The Winter Rose by Jennifer Donnelly. Publication Date: January 8, ; Genres: Fiction, Historical Fiction; Hardcover: pages; Publisher: Hyperion. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. In late Victorian London, idealistic new medical school graduate India Selwyn Jones goes to work at a clinic in the. The Winter Rose [Jennifer Donnelly] on portal7.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. It has been twelve years since a dark, murderous figure stalked the.
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PDF - The Winter Rose. "The Winter Rose", a sequel to "The Tea Rose". In late Victorian London, idealistic new medical school graduate India Selwyn Jones. Roberts, Nora - Winter Rose. Read more Patricia A. McKillip - Winter Rose Roberts, Nora - [ANTHOLOGY] - ONCE UPON A ROSE (Winter Rose). Another strong, satisfying novel, full of rich storytelling, by the author of the favourite THE TEA ROSE. though Malone represents all she despises, India finds herself unwillingly drawn ever closer to him – enticed by his charm, intrigued by his hidden, mysterious past.
The squalor is a bit much for India, but she manages to keep her emotions under control until she meets underworld crime boss Sid Malone. Sid begins as India's nemesis, becomes her patient and ends up something much more than that. What India doesn't know is that Sid is the brother of tea heiress Fiona Bristow, wife of self-made, highly principled businessman Joseph Bristow. In typical epic style, Donnelly The Tea Rose alternates India's story with Sid's, Freddie's, Joseph's and Fiona's, leading the reader through turn-of-the-century England from the Houses of Parliament to ale houses and whore houses, and from London to Africa and beyond. It's all familiar stuff, but Donnelly's passion and energy will keep readers turning the many pages, rooting for India and the gruff underworld boss she loves. Nenhuma oferta encontrada.
A counterpoint to Malone. God only knows. I knew she was a dedicated physician, a social reformer, and as committed to the public good as Sid Malone was to his own dark pursuits. I also knew she was a wounded soul. Like Sid. And I knew that they would meet in the only place in London where two such characters could meet in — Whitechapel. And after that, I was off. The game was afoot. I knew where the story was going and how it was going to get there — but of course, as in any page novel set a hundred years in the past, a little bit of research had to get done.
Research — as much as the characters and their story and its setting — is a huge part of what inspires me as a writer.
I use many sources. General histories.
The list is endless. It was a man. She drew herself up. There is beauty here. More, Kylar thought, he wanted to save her. If there had been something tangible to fight-a man, a beast, an army-he would have drawn his sword and plunged into battle for her.
She moved him, attracted him, fascinated him. Her steady composure in the face of her fate stirred in him both admiration and frustration. This was not a woman to weep on a man's shoulder. It annoyed him to find himself wishing that she would, as long as the shoulder was his. She was an extraordinary creature. He wanted to fight for her.
But how did a man wage war on magic? He'd never had any real experience with it. He was a soldier, and though he believed in luck, even in fate, he believed more in wile and skill and muscle. He was a prince, would one day be a king. He believed in justice, in ruling with a firm touch on one hand and a merciful one on the other.
There was no justice here, where a woman who had done no wrong should be imprisoned for the crimes and follies and wickedness of those who had come before. Too small, he mused, too fragile to work her hands raw. She should be draped in silks and ermine rather than homespun.
Already after less than a week on the Isle of Winter, he felt a restlessness, a need for color and heat. How had she stayed sane never knowing a single summer? He wanted to bring her the sun. She should laugh.
It troubled him that he had not once heard her laugh. A smile, surprisingly warm when it was real enough to reach her eyes. That he had seen. He would find a way to see it again. He waded through the snow across what he supposed had once been a courtyard. Though his wound had troubled him on waking, he was feeling stronger now.
He needed to be doing, to find some work or activity to keep his blood moving and his mind sharp. Surely there was some task, some bit of work he could undertake for her here. It would repay her in some small way, and serve to keep his mind and hands busy while his body healed. He recalled the stag he'd seen in the forest. He would hunt, then, and bring her meat. The wind that had thrashed ceaselessly for days had finally quieted. Though the utter stillness that followed it played havoc with the nerves, it would make tracking through the forest possible.
He moved through a wide archway on the other side of the courtyard. And stopped to stare. This, he realized with wonder, had been the rose garden. Gnarled and blackened stalks tangled out of the snow. Once, he imagined, it would have been magnificent, full of color and scent and humming bees. Now it was a great field of snow cased in ice.
Bisecting that field were graceful paths of silver stone, and someone kept them clear. There were hundreds of bushes, all brittle with death, the stalks spearing out of their cold graves like blackened bones. Benches, these, too, cleared of snow and ice, stood in graceful curves of deep jewel colors. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, they gleamed in the midst of the stark and merciless white.
There was a small pond in the shape of an open rose, and its flower held a rippled sheet of ice. Dead branches with vicious thorns strangled iron arbors. More spindly corpses climbed up the silver stone of the walls as if they'd sought to escape before winter murdered them.
In the center, where all paths led, was a towering column of ice. Under the glassy sheen, he could see the arch of blackened branches studded with thorns, and hundreds of withered flowers trapped forever in their moment of death.
The rosebush, he thought, where the flowers of lies had been plucked. No, he corrected as he moved toward it. More a tree, for it was taller than he was and spread wider than the span of both his arms. He ran his fingertips over the ice, found it smooth. Experimentally, he took the dagger from his belt, dragged its tip over the ice. It left no mark. She saw what she needed there. Truth, strength, and courage. And what is. In her grief and temper, she tried to hack through that ice into the bush.
For nearly an hour she stabbed and sliced and beat at it, and could not so much as scratch the surface. In the end, she went to her knees there where you stand now and wept as if she'd die from it.
Something in her did die that day, along with the last of the dogs. I have not heard her weep since. I wish she would. What can't be vanquished with sword or might can be won with truth, with love, with selflessness.
She is in the stables, what is left of them. She wouldn't ask for your company, but would enjoy it. Kylar saw the reason for it in the small troop of children waging a lively snow battle at the far end. Even in such a world, he thought, children found a way to be children. As he drew closer to the stables, he heard the low cackle of hens.
There were men on the roof, working on a chimney. They tipped their caps to him as he passed under the eaves and into the stables. It was warmer, thanks to carefully banked fires, and clean as a parlor.
The queen, he thought, tended her goats and chickens well. Iron kettles heated over the fires. Water for the stock, he concluded, made from melted snow. He noted barrows of manure. For use in her garden, he decided. A wise and practical woman, Queen Deirdre.
Then he saw the wise and practical woman, with her red hood tossed back, her gold hair raining down as she cooed up at his warhorse. When the horse shook its great head and blew, she laughed. The rich female sound warmed his blood more thoroughly than the fires. She knew she shouldn't have lingered, that he would come check on his horse as it had been reported he did twice daily.
But she'd so wanted to see the creature herself. No, not like that. And softer. They'd make a pet of him if they could.
I thought I would hunt this morning. Come with me. Just the idea of it was thrilling. And I'm still a bit weak. I could send a man with you. How could she resist? Why should she? She was no fluttery girl who would fall into stutters and blushes by being alone with a man.
Even this man. What do I do first? She needn't have bothered, for as they walked the horse out of the stables, her people began to gather at the windows, in the courtyard. When he vaulted into the saddle, they cheered him like a hero. She offered her hand, then yelped in shock when he simply hauled her up in the saddle in front of him.
If you've opened your wound again-" "Quiet," he whispered, entirely too close to her ear for comfort, and with her people cheering, he kicked Cathmor into a trot.
With shouts and whoops, children raced after them as they trotted out of the castle. Must you be so close? And I'm enjoying it. You shouldn't be uneasy with a man, Deirdre, when you've seen him naked. With a rolling laugh, he urged the horse to a gallop. Her breath caught, but with delight rather than fear. Wind rushed by her cheeks, and snow flew up into the air like tattered lace. She closed her eyes for an instant to absorb the sensation, and the wild thrill made her dizzy.
So fast, she thought. So strong. When they charged up a hill she wanted to throw her arms in the air and shout for the sheer joy of it. Her heart raced along with the horse, continued to pound even when they slowed at the verge of the forest that had been known as the Forgotten for the whole of her lifetime. He's a grand horse, isn't he? His face was too close, so close she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Close enough that she saw a kind of heat kindling in his eyes.
I kissed you before, when I thought I was dying.
But because he saw her fear, he took her mouth gently, skimming his lips over ones that trembled. Soothing as well as seducing.
He watched her eyes go soft before her lashes fluttered down. Her limbs went weak, wonderfully weak, even as her pulse danced madly. Warmth enveloped her, reaching places inside that had never known its comfort.
The light that had sparked inside her when their hearts had brushed in healing spread. On the Isle of Winter in the snowy rose garden, beneath a shield of ice, a tiny bud-tender green-formed on a blackened branch. He nibbled at her lips until she parted them. And when he deepened the kiss she felt, for the first time in her life, a true lance of heat in her belly.
Yearning for more, she eased back, then indulged herself by letting her head rest briefly on his shoulder. She was everything a man could want. Everything, he realized, that he wanted. It can't for me. Though I'm not sure why, it would be you. If I were free, I would choose you.
My people need meat. Force wasn't the answer. So he'd been told. There were better ways to win a woman. They moved soundlessly through the trees, and she was grateful for the need for silence. How could she explain or ask him to understand, when she couldn't understand herself?
Her heart was frozen, chilled to death by pride and duty, and the fear that she might do her people more harm. Her father had made her in lies, then had run away from his obligation. Her mother had done her duty, and she had been kind. But her heart had been broken into so many pieces there had been none left for her child.
And what sort of child was it who could grieve more truly for a dead dog than for her own dead mother? She had nothing emotionally to give a man, and wanted nothing from one. In that way she would survive, and keep her people alive. Life, she reminded herself, mattered most. And what she felt for him was surely no more than a churning in the blood. But how could she have known what it was like to be held by him? None of the books she'd read had captured with their clever words the true thrill of lips meeting.
Now that she understood, it would be just another precious memory, like a ride on horseback, to tuck away for the endless lonely nights. She would decide later, she thought, if the nights were longer, lonelier, with the memory than they were without it. But today she couldn't allow herself to think like a woman softened by a man's touch.
She must think like a queen with people to provide for. She caught the scent of the stag even before the horse did, and held up a hand. He didn't question her, but dismounted, then reached up to lift her down. Then his arms were around her again, her hands on his shoulders, and her face tilted up to his. Even as she shook her head, he brushed his lips over her brow. But when she held out her hands for them, he lifted his eyebrows. So, he thought, he would indulge her.
They'd make do with more cabbage tonight. Then he was left blinking as she tossed aside her cloak and streaked through the trees in her men's clothes like a wraith-soundless and swift. Before he could tether his horse, she'd vanished and he could do no more than follow in her tracks. He stopped when he caught sight of her. She stood in the gloomy light, nearly hip-deep in snow. With a gesture smooth and polished as a warrior, she notched the arrow, drew back the heavy bow. The sharp ping of the arrow flying free echoed.
Then she lowered the bow, and her head. Her head came up, her face cold and set. I find no pleasure in the kill. Kylar saw she'd taken it down, fast, mercifully fast, with a single shot. She hoped to teach me to do the same, but it's not my gift. You ride, I'll walk. Mount your horse.
Her shoulders straightened like an iron bar. I am a queen, and you merely a prince. You will do as I bid. And no man had ever laid hands on her.
Though that doesn't mean a damn at the moment. It's difficult to think of you as a queen when you're garbed like a man and I've seen you handle a bow that my own squire can barely manage. It's difficult to think of you as a queen, Deirdre," he added with a glance back at her furious face, "when I've held you in my arms. When she kicked out at him, he caught her boot and laughed.
I prefer bedding a woman with fire in her. And its killing point at his throat. It was a woman he could love. I think you might while the temper's on you, but then you'd regret it. I tell you I want to bed you. I give you the truth. Do you want lies? And I want you willing. The training itself is good for the body and the mind.
If my people are expected to learn how to handle a blade, then so should I be. What happened to your horses? Those that didn't die of the cold were used as food. There were cottages and farmhouses, but people came to the castle for shelter, for food. Or wandered off hoping to find spring. Now they're under the snow and ice. Why do you want to bed me?
But I hadn't finished the answer. Your beauty would be enough to make me want you for a night. Try this now, heels down. That's fine.
They appeal to me. Your mind's sharp and cleaves clean. That's a challenge. And a woman who can plant potatoes like a farmwife and draw a dagger like an assassin is a fascinating creature.
He'd never seen the like of her. It was easier to discuss the whole business as a practical matter. Have you bedded many women? Battle is an ugly business.
I meant no offense. When I was for home. I would have let them pass in peace. What purpose was there in more blood? He had not killed in hate nor in some fever of dark excitement. He had killed to live. If I'd had an escort as I should, they would have surrendered. In the end, it was their own fear and my carelessness that killed them. I'm sorry for it. Understanding this, she felt something sigh inside her.
And she leaned down to touch his cheek with her fingertips, as she might touch a lover's. Another first. He dressed in the fresh doublet Cordelia brought him, one of soft linen that smelled lightly of lavender and rosemary.
He wondered from what chest it had been unearthed for his use, but as it fit well enough, he had no cause to complain. But when he followed the servant into the dining hall, he wished for his court clothes. She wore green again, but no simple dress of homespun. The velvet gown poured down her body, dipping low at the creamy rise of her breasts and sweeping out from her waist in soft, deep folds.
Her hair was long and loose, but over it sparkled a crown glinting with jewels. More draped in shimmering ropes around her throat. She stood in the glow of candlelight, beautiful as a vision, and every inch a queen.
When she offered a hand, he crossed to her, bowed deeply before touching his lips to her knuckles. The room," she said with a gesture she hoped hid the nerves and pleasure she felt upon seeing the open approval on his face, "is overlarge for two.
I hope you'll be comfortable. Curious, this flirting, she decided. And entertaining. It's an indulgence to have a fire in here," she began as she let him escort her to the table. Silver and crystal and linen white as the snow outside the windows. Behind them, the mammoth fire roared. Servants slipped in to serve wine and the soup course.
If he'd been able to tear his gaze away from Deirdre, he might have seen the glint in their eyes, the exchanged winks and quick grins.
She missed them as well, as she concentrated on the experience of her first formal meal with someone from outside her world. And the company feeds me. Your sister," she remembered. Her name is Gwenyth. She married two years ago. He was friend and neighbor, and they had a sweetness for each other since childhood. When I last saw her she was great with her second babe.
He can ride like the devil. He'd give you poetry. She was unsure of her conversational skills in this arena, and it was such a pleasure to just sit and listen to him speak so easily of things that were, to her, a miracle. Summer and gardens, swimming in a pond, riding through a village where people went to market. Carts of glossy red apples-what would they taste like? Baskets of flowers whose scent she could only dream of. She had a picture of his home now, as she had pictures in books.
She had a picture of him, and it was more than anything she'd ever found in a book. Willing to pay whatever it cost her later, she lost herself in him, in the way his voice rose and fell, in his laugh. Just to be with him by the warmth of the fire, with wine sweet on her tongue and his eyes so intimately on hers. She didn't object when he took her hand, when his fingers toyed with hers. If this was flirtation, it was such a lovely way to pass the time. They spoke of faraway lands and cultures.
Of paintings and of plays. Once a year, on Midsummer, we put on a pageant. We have music and games. I choose a story, and everyone takes a part as if it were a play. Surviving isn't enough. There must be life and color. If you have only a window on the world, you must look out of it. One of my men-well, he's just a boy really-he makes stories. They're quite wonderful. He was beginning to realize it would never be long enough.
You play music, don't you? I also knew she was a wounded soul. Like Sid. And I knew that they would meet in the only place in London where two such characters could meet in — Whitechapel. And after that, I was off. The game was afoot. I knew where the story was going and how it was going to get there — but of course, as in any page novel set a hundred years in the past, a little bit of research had to get done.
Research — as much as the characters and their story and its setting — is a huge part of what inspires me as a writer.
I use many sources. General histories. The list is endless. It was a man.
His name was Fred Sage and he was a Londoner through and through. He had retired from the docks and was working as a historian of East and Southeast London. I told him I was working on a novel set in Wapping and Whitechapel and wanted to learn as much about river work as I could.
Fred took me around Wapping and Rotherhithe.
He told me of London. He told me of backbreaking work. Of hard living.