by Darcy Burke
Author’s Note
Welcome to the grand reopening of the Hotel Oriente!
I am thrilled to finally rerelease this expanded, revised novella. I dedicate the much-needed buffet scene addition to my Sydney brunch buddies: Mina V. Esguerra, founder of the #romanceclass creator community, and Kat Mayo, founder of BookThingo. Fellow foodies, I am sorry it took me so long.
Let’s dig into the history. Yes, the Hotel de Oriente did exist, though it was known by many spellings. Hotel de Oriente was the name plastered across the exterior molding, but I found all the following used: Hotel Oriente, Hotel d’Oriente, Hotel el Oriente, Hotel Orient, and every one of these in reverse order. It was the place to stay until the Insular Government purchased it in November 1903 to use as the headquarters of the Philippine Constabulary.
Many photos exist of the exterior of the building, and Las Casas Filipinas de Acuzar has even built a working reconstruction and conference center in Bataan, which I have visited. Other than a few room photos, though, the interior is known only from traveler’s reports, including those on Lou Gopal’s Manila Nostalgia blog, as well as a variety of journals in the public domain. From these, I borrowed the complaints over “missing” mattresses and excessive egg dishes. I borrowed the bathtub incident from my father-in-law, who managed an American military hotel in Bangkok during the late 1960s.
A real assistant manager of the Oriente was implicated in the true scandal that almost engulfed Moss and Seb. Captain Frederick J. Barrows, the actual quartermaster of Southern Luzon, stole one hundred grand a month for almost a full year, pocketing nearly $1.2 million by 1901 (the equivalent of $38 million in 2020). This was nowhere near the largest war profiteering in world history—that honor goes to reconstruction contracts during the Iraq War—but it is still a lot of money. A court-martial sentenced Barrows to five years in Bilibid Prison, and that may have been getting off easy. He had a better chance at a fair trial inside the military than out of it. This was true for all civilians, Filipino or American. The Insular Cases, a series of 1901 decisions by the U.S. Supreme Court, were the true legal architecture of empire, and they said that the Constitution did not follow the flag. I pushed forward the date of these decisions for my story, but only by a few months.
Much of Della’s article on the scandal is reproduced from the Los Angeles Herald’s April 1st issue, no joke. Please consider this acknowledgment my endnote for “Far Reaching Frauds in Army Commissary,” from page one. I used as much of the original wording as I could because I wanted Della’s writing to match the standards of the profession in 1901. The previous edition of this novella did not do a good job of displaying her talents as a journalist.
Della’s story was inspired by a deaf voyager, memoirist, and teacher named Annabelle Kent. While I was researching Under the Sugar Sun, I found a terrific description of a steamer’s rough entrance into Manila Bay. Kent’s Round the World in Silence proved her to be a thrill-seeking woman impervious to seasickness. (According to later U.S. Navy experiments, those with a damaged vestibular system are less likely to suffer from the bucking motion of the waves.) She circumnavigated the globe, mostly with strangers who did not speak American Sign Language. To me, Kent had the perfect spirit to infuse a romance heroine.
People say to “write what you know,” which is excellent advice—but plot bunnies lead me down precarious burrows. Could a deaf writer have better written about Della Berget? No doubt. Are there better books out there about Deaf Culture? Every single one written by someone who identifies as hard of hearing to profoundly Deaf. But I took a risk and wrote Della as best I could. This meant research: the Limping Chicken blog and the Gallaudet University archives were especially helpful. Of course, all mistakes or errors are entirely mine. At the time, the U.S. Congress required Gallaudet to teach only the “Oral Method” of communication, which is why she speechreads instead of speaking ASL. Della does not yet know other deaf people in her corner of Manila—she is new to the city—so there is not enough treatment of Deaf Culture and its rewards in this story, nor would I be the best person to translate such ideas to the page.
Moss is also loosely based on an actual person: West G. Smith, the American manager who ran the hotel for Ah Gong, proprietor. West Smith became Moss North? His wife Stella became Della? Yes, I amuse myself. Smith arrived with the Thirteenth Minnesota Volunteers and stayed to manage the Oriente, but the rest of Moss’s personal history was entirely fiction. Also, I liked the name and story behind the White Elephant resort in Nantucket, but it has no relation to Moss’s uncle’s hotel, which was instead based on the Windsor in St. Paul.
Hughes Holt’s background was a fictionalized conflation of the two West Virginian congressmen of the era, but his personality hews closer to Senator Albert J. Beveridge of Indiana, an orator who built a career on the embrace of overseas expansion. Beveridge did visit the Philippines—albeit two years earlier, in May of 1899—so that he could “understand the situation” (his words) before assuming his seat in the Senate. Unlike Holt, Beveridge impressed local soldiers with his physical endurance and ability to withstand deprivation. Like Holt, he left the islands more imperialist than ever. Emboldened, the U.S. Army would wage a relentless war, and so would privateers. The anecdote about violent American outlaws in Pampanga was ripped from page six of the 15 May 1901 issue of the New York Times.
Though Moss’s anti-imperialist attitudes were rare among soldiers, his concerns can be found in archived letters, newspapers, and Senate testimony. It was Major General Smedley Butler, USMC—two-time recipient of the Medal of Honor and veteran of the Philippine-American War—who wrote War is a Racket in 1935. He claimed that his three-plus decades of service had been “conducted for the benefit of the very few [commercial and oil interests], at the expense of the very many.”
It did not take as long for others to see the light. Soldiers of African American regiments related the injustice of imperialism with contemporary clarity. Sergeant Major John W. Calloway of the Twenty-Fifth Infantry was persecuted views he expressed only in private correspondence. Calloway was especially close to Filipino physician Torderica Santos, much like Moss was best friends with the fictional Judge Eusebio Lopa (inspired by the real Lieutenant Salvador G. Lara). Calloway also made his life in the Philippines after the war, marrying and raising fourteen children.
That brings me to Moss’s use of a condom, which was based on the state of contraception at the turn of the twentieth century. I do not know how hard it would have been to purchase a sheath in Manila, but it may have been easier there than in the United States. The 1873 Comstock Act had made it illegal to distribute birth control or information about birth control through the mail or across state lines, not imperial ones. Yes, the Philippines was a majority Catholic country, but papal pronouncements did not ban “artificial contraception” until 1930. Did Della understand what the condom was? It was possible, given the close contact she had with married friends at her university. Also, hearing people tended to be indiscreet around her, often to their own detriment.
Thanks for getting this far. Remember that your honest review helps readers find books they love. If you have taken the time to rate and review on Goodreads or the retailer of your choice, thank you. For everyone, I hope you enjoyed Moss and Della’s story. Here’s wishing you a History Ever After!
More in the Sugar Sun Series
Under the Sugar Sun
A schoolmarm, a sugar baron, and a soldier…
It is 1902 and Georgina Potter has followed her fiancé to the Philippines, the most remote outpost of America’s fledgling empire. But Georgina has a purpose in mind beyond marriage: her real mission is to find her brother Ben, who has disappeared into the abyss of the Philippine-American War.
To navigate the Islands’ troubled waters, Georgina enlists the aid of local sugar baron Javier Altarejos. But nothing is as it seems, and the price of Javier’s help may be more than Georgina can bear.
Tempting Hymn
Sugar Moon
The nights were their secret.
The papers back home call Ben Potter a hero of the Philippine-American War, but he knows the truth. When his estranged brother-in-law offers him work slashing sugarcane, Ben seizes the opportunity to atone—one acre at a time. At the hacienda Ben meets schoolteacher Allegra Alazas. While Allegra bristles at her family’s traditional expectations, the one man who appreciates her intelligence and independence seems to be the very worst marriage prospect on the island.
Neither Ben nor Allegra fit easily in their separate worlds, so together they must build one of their own. But when Ben’s wartime past crashes down upon them, it threatens to break their elusive peace.
About Jennifer Hallock
Jennifer Hallock spends her days teaching history and her nights writing historical happily-ever-afters. She has lived and worked in the Philippines, but she currently writes at her little brick house on a New England homestead—kept company by her husband, a growing flock of chickens, and a mutt named Wile E.
The Lost Lord
Carrie Lomax
EXILED
A tragic accident cost Richard Northcote’s father his life. Banished from England, he has patched together a life for himself at the fringes of New York high society. Adrift and guilt-ridden, Richard spends his nights with a notorious seductress who hatches a scheme to seduce her wealthy but frail friend and take her fortune. Powerless to escape his lover’s blackmail Richard soon discovers the real treasure is the woman in his arms…
ENTRANCED
Miriam Walsh never expected to find love, much less marry. Severe asthma attacks keep her nurse and overprotective father hovering over every move. But one evening with the mysterious English nobleman, Lord Richard Northcote, has Miriam dreaming of adventures beyond her limited experiences. But is the promise in his kiss only a practiced lie?
ENGAGED
After a whirlwind courtship, they set sail to London. Before they arrive, however, Richard and Miriam’s fragile romance is storm-tossed by a shocking revelation. Will Miriam’s compassion overcome her sense of betrayal? Can Richard ever forgive himself and redeem himself in the eyes of society, his family, and the woman he loves more than life itself?
Heat level: medium
Tropes: betrayal, blackmail, forced proximity, second chance at love, love triangle
Chapter 1
Manhattan
The scent of coffee tickled Richard’s nose as he lay hiding from the day. It meant Lizzie wanted something from him.
He lay tangled in a white sheet redolent of sweat and the musk of a woman, overlaid with the all-too-familiar scent of stale liquor. His head throbbed like the very devil. He rolled onto his back, the muscles of his stomach bunching beneath his bare skin. His fingers idly traced up his abdomen, scratching as he tried to force his mind into alertness. The open window let in a strong late-spring breeze off the Hudson River and the clanging bustle of life below.
Howard would be happy with this weather. Full ship’s sails meant money in his pocket.
There came a harsh rattling sound, as if his visitor had yanked the curtain across the rod. Sunlight speared his half-open eyes. Richard pulled a pillow over his head to block it out.
“Are you awake yet? I made coffee,” a woman’s voice penetrated Richard’s den. He peeked out from his nest. Lizzie van Buren’s mane of red-gold hair floated around her sharp-featured face like a halo of pure energy. Foxy Lizzie, as she was known—among other names, most unkind.
Richard’s eyes drifted down to the transparent shift she wore. Lizzie possessed spectacular breasts, at least in the judgment of a man who had seen many fine bosoms in his lifetime. She caught the direction of his interest, lifted her chin, and puffed out her chest.
“Did I startle you, my lord?” she asked, drawing out the last word with a giggle. “Or is it, ‘your grace’? I never can keep it straight.”
“I don’t know why you insist upon referring to a title,” he complained in a sleep-roughened voice. “You Americans have no use for them. Northcote is sufficient.”
At their first meeting several months ago, Richard had introduced himself as Lord Northcote, out of longstanding habit. No matter how he attempted to correct her, admittedly not very hard, Lizzie insisted upon addressing him by his brother’s rightful honorific. As the second son of an earl, Richard’s proper form of address ought to be The Honorable. After fifteen years as the heir presumptive to the Briarcliff earldom, however, Richard had found it galling to be demoted in rank. Who did it harm if he continued using lord among these ignorant strangers?
No one.
After Lizzie had followed him into a hallway and kissed him, Richard forgot about the issue. He had been shocked enough to let her. Were all American women so forward? he’d wondered before surrendering to her affections with utter gratitude. He’d rather spit than admit how badly he’d missed the touch of another human being since he’d been banished from his homeland of England.
That was before he’d discovered Lizzie was married.
Lizzie leaped on him as he tried to rise, pushing him back down into the soft bed. She liked to run her fingers over the ridges and valleys, pausing to tug on the smattering of hair. When angry, she’d attempt to yank out a cluster from near his flat nipples, deliberately, to make him wince. If he bled, she laughed and called him weak. Richard accepted her mean-spirited affections rather than make do without any human contact at all.
He ran his palms up her legs. Lizzie also had a set of very fine calves, leading to even better thighs. Physically, she was a treasure. By the time he’d figured out that Lizzie was the black sheep of Dutch New York society, it had seemed rather late to try and extract himself or to correct her on the subject of his family. His older brother, Edward, had reappeared fifteen years after he’d been kidnapped in the Amazon and stolen the earldom right out from under Richard by virtue of being the eldest son. Now, he was merely a spare—or he had been until Edward had successfully supplanted him by producing a son with that quack woman doctor he’d married. To say that relations between Richard and his eldest brother were icy was like saying an Arctic winter was a mite chilly.
Lizzie giggled and kissed him deeply. Richard let her. He let Lizzie do anything she wanted to. She had been the one to suggest their first carriage ride, where he’d been the one ridden hard and put up wet. She had been the one to unfasten his trousers, as practiced as any whore. Lizzie was a walking scandal, and it quickly became clear that her husband tolerated his wife’s actions because he was the only person in the world who genuinely wanted her—for his own demented reasons, Richard presumed. Richard had met him briefly before he decided to avoid the man socially. Hardly a difficult task given Richard cultivated acquaintances solely on behalf of his friend, Howard.
Apart from balding at the tender age of twenty-three, Arthur van Buren seemed a nice enough chap. Wealthy, earnest, if not very exciting. Then again, Lizzie offered more than enough excitement for ten men. In that sense, she and Arthur were the perfect match.
Richard had come to believe that Arthur allowed his wife so much leeway because he believed Richard would soon take his wayward wife off his hands. Indeed, Lizzie had been pushing for that exact outcome for weeks. But the thought of being married to Lizzie Van Buren made Richard shudder.
Lizzie broke off their kiss, though she left her legs wrapped around him. “Come and get your coffee before it gets cold.”
“Why? What’s the rush?” Richard asked, palming one wonderful breast. She shook him off.
“I want to go on holiday. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll tell you when and where,” she said.
Richard yawned, leveraged himself up, and padded after her into the kitchen. Soft linen pajama pants with frayed hems swirled about his ankles, an indulgence he’d brought with him from England upon his departure. Outside, the sounds of city life banged unfiltered through his open windows. Each morning, if he were awake to hear it, the sounds of carts rumbling and horses clip-clopping over
cobblestone streets reached his third-floor apartments. A towering London plane tree shaded his front windows where birds liked to roost and warble or squawk in noisy umbrage. Richard would never have confessed how soothing he found the sound to another living soul. Especially not to Lizzie.
“Here you are, piping hot just how you like it,” Lizzie chirped in an awkward and affected English accent.
Richard accepted the cup, hiding a grimace. Lizzie made exceptionally awful coffee. Richard preferred tea, but he’d grown accustomed to the bracing bitterness of coffee, America’s brew of choice. This newborn country of industrious rebels certainly knew how to nurse a grudge. That Boston Tea Party incident had taken place a generation ago.
“Thank you.” Richard sipped it and barely managed not to choke.
Lizzie’s expression turned radiant. Few would call her beautiful. It didn’t matter. An irresistible energy animated her elfin features.
“Darling,” she smiled up at Richard winningly. “I want to take a holiday.”
“You had mentioned something to that effect.” The coffee was even worse than usual. Lizzie must be scheming up a storm this morning. Last time she’d made coffee for him, earlier in the spring, she’d tried to convince him to let her move in with him. As though it wasn’t bad enough that Lizzie spent several nights a week in his bed. He choked down a sip and set the cup aside. “What brought that on?”
