Brigid the Girl from County Clare

by Vicky Adin

  Australia and New Zealand are nations built by immigrants. Brigid’s story is one of many and indicative of countless real characters who brought their skills, resourcefulness and resilience to our shores.

  I salute them.

  Vicky Adin

  Dedication

  Thanks to the Irish for their stories

  Latest release due late May 2019 – Pre-order now

  The Costumier’s Gift

  The dual-timeline sequel continuing the family sagas of

  Brigid The Girl from County Clare and Gwenna The Welsh Confectioner

  Awarded a BGS Gold Standard Quality Mark

  Why does a stranger hold the key to untangling Katie’s family secrets?

  1903 Jane is the talented principal costumier at Auckland’s Opera House in its Edwardian heyday. She thrives in this place where she can hide from her pain and keep her skeletons to herself – until the past comes back to haunt her. Brigid, her beloved foster mother, and her best friend Gwenna are anchors in her solitary yet rewarding life. As the decades go by, the burden of carrying secrets becomes too great, and Jane must pass on the hidden truths.

  Today Katie seeks refuge from her crumbling personal life with her grandmother, who lives in past with the people in her cherished photographs. All too soon, Katie learns she must identify the people behind the gentle smiles – including the Edwardian woman to whom she bears a remarkable resemblance – and reveal generations of secrets before she can claim her inheritance. She meets the intriguing Jared, who stirs her interest, but she’s not ready for any sort of romance, so is shocked when she learns that he holds the key to discovering her past.

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  Peek Preview of

  The Costumier’s Gift

  KATIE – Present day Auckland, New Zealand

  Living in the past

  April

  Katie only had herself to blame and now it was too late: too late for Granna; too late for her, just plain too late. Saddened, Katie shrugged the thought away.

  Her mother’s death fifteen months ago had shaken her. No, more than that, shattered would be a better term, but she doubted the old woman sitting before her, endlessly chattering about the past, knew her daughter had gone.

  “Janey, Janey. You’re here,” said Granna, looking past her to someone else. “Say hello to our Katie here. She’s your... oh dear, I can’t remember now, your great-granty-something or other she is, but you know her, don’t you? Our Janey’s ever so clever.”

  “Who’s that, Granna?” asked Katie, knowing she wouldn’t be able to make sense of the answer, if one came. Part of her wanted to find out about the people Granna talked about, but none of it mattered. No one else cared about Granna or the past, and since Katie had no plans to marry or have children there’d be no one to care in the future either.

  “My Janey is so special,” said Granna continuing her conversation with no one in particular. “Those designs are superb. Oh my... is this for me?”

  After Katie’s grandfather died roughly twenty years ago, her grandmother continued to live in their substantial and beautiful villa for over a decade, before it became obvious she could no longer live alone and moved into Katie’s family home. But her mother’s overworked heart couldn’t cope with the stress of trying to hold her own family together and looking after Granna for the best part of the next decade as her mind slipped further away from reality.

  Oh, why had nobody noticed, Katie lamented.

  But Katie noticed things these days. She noticed the delicate bones in Granna’s fingers, and the soft, papery skin riddled with dark lines under the loose flesh. Those once strong fingers had been so creative and so gentle. Now they looked as if they would break if you touched them, except Granna was nowhere near to breaking – at least, not physically.

  A bird tweeted out in the garden and Granna turned her head towards the sound. Her dark velvet eyes glanced across Katie’s face as she turned and momentarily held her gaze. Eyes that shone with love and purpose. In days past, you could get lost in those eyes, drawn in under their protective warmth, now, the depth that lived within them belonged to another era.

  Putting Granna into the rest home had been the most difficult decision Katie had ever made. Her father had wanted ‘nothing to do with the batty old woman’ he’d said, and washed his hands of the whole affair. Katie had no such choice. Left with sole responsibility when her mother died, she could see no other option. Granna’s safety was paramount.

  Every available surface in Granna’s room was covered with her grandmother’s cherished photographs. When she’d first moved in, the managers tried to persuade Granna to keep them on one shelf and limit the number, promising to change them regularly, but Granna was having none of it. She didn’t say anything, but simply took them from the drawer and put them back in view. At one time, they tried taking them out of the room, but Granna had thrown such a hissy fit, they gave in.

  One photo in particular always drew Katie’s attention. The sepia tones had faded but the clothes and hairstyles worn by the two women were unmistakably early Edwardian. One of the faces looking back at her was her own. The resemblance was uncanny, but there was no name on the back to tell her who she was. Granna called the older woman something that sounded like ‘Moh-ree’ but Katie had never heard Granna call the other woman by name.

  She made a mental note to look through her mother’s collection and see if she could find anything with names on it. She’d put off going through the house and sorting her mother’s possessions but the time had come. Her father had a new love now and the woman didn’t want the old stuff around.

  “You should see those costumes our Janey used to make,” said Granna. “Mam said the fabrics were glorious, but she wasn’t allowed to go to the theatre to see them on the stage until she was much older. Moh-ree was strict about that...” and off she’d go again telling a story half in the present and half in the past about people Katie didn’t know and whose relationships didn’t make sense. She was sure half the time Granna confused the generations and Katie hadn’t been able to work out which name belonged with which era. She couldn’t even put a name to Granna’s ‘Mam’.

  For some inexplicable reason, her grandmother knew who Katie was although she didn’t recognise anyone else. Born on the same day as her grandmother sixty years later and named after her, they’d had a special relationship until Katie had gone off to university. Now Katie wished she’d paid more attention to her mother and grandmother, but she couldn’t undo the past.

  The nurse came in. “Hello dear, how are you today?” she asked Granna.

  Granna turned her head to look at the newcomer and a polite smile creased her face.

  “Hello. Now, who are you? Have you come to see me? I do so like visitors, they are such interesting people.”

  “I’ve come to make you more comfortable, Mrs Bridges.”

  Katie watched the nurse pat her grandmother’s arm to reassure her.

  Granna wriggled in the lazy-boy chair and plucked ineffectually at the mohair rug she was sitting on.

  “I do like the colour of this rug, don’t you?” she asked no one in particular. “It reminds me of roses.”

  Katie’s eyes rested on the rose-pink rug she had given her grandmother. She loved that colour too. Granna Katy had kept a wonderful garden once. The two of them often wandered around it together while Granna named all the flowers.

  “How is she doing overall?” Katie asked the nurse. “Her memory of long ago events seems faultless to me.” But then, she admitted, she couldn’t sense whether Granna was right or not.

  “Very well, actually, for her age.” Despite her memory loss, Granna was still a relatively fit and healthy ninety-year-old. “She keeps active and goes to all the exercise classes, especially when there’s music playing.”

  Katie smiled, she’d watched her grandmother more than once at these classes, dancing in her own world rather than following the instructor.

  “And she still play
s the piano,” continued the nurse.

  “I’m glad,” said Katie. “She’s a better pianist than I ever will be even if she does make mistakes. The music seems to come alive under her fingertips.”

  Katie remembered the piano lessons with her grandmother at her house when she was young, and the comings and goings of the other students.

  “It’s good she still enjoys her music,” said the nurse, “even if she’s forgotten she’s played almost as soon as she stands up from the keyboard.”

  Granna’s voice interrupted their conversation. “I remember Moh-ree. She is a wonder and such a great cook. She always makes my favourites. I can still taste those little biscuits that went with my tea. She’ll be here soon.”

  Everyone knew Granna couldn’t hold a conversation the way most people did but with a little bit of persistence she could tell you what she wanted.

  “That’s nice, there’s be a cup of tea coming shortly,” said the nurse.

  Prone to wander, Granna had taken it into her head she was living in the house where her Granma Gwenna had once lived – whoever she was – and nothing anyone said could change her mind.

  ‘I know where I’m going Katie dear,’ she’d say, but she didn’t. Wherever the house in her mind had once been, the rest home was a new facility in a foreign-to-Granna area.

  Surprisingly sprightly, Granna unexpectedly got up from her chair. “We should go to Granma Gwenna’s Sweet Treats for tea. It’s been an age since I visited her. She will be cross with me if I don’t call. Now, where did I leave my gloves?”

  While Granna opened several drawers to look for her gloves, the nurse rearranged the rug on the chair, re-tidied the already tidy bed, wrote something down on the chart by the door and pulled the window closed.

  “It’s a wee bit windy at the moment. Do you think you should wait until it’s died down before you go? How about doing some lacework instead? You can show it to her later.”

  Granna accepted the crochet hook and fine cotton thread and sat down again. Katie never ceased to be amazed her gran could move the hook so swiftly in and out, and over and under and around in a constant motion. She created such intricate lace still even if the results were not perfect and she had dozens of lace motifs and long edgings that would never get joined together, but Granna appeared satisfied with what she could see. “No, Janey didn’t make lace, she was the famous costumier.”

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  THANK YOU

  I hope you enjoyed reading this story.

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  and write a CUSTOMER REVIEW of the book.

  Constructive comments are always welcome, and

  if you would like to receive information on my new books please email me on vicky@vickyadin.co.nz

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  BOOKS

  by

  VICKY ADIN

  www.vickyadin.co.nz

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Gwenna The Welsh Confectioner

  Against overwhelming odds, can she save her legacy?

  (Set in Auckland, New Zealand)

  Winner

  IndieB.R.A.G medallion

  Chill with a Book Readers'’Award

  Gold Standard Quality Mark

  Amid the bustling vibrancy of Auckland’s Karangahape Road Gwenna Price is troubled. For all her youth, she has become the master confectioner in the family business since her father died. She promised to fulfil her Pa’s dreams and open a shop, but with her domineering and incompetent stepbrother Elias in charge, the operation is on the brink of collapse.

  In an era when women were expected to stay at home, Gwenna is a plucky young woman with uncommon ambition. She is determined to save her legacy. Despite the obstacles put in her way, and throughout the twists and turns of love and tragedy, Gwenna is irrepressible. She refuses to relinquish her dreams and lets nothing stand in her way.

  Utter brilliance. I was captivated from beginning to end. Vicky really brings the characters to life and you can really engage with what it must have been like to be a young girl like Gwenna going into business at the turn of the century in a male dominated society. I was totally engaged with every character, each one contributing to make this a truly wonderful story, my only disappointment was when it ended. This is the first book I have read by this author but it won’t be my last.

  ***** 5-star Amazon review

  The Cornish Knot

  Can one woman’s secrets change the life of another a century later?

  (Set in New Zealand, Cornwall and Italy)

  On the anniversary of her husband’s unexpected death, Megan sits at home heartbroken and disconsolate. A mysterious package arrives containing a journal written a century earlier, which shakes her out of her self-imposed seclusion.

  She embarks on a journey following in the footsteps of the journal’s author, from New Zealand to Cornwall, France and Italy, uncovering a past she knows nothing about. She is pursued by a much younger man in Venice. She meets an intriguing fellow countryman in Florence and finds herself caught up in the mysterious world of art and captivated by a series of unknown paintings. As she unravels her history and reveals its secrets, can she also find love again?

  An engaging tale of grief, loss, love and family intrigue ... wonderful story, and a real page-turner, which leads the reader through all the twists and turns of a well-constructed plot. I loved the insightful descriptions of family relationships, the fully realised characters and the various locations in which the action takes place. Seldom have I read such a poignant and faithful account of the effects of bereavement. I can’t wait to read more.

  **** 4-star Amazon review

  The Art of Secrets

  Emma wants to forget; Charlotte never can.

  Together they remember.

  (Set in New Zealand)

  Emma is an enterprising young journalist with a bright future, but her life and career are falling apart. In a last-ditch attempt to save her position, she accepts the assignment to interview the bestselling author – Charlotte Day.

  The ageing Charlotte has a reputation for being cantankerous and is highly secretive about her past, one she considers too painful to relive and too shameful to share. Preferring her roses to people, she is persuaded into meeting this girl who gets through her defences, forcing her to confront her past.

  As Charlotte and Emma’s relationship deepens, they find themselves enmeshed in a tangle of secrets that changes both their lives.

  But he who dares not grasp the thorns should never crave the rose – Anne Brontë

  The art of great writing! ... Vicky Adin keeps a tight rein on her two leading characters so their actions and reactions are credibly grounded in genuine emotions. The alternating viewpoint and change of tone from Emma to Charlotte, from young to old, works, helping the reader see behind the lies and half-truths they tell each other. Their progress from antagonists to friends is seamless, as the layers of the story peel back like petals, exposing the truth at the flower’s heart. Highly recommended.

  – Bev Robitai, author of Sunstrike

  The Disenchanted Soldier

  From soldier to pacifist

  (Set in England and New Zealand)

  In 1863, young Daniel Adin, a trained soldier, embarks on an adventure of a lifetime. In pursuit of a new life and land to farm, he travels to New Zealand to fight an unknown enemy – the fearless Maori.

  A hundred and thirty years later, Libby is fascinated by the stories of Daniel, who looks down at her from the aged black-and-white photos on the walls. She wants to know more, to know what he was really like, but Dani
el’s story was more than she had bargained for.

  A great insight into the lives of a family and what was going on around ordinary people in the early days of colonization.

  Ged Martin

  I loved this book and so will you if you like historical fiction and family sagas set somewhere you likely know little about. This is beautifully and sensitively written. The characters are terrific. The fascinating part to me was how Vicky was able to take us on the family's journey in a thoughtful and non-judgmental way. And now I am motivated to dig into my family tree and see what I come up with.

  C Craig – ***** 5-star Amazon review

  Acknowledgements

  I offer my humble and grateful thanks to the many people who have listened to me talk endlessly about Brigid, have given me advice on words and design, and helped fix my mistakes. I am certain that in naming individuals I will miss some I should have included, so please take it as given – if you have supported and encouraged me in any way, I thank you.

  I particularly wish to thank the members of the Mairangi Writers’ Group who listened, critiqued and helped improve the story line and language. I am especially grateful to authors Jenny Harrison, Erin McKechnie and Stephanie Hammond, who as my beta-readers gave me invaluable feedback that helped mould the story.

  I am indebted to Adrienne Charlton of AM Publishing New Zealand, who is my ever-faithful and ever-vigilant publisher, proofreader and editor. I praise her skills in ensuring this book is as flawless as humanly possible. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

  As a genealogist I pay tribute to the immigrant families – wherever they came from and wherever they live. They brought stories of triumph over hardship. Brigid The Girl from County Clare is one of those tales – a history of love and loss, of conflict and resolution, and of personal renewal.