From the desk of Christina Boyd:
After a successful divergence from her Napoleonic spy romances of the Pink Carnation series with the post-Edwardian The Ashford Affair, New York Times bestselling author Lauren Willig again embarks on another stand-alone narrative. Entangling one generation with the past is Willig’s trademark, and That Summer is of modern day Julia Conley as well as her ancestors in 1849.
In 2009, motherless Julia inherits an old family house in England from a great Aunt Regina Ashe, a woman she cannot even recall. One of the recently unemployed in the recession, she travels from New York City to Herne Hill, a district south of London, to view her inheritance and unload it as quickly as possible. Upon arrival, she meets her exceedingly obliging and maybe even presumptuous cousin, Natalie, who eagerly volunteers to help sort the old mansion and later even brings along the fine Nicholas Dorrington, if somewhat taciturn antiques dealer, to value the lot. Although they jest concerning hidden treasures, Julia cannot but wonder if in fact there might be some sort of riches her relations hope to unearth beneath the years of dust, dank oddments and papers. But what she had not expected was to exhume memories of her childhood.
“Julia’s hand was on the knob of the door before she realized that she had retreated, step by step, ready to duck out and shut the door. She laughed shakily. Great. Metaphor made action. Her English professors in college would have loved that. Shut the door and shut the door. Just like she had been shutting the door all these years. Julia’s knuckles were white against the old brass doorknob. This was insane. Insane. What was she so afraid of? What was she so afraid of remembering? Maybe she was just afraid she would miss her. Her mother.” (87)
In 1849, Imogene Grantham has been married to the much older Arthur, collector of antiquities and artifacts, for nearly a decade. And though she naively thought she was marrying for love, it was not long before she realized she was to be just another showpiece to adorn his home. Oddly, Arthur’s late wife’s sister, a Miss Jane Cooper, a bitter and suspicious woman, continues to manage the house. A lonely life to be sure, with Imogene’s only pleasure deriving from the adoration of Evie, her step-daughter. When three pre-Raphaelite artists come to admire Grantham’s collection, an unsuspecting Imogene is observed by the reticent Gavin Thorne.
“Nor was Mrs. Grantham in Augustus’s style. He liked pink and white society beauties. If Miss Cooper was a Rembrandt sketch of a purse-lipped Dutch housewife and Miss Evangeline Grantham a Dresden shepherdess, all pink and white, and yellow curls, Mrs. Grantham was something else, entirely. In the candlelight she was ebony and ivory, the dark waves of her hair accentuating the strong bones of her face.” (59-60)
Nevertheless, Imogene was all too aware of the attentions Mr. Augustus Fotheringay-Vaughn bestowed upon the 16 year old Evangeline. (Vaughn? Vaughn! Surely not the “spawn of Vaughn”—from Willig’s The Pink Carnation series? Oh, heaven help the artless heiress.)
As Julia discovers a pre-Raphaelite painting concealed behind a false wall in an armoire—and as she and Nick sift through the house for more clues as to authenticity, why the piece was secreted away, and why the likeness between the woman in this Tristan and Isolde scene to that of the formal yet forlorn portrait prominently displayed in the drawing room—a developing magnetism between the two cannot be denied. Still, Nick is an art dealer and Natalie, who seems to have her eyes on Nick, puts Julia on her guard.
Lauren Willig has painted lush, colorful characters and layered historical details, touches of mystery and romance with a deft brush that made me yearn for more. A masterful work of art, That Summer is sure to become this summer’s Must Read in women’s fiction.
5 out of 5 Stars
That Summer: A Novel, by Lauren Willig
St. Martin’s Press (2014)
Hardcover (352) pages
Cover image courtesy of St. Martin’s Press © 2014; text Christina Boyd © 2014, Austenprose.com
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