The Round Earth Series
Book 1
Tamara Linse
Genre: Historical Fiction
Publisher: Willow Words
Date of Publication: January 31, 2015
Number of pages: 472
Book Description:
In 1885 Iowa, Sara Moore is a dutiful daughter, but when her father tries to force her to marry his younger partner, she must choose between the partner—a man who treats her like property—and James Youngblood—a kind man she hardly knows who has a troubled past.
When she confronts her father, he beats her and turns her out of the house, breaking all ties, so she decides to elope with James to Kansas City with hardly a penny to their names.
In the tradition of Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! and Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, Earth’s Imagined Corners is a novel that comprehends the great kindnesses and violences we do to each other.
Amazon
Excerpt:
Anamosa,
Iowa, 1885
Sara Moore
should have nothing to fear this week. She had been meticulous in her entering
into the ledger the amounts that Minnie the cook requested she spend on
groceries. She had remembered, just, to include her brother Ed’s purchase of
materials to mend sister Maisie’s doll house and to subtract the pickling salt
that she had purchased for sister Esther but for which Esther’s husband Gerald
had reimbursed her. She stood at her father’s shoulder as he went over the
weekly household accounts, and even though her father owned Moore Grocer &
Sundries from which she ordered the family’s groceries, he still insisted she
account for the full price in the ledger. “No daughter of mine,” he often said,
though sometimes he would finish the thought and sometimes his neatly trimmed
eyebrows would merely bristle.
Despite the
buttressing of her corset, Sara hunched forward, somewhat reducing her tall
frame. She intertwined her fingers so that she would not fiddle with the
gathers of soft navy wool in her overskirt, and she tried not to breathe too
loudly, so as not to bother him, nor to breathe too deeply, in order to take in
little of the cigar smoke curling up from his elephant-ivory ashtray on the
hulking plantation desk.
As always, the
heavy brocade curtains armored Colonel Moore’s study against the Iowa day, so
the coal oil lamps flickered in their brackets. Per instructions, Sipsy the
maid lit them early every morning, snuffed them when he left for the grocery,
lit them again in anticipation of his return at seven, and then snuffed them
again after he retired. It was an expense, surely, but one that Sara knew
better than to question. The walls of the study were lined with volumes of
military history and maps of Virginia and Georgia covered in lines, symbols,
and labels carefully inked in Colonel Moore’s hand. In its glass case on the
bureau rested Colonel Moore’s 1851, an intricately engraved pistol awarded to
him during the War of Northern Aggression. Sipsy dusted daily, under stern
directive that not a speck should gather upon any surface in the room.
Sara’s father
let out a sound between an outlet of breath and a groan. This was not good. He
was not pleased. Sara straightened her shoulders and took a breath and held it
but let her shoulders slump forward once more.
“My dear,” he
said, his drawl at a minimum, “your figures, once again, are disproportionate
top to bottom. And there is too much slant, as always, in their curvatures. I
urge you to practice your penmanship.” His tone was one of indulgence.
Inaudibly, Sara
let out her breath. If he was criticizing her chirography, then he had found
nothing amiss in the numbers. The accounts were sound for another week. Later,
when he checked the numbers against the accounts at the grocery, there was less
of a chance that she had missed something.
He closed the
ledger, turned his chair, and with both hands held the ledger out to her. She
received it palms up and said, “I will do better, Father.”
“You would not
want to disappoint to your mother.” His drawl was more pronounced.
So he had
regretted his indulgence and was not satisfied to let her go unchecked. His
wife, Sara’s mother, had been dead these five years, and since then Sara had
grown to take her place, running the household, directing the servants, and
caring for six year-old Maisie. Ed needed little looking after, as he was older
than Sara, though unmarried, and Esther, the oldest, was married with two daughters
and farm of her own.
Sara
straightened her shoulders again and hugged the ledger to her chest. “Yes,
Father,” she said and turned and left the room, trying to keep her pace
tranquil and unhurried. She went to the kitchen, where Minnie had a cup of
coffee doused with cream and sugar awaiting her. Minnie gave her an encouraging
smile, and though Sara did not acknowledge what went unsaid between them—one
must shun familiarity with the servants—she lifted her shoulders slightly and
said, “Thank you, Minnie.” Minnie, with the round figure and dark eyes of a
Bohemian, understood English well, though she still talked with a pronounced
accent, and Sara had only heard her speak the round vowels and chipped
consonants of her native tongue once, when a delivery man indigenous to her
country of origin walked into the kitchen with mud on his boots. Sara tucked
the ledger in its place on a high shelf and then allowed herself five minutes
of sipping coffee amid the wonderful smells of Minnie’s pompion tart. Then she
rose, rinsed her cup, and applied herself to her day.
The driver had
Father’s horse and gig waiting, as always, at twenty minutes to nine. As Father
stretched his fingers into his gloves, pulling them tight by the wrist leather,
he told Sara, “When you come at noon, I have something unusual to show you.”
“Yes, Father,”
she said.
It seemed odd
that he would concern her with anything to do with business. He left her to the
household. He had long tried to coerce Ed into the business, but Ed’s abilities
trended more toward the physical. He was a skilled carpenter, though Father
kept a close rein on where he took jobs and whom he worked for. All talk of
renaming the business Moore & Son had been dropped when Father had recently
promoted the young man who was his assistant, Chester O’Hanlin, to partner. Mr.
O’Hanlin had droopy red muttonchops and a body so long and thin he looked a
hand-span taller than he really was, which was actually a bit shorter than
Sara. Mr. O’Hanlin didn’t talk much, either, and he seemed always to be
listening. He held himself oddly, cocking his head to one side, first one way
and then the other, his small dark eyes focusing off to the left or right of
the speaker. His nose, long and wedge-shaped, seemed to take up half his face.
“Chester, the Chinaman,” Maisie called him outside of his presence because of
the way he stooped and bobbed whenever their father entered the room.
About the Author:
Tamara Linse jokes that she was raised in the 1880s, and so it was natural for her to set a book there. She is the author of the short story collection How to Be a Man and the novel Deep Down Things and earned her master’s in English from the University of Wyoming, where she taught writing. Her work appears in the Georgetown Review, South Dakota Review, and Talking River, among others, and she was a finalist for an Arts & Letters and Glimmer Train contests, as well as the Black Lawrence Press Hudson Prize for a book of short stories. She works as an editor for a foundation and a freelancer.
Author Links:
Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Google+
Tour giveaway:
$100 gift card
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