Ready or not, here we come!
Today's another multi-tour stop and I regret nothing. It simply means there is more bookish love to go around, and gives the chance to get a taste of it all! So, first up, a sneaky peek at a title currently on tour with Rachel's Random Resources as we focus in our spotlight and share a special excerpt with all of you...
The Testing of Rose Alleyn
by
Vivien Freeman
About the book...
England in the year 1900. A vibrant young woman must take control of her destiny.
Vivien Freeman’s atmospheric novel brings late Victorian England hauntingly to life in the mind of the reader. In this beautifully written romance, we explore the choices facing an independent-minded woman at a time when women struggled for self-determination.
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~~~ EXCERPT ~~~
Context
The year is 1900. Sixteen-year-old Rose Alleyn has been working since January as an assistant at Pritchard’s Bookshop in the market town of Widdock. It is now July, and extremely hot. Rose has been given a holiday, which sees her back at her old home, a cottage in the countryside.
I ease the bolts back and open the front door without making a sound. Sweet, rain-fresh air greets me. I take a deep breath to fill my lungs. I can smell the wet leaves, spicy and pungent, of Mother’s geraniums, really called pelargoniums, in pots on either side of the path. From the garden come the scents of lavender, rose, wet grass and earth.
I step outside, the air still deliciously cool, though warming enough already for me to feel no chill in my loose summer nightdress, which ends at mid-calf. Damp grass caresses my bare feet. As I walk to the fence and gaze at our field, the sun breaks fully over the rim of the world. It shines on the coats of the horses. Sable is in her perennial glossy black, sleek with summer, but Iolo has shed his rough white winter coat for one of a rich, burnished russet. He ambles gently over to greet me. Sable raises her head, then returns to her cropping. Iolo walks to stand by the old crab apple tree. He looks at me and a thought passes between us. He dips his head, then lifts it, a confirmation.
Before I can argue myself out of it, I go quickly and fetch his bridle. He is still standing as he was. I climb onto the lowest, sturdy branch of this tree which has seen all our childish play over the years. I slip the bridle over his head. With the reins and a chunk of mane in my nearside hand, resting on his neck, I use the branch as a springboard and, Iolo being at least two hands shorter than Sable, I can pull myself bodily over his back. I ease into position and sit up straight, glad that there’s no one here to have witnessed such an indecorous mounting.
Iolo starts walking towards Oak Meadow. Without the barrier of a saddle, I feel the lithe, living warmth of him, a direct connection between us. I sense his confidence in us both. I let out the reins, so that I’m not gripping his mouth. I manage to open and shut the gate without falling off and now we are in pastureland, with clover red and white, daisies and vivid blue self-heal. Although the birds are not singing with the gusto of spring, all around us they are in concert: warblers, heard but not seen; the bright flash of a yellowhammer with its distinctive “A-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-chee-ee-se” and the bird which announces its own name, “chiff-chaff.” In the distance under the oak, cows make a patchwork of black and white.
Iolo quickens. I know what he wants. I shorten my reins and we’re plunging off into a canter across the expanse, the breeze of our movement cool on my face, lifting soft hair at my temples. In the next field, the corn has already been cut, dried and stored. Leaving the sun-hardened path, barely softened by last evening’s downpour, we fly across stubble and reach, on the far side, a path through a beech wood, which could be enchanted, where trees frame our passage but no bramble snags nor branch makes me swerve, where our hoof-beats are muffled by mast and we find ourselves reaching the river, taking the bridle-path sheltered by willow and ash. We slow to a trot, go to a fast walk, and now we are ambling into the end of our field and up to the top. We stop by the garden gate in the fence and I slide from my height down to earth. I rock as the ground seems to rush up to claim me again as a two-legged creature. I throw my arms round the warm neck and bury my head in the sweet, soft fragrance of horse.
Copyright Vivien Freeman 2021
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About the author...
Vivien Freeman grew up in North London and graduated in Art History from the University of East Anglia before settling in Ware, Hertfordshire. A published poet as well as a novelist, she taught Creative Writing for many years and has an M.A. in Scriptwriting from Salford University. She now lives in rural Wales in the Vale of Glamorgan with her husband, the poet, John Freeman.
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Special thanks to Rachel at Rachel's Random Resources for the chance to bring this tour to you. (THANKS!) For more information on this title, the author, this promotion, or those on the horizon, feel free to click through the links provided above. Be sure to check out the rest of the tour for more bookish fun!
Until next time, remember....if it looks good, READ IT!
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