I’ve been asked many times where I got the idea for my novels . The truth is ideas come to me in many different ways, but none of them can compare to the inspiration for my first novel, Although it is the first one I wrote, it’s the second one published, but that’s another story.
The idea for my book came in the most unlikely of places, an old burial ground in Deerfield Village MA. It happened on a beautiful autumn Sunday. My husband and I had been out just riding around in our car, when 40 miles from home, I came across a sign for Old Deerfield Village in Massachusetts. It is a quaint village full of original colonial homes.
I wanted so much to tour some of the old homes, but it was after hours so instead, we strolled down to the old burial ground. As we walked around reading the names and dates on the ancient tombstones, I found myself standing on a grave engraved with the name Elizabeth Hawkes. A strange feeling of déjà vu came over me, and an uneasiness I couldn’t explain. When I read the spooky epitaph etched on Elizabeth’s tombstone, the uneasiness turned into something much stronger. It was as if the epitaph was a personal message for me alone.
Pray kind reader lend an ear.
As you are now so once was I
As I am now so you shall be
Prepare for death and follow me.
The epitaph scared me, but also excited me, because I took it very literaly. I pictured myself changing places with Elizabeth Hawkes, and in that moment the plot of my book was born.
I wish I could tell you that I went home and immediately started writing, but that’s not what happened. That night when I went to sleep, I suddenly awoke, hearing a slight noise. In the dim light I made out a mouse on my window sill, right next to the bed. I don’t mind telling you that I have great fear of mice and immediately woke up my husband.
I wanted so much to tour some of the old homes, but it was after hours so instead, we strolled down to the old burial ground. As we walked around reading the names and dates on the ancient tombstones, I found myself standing on a grave engraved with the name Elizabeth Hawkes. A strange feeling of déjà vu came over me, and an uneasiness I couldn’t explain. When I read the spooky epitaph etched on Elizabeth’s tombstone, the uneasiness turned into something much stronger. It was as if the epitaph was a personal message for me alone.
Pray kind reader lend an ear.
As you are now so once was I
As I am now so you shall be
Prepare for death and follow me.
The epitaph scared me, but also excited me, because I took it very literaly. I pictured myself changing places with Elizabeth Hawkes, and in that moment the plot of my book was born.
I wish I could tell you that I went home and immediately started writing, but that’s not what happened. That night when I went to sleep, I suddenly awoke, hearing a slight noise. In the dim light I made out a mouse on my window sill, right next to the bed. I don’t mind telling you that I have great fear of mice and immediately woke up my husband.
He turned on the light whereupon the mouse jumped from the windowsill right onto the bed just a few inches from me. I’m not the screaming type, but I did yell for my husband to rescue me. He did. Killing it with a broom.
I don’t know why I associated the mouse with Elizabeth Hawkes, but I did. I really believed she was haunting me, and considering that this same scene would be played out over and over in the next few weeks, I really believed it to be true.
Mice would appear, and always wherever I was. No one else. One even appeared to me while I was sitting on the toilet. I was getting really sick of them and finally one night after another appearance on my windowsill I threw my hands up in the air and cried, “All right Elizabrth, you win. I won’t write a book about you.”
Peace reigned after that. No more mice. But the story was so strong inside of me that after a few months, I reconsidered.writing the book. Especially after a spectacular dream I had. In it I was standing in the middle of a ballroom, straight ahead of me was a narrow door, painted white.To the left of it was a balcony, up high where the musicians played.
Suddenly the door opened up and dancing couples made their way over to me, then danced right through me. All except one couple. When they came up to me, I suddenly found myself in the arms of the man dressed in a blue colonial uniform. The woman had disappeared, and I had taken her place.
I cannot express strongly enough, the wonderful feeling that came over me. I felt loved, cherished, protected in his arms. And was sure the man I danced with was Colonel John Hawkes, Elizabeth's husband.
Inspired by the dream, I decided to research the couple.
I volunteered to be a guide at OldDeerfield Village and as part of the training, which lasted several weeks, we had to tour each of the colonial houses.
Imagine my surprise when, after climbing a flight of stairs in one of the old houses I found myself standing in the middle of an empty ballroom.The same ballroom as in my dream, right down to the smallest detail,and yet I had never been in that house before.To this day I am in awe and full of wonderment over this. It was proof to me that I did have a supernatural connection to Elizabeth and John.
Feeling courageous, as I lay down to sleep that night, I told my husband I was going to write the book. I was about to turn out the light when the phone rang. When I answered it, a voice said, “This is the Ludlow Funeral parlor.” That was it. I got the message and put the book out of my head for another period of time.
In fact, I didn’t write it until after we moved 1200 miles away from MA, and I guess Elizabeth’s spirit couldn’t travel that far because to this day, there has been no more hauntings from her. Knock on wood.
But many other things have happened along the way, relating to A LOVE FOR ALL TIME, and I’ll tell you about them in future posts.
But now, so you'll have an idea what I'm talking about I 'm posting the Prologue and first chapter to A Love For All Time. You'll see how autobiographical the beginning is.
A Love For All Time
Prologue
Her fingers slowly traced the words etched into the ancient tombstone. Worn by the ravages of wind and time they were barely decipherable, but it didn't matter for she knew them by heart; so many times had she stood at this very spot, so many times had she read this haunting verse. Speaking softly, her voice released the words from their stone bondage, commending them to the autumn air.
Pray Kind reader lend an ear
As you are now so once was I
As I am now so you shall be
Prepare for death and follow me
She knew, no matter how many times she had been told to the contrary, the words were meant for her alone. It didn't matter that the stone had been standing two hundred years before she was born, or that her reasoning was totally irrational, the shiver that crawled along the surface of her skin each time she read the frightening epitaph confirmed it was so.
A mournful cry drifted to her ears, piercing her troubled reverie, and shielding her eyes with her hand, she looked up at the bright morning sky to the bird of prey circling overhead. Her eyes tracked the raptor as it glided lower and lower, then seemed to stop dead in the air before plummeting and with a flurry of wings landed on the tombstone that bore the disturbing message.
Gazing into the unblinking eyes of the majestic hawk, she was mesmerized by the golden light emanating from their fathomless depths, and slowly extended her arm, offering it to the bird. The tawny bird hopped onto it as if it had done so countless times before. "Well, my beautiful feathered friend, what strange fortune has brought you to me?"
As if the sound of her voice broke some ancient spell the hawk let out a wild cry, and then took flight, a sharp talon piercing the delicate tissue of her wrist in its hasty departure. Startled, her gaze shifted from the vanishing hawk to her wounded arm, watching as a crimson ribbon of blood welled up, then streamed down her hand to the grass covered grave below.
Chapter One
Summer Winslow breathed a sigh of relief as the last tour group of the day walked out the door of the Wells Thorne house. Hurriedly, she locked up and ran around the corner to Memorial Hall, where John Hawke's sword was displayed; praying Janet would be there as she promised. Making her way around the building to a private entrance, she knocked on the door, waiting for what seemed like an eternity before it was finally opened. "What took you so long?" Summer said, impatiently,"I was afraid you changed your mind.”
“Shhhh,” Janet whispered. "I had to wait until everyone left, didn't I? Now get in here before I do change my mind."
"What are you whispering for?" Summer asked, speaking in a hushed tone herself
“I don't know.This sneaking around has turned me into a ball of nerves, and I don't like it one little bit."
"For Pete’s sake, Janet, it's not as if we're master criminals or jewel thieves. Relax. I'm only going to hold the sword for a few moments, examine it, and then put it back. What could go wrong?"
"What could go wrong? I could lose my job, that's what could go wrong. And for what? So your obsession can grow even stronger."
Summer's brow crinkled. "Obsession is a pretty strong word, Janet. Research. That's all it is, research for my book."
"Research? Ha! You've been obsessed with Elizabeth Hawke ever since you read her creepy epitaph, and if that's not bad enough, you're in love with her husband, a man who’s been dead two hundred years. But even that's not creepy enough for you. No now you have to have a sick fascination for the man's sword too. Or hasn't it occurred to you that swords are considered phallic symbols?"
Rolling her eyes and groaning loudly, Summer said, "I don't believe this conversation. Listen, Dr. Freud. You know very well how I feel about John Hawke's sword, and it has nothing to do with, with, phallic symbols. I just want to hold it for a minute, that's all. What's wrong with that? Any historical writer worth her salt would kill for the opportunity to touch a personal possession of the person she's writing about. It's as simple and as uncomplicated as that."
Janet shook her head in disbelief. "Why do I bother trying to reason with you?"
"Darn it all, Janet. I wouldn't ask you, but the glass case is always locked, and I don't have access to the keys like you do. Your transfer to Memorial Hall has given me the only chance I might ever have to touch John Hawke’s sword."
Brushing a strand of wavy black hair from her eyes, Janet replied, "Why do I always let you talk me into these things? All right, you win. But I'm staying with you as long as you're in the museum. I want to make sure nothing goes wrong."
Summer threw her arms around her friend, hugging her tight. "Thanks, Janet. You're a good friend. I promise nothing will go wrong."
In a moment they were in the small windowless room that held the sword and a portrait of its owner Colonel John Hawke. Military apparatus and uniforms were displayed in tall glass cases on one side of the room, and l8th century women's clothing and accessories on another.
Standing in front of the portrait, Summer gazed up at John's face as she had done so often, drawn back time after time until his face had become as familiar to her as her own, engraved in her heart as well as on her brain. She didn’t understand why he affected her this way, she only knew that from the first glimpse of his portrait, she been deeply attracted to this 18th century warrior.
The painting, done in rich, dark oils, showed John to be handsome in a rugged sort of way, with hair a deep sable brown, and compelling green eyes that mesmerized her, following her wherever she moved. His nose was straight and masculine, his lips extremely sensuous, with the slightest of smiles touching his mouth as if he shared a special secret with her.
He was posed in a chair, his sword strapped to his side, with his right hand resting lightly on the hilt, and it thrilled her to think that in a few short moments her own hand would rest on that selfsame hilt.
"Do you mind leaving the room until I've finished? I can‘t concentrate with you breathing down my neck."
Janet sighed deeply. Summer was really losing her marbles. Why in the world would anyone need to be alone with a crummy old sword? "All right, I'm going, but I think devoting your life to studying dead people like this is downright creepy. What a waste of prime womanhood. With that strawberry mane of yours and a figure that could bring your Colonel Hawke back from the dead, you could have any man you wanted. You should be out in the world, dating having fun, not cooped up in a musty old museum mooning over a man dead two hundred years."
Seeing her words were having no effect, she threw her hands up saying, "Okay, I give up. You've got ten minutes, then we've got to get out of here."
"That's all the time I need," Summer said, still staring at John's portrait. "Do you have the keys to the case?"
"I unlocked it before you got here." Janet said, then walked out of the room, shaking her head in frustration.
The sudden quiet of the room was overwhelming, making Summer feel uneasy, though she didn't know why, but then everything that happened to her since she first laid eyes on Elizabeth Hawke's tombstone had been disquieting.
Closing her eyes, she thought back to the day when fate, in the guise of Brian Jameson had brought her to Deerfield and to Elizabeth's grave. They had been on a Sunday drive, exploring the back roads of Western Massachusetts when they saw the road sign for Historic Deerfield. On a whim they had stopped, and had been enchanted by the lovely old buildings. They would have toured them, but it had been too late in the day. Instead, Summer talked Brian into exploring the burial ground, one of the oldest in America.
When Summer discovered Elizabeth's stone, her only thought had been that it might prove to be an interesting one to do an oil rubbing of. She loved transferring epitaphs and artwork from dull grey stones onto pellum cloth in vibrant oil colors, especially the really old stones. They had much more character than modern day ones, and the artwork etched into them was more intricate in design.
She still remembered the feeling that had swept over her when she read the name engraved on the stone. Elizabeth Hawke! The name echoed wildly through the cells of her brain, then careened through the chambers of her heart like an electric shock. She stood there, stunned by the strong emotion she felt, wondering what could have caused it
Then her eyes had been drawn to the epitaph, and she had read those haunting words. She tried to put it out of her mind, but more and more she had been drawn back to the stone, each time feeling the same strange sensation. She felt in some inexplicable way she was connected to Elizabeth and she wanted, no needed, to know how, justifying all the time she spent researching with the idea of making Elizabeth the heroine of an historical romance novel.
When she found the tombstone of Colonel John Hawke standing like a silent sentinel next to Elizabeth's stone she knew she had found the hero of her story too. His name conveyed a feeling of great masculinity and strength, and she vowed to find out everything she could about the man who had been Elizabeth's husband.
In the ensuing months she committed herself to researching their lives and had undergone the intense training to become a guide in Historic Deerfield just so she would have access to documents and artifacts denied the general public. It turned out to be a most effective way to research her book and it had paid off handsomely.
She discovered John had been a hero in real life, rescuing his wife and daughter from the French and Abenaki Indians after they were captured and were being force marched to Canada. It would make an exciting chapter in her book, but a piece of important information was missing.
There had been another female captive on the march, but according to her information, she had died before the colonel could rescue her. No mention of her name had been made, nor the date of the rescue, frustrating Summer no end. But then, research could be very frustrating. Inconsistencies and fractured pieces of information abounded, making for long, often dreary hours of work to piece it all together. But every time she discovered some new artifact, or bit of pertinent data, it made up for everything.
Like John Hawke's sword.
She remembered how elated she had been to discover it. The weapon was a silver mounted small sword popular with militia officers of the time, only much fancier. The pommel was fashioned in the shape of a hawk's head, with emeralds set in the eyes. From her first glimpse she felt a strong compulsion to touch it, and now... now... she would have her chance.
Her heart pounded as she opened the door, breathing deeply as she stared at the sword as if seeing it for the very first time. The sword's blade was dulled by time, and the silver hilt tarnished, but it still retained its primitive beauty.
An immense sense of euphoria swept over her as her hand moved slowly toward the weapon, changing to concern when her fingertips began to tingle with electricity. She hesitated, unnerved by the strange sensation, but her eagerness quickly overcame her fears, and her fingers moved ever closer. The tingling sensation grew, and the baby fine hair on her arm stood on end, but still she inched her fingers closer, closer, until at last she touched the cold steel.
Instantly, a brilliant light blinded her, and a strange sensation rolled over her, compressing her body as if she was plunging through a tight hole made solely of light. When she could see again she was astonished to find she was standing under a huge tree.
What... What was happening to her?
She closed her eyes for a second, hoping it would correct her vision, but when she opened them again, the tree was still there, and the sword too, propped up against it, only now... now... it was shiny and new.
A flash of blue caught her eye, a jacket draped over a limb of the tree. She recognized it as man's garment from the l700's but how could that be? How could any of this be?
Dazed and bewildered, her gaze shifted from the tree and the sword to the sound of splashing water, startled to see a man standing in a river, the water swirling lovingly around his naked hips.
She gasped.
The man raised his head and looked straight at her.
Without thinking, she instinctively reached for the sword, and with a blinding flash found herself back in Memorial Hall.
She breathed deeply of the musty smelling room, taking comfort in the familiar odor, and in the walls that clothed her in normalcy. It had to be a hallucination. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Unless... unless... Janet was right, and she was going crazy. But it had seemed so real, so vivid. How could she have imagined it? She had to know the truth. She could never breathe an easy breath again until she knew what had caused the incredible illusion. And there was only one way to find out.
Swallowing hard, she braced herself, and reached for the sword once more. With trembling fingers she touched the metal blade, ignoring the tingling sensation in her fingers and the light hit her again, sending her back to the tree and the sword and the naked man in the water who was clearly disturbed at seeing her appear from nowhere.
"What manner of apparition are you, woman?"
His voice, so deep, so velvety, sent shivers up her spine. If this was a hallucination it was a damn good one. Not only could she see him in all his glory, and hear him speak, but she could feel the gentle breeze through her long, waist length hair, and smell the earthy verdant vegetation.
"Must you haunt me in the light of day too?"
Was he talking to her? Looking behind her, she saw she was alone. She was as real to him as he was to her. She wanted to ask him what was happening, but couldn't, afraid if she spoke it would break the spell she was under, and send her away from the magnificent sight of him wet and glistening in the golden light. Send her away from the river sparkling in the afternoon sun, sending shimmering waves of light rippling around him as if doing homage to some magical water god.
"Speak woman. Have you no shame standing there staring at a naked man? Well then, if you have not, shall I come closer so you can get a better view?"
With that, he started toward her, kicking up sprays of water as he moved. Summer stood frozen, unable to move, unable to take her eyes off him.
He started up the embankment and drew uncomfortable close before she panicked and moved toward the sword, a spray of water sprinkling her face as he reached out to grab her. For a few desperate seconds she feared she wouldn't reach the sword in time, but then, her fingers found the steel and the flash of light transported her back to the museum where she stood shaking all over with excitement.
"That was no hallucination!" she cried, then touching her cheek with the tip of her fingers, she felt the drops of water and fainted dead away.
From a great distance she heard her name being called, and opened her eyes to find Janet leaning over her.
"Summer, what happened? Are you all right?
Her mind awhirl, Summer struggled with an explanation. "I... I guess I, uh, fainted from the excitement of actually touching the sword." That was no lie. "I'll be all right. I just need to go to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. I'll be right back."
Before Janet could protest, she headed down the hall to the bathroom, a tingle of excitement coursing through her. The man in the water was John Hawke. She was certain of it. There was no mistaking those green eyes and sable hair, no mistaking the arrogant manner so evident in his portrait. But the painting she knew so well didn't do him justice. No artist, living or dead could ever have captured the wild untamed, sensual look she had seen in his eyes as he moved toward her.
A look that made her want to propel herself back to him now this very moment. Thank goodness Janet's presence made that impossible for it would be foolhardy. John might well be waiting for her to put in another appearance at the river. She had no idea what his intentions had been when he came after her, and she couldn't afford to find out.
Making her way to the sink, she turned on the faucet, and splashed water on her face. She had to pull herself together, had to think with a clear head. The cool water felt good against her skin, now burning with excitement and it helped to clear her muddled mind. Somehow, incredible though it seemed, she had gone back in time, propelled there by John Hawke's sword. The shiny, new looking sword she had seen propped against the tree was undeniable the same timeworn sword here in the case.
When she touched the sword here, it sent her back to the exact spot it happened to be in the l8th century. But why? How? It was too much to take in all at once. She knew only one thing for sure. She felt a terrible fear, and at the same time an overwhelming joy at the prospect of touching the sword again.
And she would.
But not now. She wasn’t brave enough to risk another encounter with Colonel John Hawke. She’d wait until late evening when the darkness would give her cover, and when hopefully he would be asleep and out of harm's way. Her heart pounded wildly at the thought of seeing him up close, so close she could reach out and touch him, so close she could smell the masculine scent of his body.
She ached to tell Janet what happened, but was afraid that if she spoke about it to anyone, the spell would be broken and she would never be able to go back in time again. More than anything she wanted to do that. To see John one more time, that's all, just one more time.
Her mind raced, thinking of a way to get back into the museum tonight. Asking Janet was out of the question. She had been traumatized enough just by unlocking the door after work. She could imagine how she'd react to returning late at night to do it. No, there had to be another way. Her eyes scanned the room, lighting on the bathroom window. Of course!
Moving swiftly to the small window by the sink, she opened it a crack praying the alarm wasn't set. Then she remembered it couldn't be set until they were outside. Good no problem. As calmly as she could manage, she walked back to the room and stopped short.
Janet was reaching for the sword!
"Good thing I noticed the sword wasn't in the exact position as before or we could have been found out."
Summer held her breath.
Would Janet disappear before her eyes?
She watched intently as Janet's hand moved closer to the sword. Held it still as her friend's hand closed around the steel moving it back in place, then sighed deeply when she saw Janet was still there.
She knew then, whatever magic had sent her back in time was hers alone. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but one look at Janet's scowling face forced her to compose herself. In a lilting voice, she called out, "Why don't you take a look outside, make sure no one sees us leaving."
Janet was perplexed by Summer's sudden exuberance, but shrugged it off, and walked out the door shaking her head. Summer was getting crazier and crazier.
Turning off the lights, she opened the door, a deep sense of satisfaction filling her. Soon she would be in the same century, the same room as John Hawke, and in all the excitement it completely slipped her mind that he had a wife named Elizabeth.
