Newport mystery is centered around Mamie Fish and Crossways.

Marissa Doyle said...

Thank you, QNPoohBear! I'm going to do my best to set up some signings in the Newport area...and I didn't know that re Alyssa Maxwell's book--I'll have to look it up.

QNPoohBear said...

If you come to Newport, I will try hard to get there. I can't make it to see Alyssa Maxwell but she's doing another local appearance I am determined to get to. Murder at Crossways is the newest Gilded Newport book.

Marissa Doyle said...

I was looking at Island Books, which looks lovely...or maybe the B&N in Middletown.