The Book of Thorns
Author: Hester Fox
Publication Date: April 2, 2024
ISBN: 9781525812019
Publisher: Graydon House, Trade paperback original
Price (US) $18.99
An enchanting tale of secrets, betrayal, and magic…
Penniless and stranded in France after a bid to
escape her cruel uncle goes awry, Cornelia Shaw is far from the Parisian life
of leisure she imagined. Desperate and lacking options, she allows herself to
be recruited to Napoleon’s Grande
Armée. As a naturalist, her near-magical ability to heal any wound
with herbal mixtures invites awe amongst the soldiers…and suspicion. For behind
Cornelia’s vast knowledge of the natural world is a secret she keeps hidden—the
flowers speak to her through a mysterious connection she has felt since
childhood. One that her mother taught her to heed, before she disappeared.
Then, as Napoleon’s army descends on Waterloo,
the flowers sing to her of a startling revelation: a girl who bears a striking
resemblance to Cornelia. A girl she almost remembers—her sister, lost long ago,
who seems to share the same gifts. Determined to reunite with Lijsbeth despite
being on opposite sides of the war, Cornelia is drawn into a whirlwind of
betrayal, secrets, and lies. Brought together by fate and magic at the peak of
the war, the sisters try to uncover the key to the source of the power that
connects them as accusations of witchcraft swirl and threaten to destroy the
very lives they’ve fought for.
“The Book of Thorns is a gentle, magical tale of hope and
healing in the midst of war. Fox does not hide from the fact that for all the
romance surrounding Bonaparte’s exploits, nobody who fought at Waterloo came
out unscathed, whether they were breathing by battle’s end or not. But Fox also
reminds us that, even in fields tilled by cavalry charges and fertilized with
gunpowder, flowers can grow.” –BOOKPAGE
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Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-book-of-thorns-hester-fox/1143567257
Sneak Peek Excerpt:
CORNELIA
BEGONIA: a favor repaid, a
warning foretold, a promise delivered in darkness.
Sussex, England, February 1815
I can feel Betsy watching me from the
doorway.
She hovers like a bee,
rehearsing some small speech in whispers. I pretend not to notice her
fidgeting and instead focus on the vase of narcissi before me, the weight of my
pencil in my hand. Betsy clears her throat, twice, but I am already arcing out
the path of the dainty stems and unfurling petals. There is something calming
about reducing the flowers to splashes of grays and blacks, finding beauty in
the absence of light.
Betsy lets out a throaty
cough. “You might as well come in and be done with it,” I tell her without
looking up.
“Yes, miss.” She drops a
curtsy, her gray ringlets bouncing under her cap. “It’s just that there’s a man
in the drawing room with your uncle, miss, and your uncle asks that you join
them.”
I continue sketching,
watching the frilly petals take shape on my paper. “Please make my excuses,” I
tell her. Uncle likes to bring me out when he has business meetings,
the same way he sets out the good claret and crystal goblets with the old
family crest. With no wife and no children of his own, I make a pretty addition
and bring a touch of softness to his otherwise hard demeanor. “There’s a cake
in the kitchen and cold ham as well that you might bring them,” I add as an
afterthought.
But Betsy doesn’t leave. She wrings her hands and tuts
about like a fussing hen. “No, miss. He’s for you.”
I carefully set aside my pencil. This is what I was
afraid of. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples, wishing that it was anything else
besides this. My time is not even my own, and I hate being pulled out of my
work just to oblige Uncle.
“Very well.” I dismiss Betsy and take a moment in front
of the mirror in the hall. Uncle’s friends and associates are mostly stodgy old
men, but there is always the possibility that it could be someone young,
someone exciting. I pinch roses into my cheeks and tease out a few of my yellow
curls. If have control of nothing else in this house, I at least can take
pride in my appearance.
I take a deep breath and let myself into the drawing
room. “Betsy said you wanted me, sir?”
Uncle stands and tugs at his waistcoat. “Cornelia, come
in.”
Though not more than fifty years in age, his poor temper
and taste for rich food and drink has left my uncle with a ruddy complexion and
portly figure. He is not a healthy man, and his jowls are loose, his complexion
jaundiced. What he lacks in polished comportment, though, he makes up in his
wardrobe, opting for elaborate cravats and showy brocaded waistcoats that never
quite fit him but speak of money and an account in good standing at the tailor.
Uncle waves me over, impatient. “Come meet Mr. Reeves.”
Obedient, I come and position myself near the window
where I know the soft gray light is especially flattering to my fair complexion.
The man unfolds himself from his chair. He is tall and spare, his black
frockcoat well-cut and his boots shined. He looks familiar, perhaps from church
or one of Uncle’s interminable business dinners. I suppose some might consider
him handsome, but there is an intensity in his dark eyes that is more predatory
than charming. “Miss Cornelia,” he says, taking my hand and bowing over it, “a
pleasure.”
“Mr. Reeves.” I withdraw my hand. “I hope my uncle is not
boring you with land yields and livestock accounts.”
He shares a confidential look with my uncle. “On the contrary.
Our conversation has been on the most enjoyable of topics.”
“He’s here to see you,” Uncle says, plowing straight into
the heart of the matter as he always does. “Mr. Reeves comes as a suitor.”
Uncle makes the outcome of this meeting perfectly clear
in the sharp downturn of his lips. His patience with the matter of my marital
status is wearing thin.
Well, that makes two of us.
I don’t fancy marriage, but I certainly don’t fancy
spending one more day than I have to under my uncle’s roof, either. My dreams
of publishing a book remain foggy and out of reach, and the money from my illustrations
published in a French newspaper under a nom de plume pays only a pittance. It
is not enough to live on, and certainly not enough for a young woman who enjoys
fine things and an easy life. A husband would solve at least two of my
problems, but it would create a host more.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Uncle says, cutting
me with a look that says there will be hell to pay if I emerge from this room
without securing an engagement.
The air usually lightens, the room sighing a breath of
relief, when Uncle leaves, but Mr. Reeves’s presence prickles me under my
stays, makes me fidgety.
Betsy is posted outside the door, her needles softly
clacking as she knits some horrid bonnet or muffler. Outside, a fine mist has
rolled over the gentle Sussex hills. A smile spreads over Mr. Reeves’s sharp
features. “Your uncle says you’re a spirited filly. That you need a strong hand
to break you.”
Ah, so it is to go like that, then. I pour a cup of tea,
ignoring my guest’s outstretched hand, instead lifting the cup to my lips.
“That does sound like the sort of nonsense my uncle would say.”
Mr. Reeves regards me, his dark eyes calculating. “Your
uncle was right, but I think he also underestimated you. I can see you possess
some wits, so I’ll not mince words.” He crosses his long legs. “I am looking
for a wife, and your uncle is looking to expand his landholdings to the south
of the county.”
If the man who has sat down across from me was meek, pliable,
then perhaps I would have more patience in hearing his suit; I don’t need
someone who will get underfoot or try to handle me. Even some doddering old
lord who might die quickly and leave me a widow would be acceptable. But Mr.
Reeves is irritatingly young and looks to be in good health.
“My uncle was mistaken. I am not in need of a husband.” I
offer him a cold smile, my mind already back on my flowers, my fingers itching
to hold my pencil. The light has shifted with the gathering clouds, and I will
have to rework my shading.
He pours himself a cup of tea. “Come, wouldn’t you like
to have a fine house? Be mistress of a whole host of servants? I can see that
you enjoy some degree of freedom, and I can give you that. You will have a mare
and a generous allowance.”
“I should think it would be terribly lowering to have to
lure a wife into one’s home with promises of horses and gowns. Shouldn’t you
rather wish her to come of her own volition because she holds you in some
esteem?”
“You are naive if you think that marriage is anything
other than a business transaction. You are a young woman of beauty and some
small means but a drain on your guardian. I am an enterprising man, with
successful business dealings and a good bloodline looking for a wife who will
elevate his status and ornament his home. I hold a commission in the army and
anticipate traveling to the Continent shortly. It is a good deal for you, and
you would be hard-pressed to find a better one, especially with your lack of
polish and manners.”
“It’s a little late to be going over to the Continent,
isn’t it? I believe we quite vanquished Napoleon.”
Irritation animates his dark eyes before he glances away,
taking what I suspect is an intentionally long sip of his tea.
I study him over the rim of my cup, imagining the way I
would draw the sharp angle of his chin, the aquiline nose, before finally
placing where I’ve seen him. “You were married before, were you not?”
There is an almost imperceptible stiffening of his body.
“Yes, I make no secret of the fact that I am a widower,” he says shortly.
“And how, exactly, did your first wife die?” The roses in
the vase on the table beside me are vibrating, warning me. I pretend not to
notice, pretend that I am a normal young woman who does not receive messages
from flowers.
His lips thin. “An unfortunate fall.”
“Mm. She did not bear you any children, did she?”
“Barren.” He tugs at his cravat, irritated. “You would do
well not to let your ear wander to every housemaid that has a piece of gossip
to peddle,” he says coldly.
“In any case, I am not interested.” I move to put my cup
down, but a hand closes around my wrist, hard. I look up to find that he has
leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck.
“Perhaps you’ve also heard that I have
certain…proclivities.”
The roses in the vase strain toward me, singing, setting
my teeth on edge. My fingers begin to tremble, but I do not let him see it.
“Why would you tell me that?”
“Because I think, dear girl, that you are under the
impression that I would use you poorly.” He leans back, but only slightly, the
air around him still charged and menacing. “I can be a very hard man when I’m
tested, but I can take my pleasures elsewhere, so long as my wife is
obedient.”
His gaze is sharp, his grip painful, and I realize that
here is a dangerous man, one who is not just a brute but also clever. He cannot
be fobbed off with witty barbs or batting eyelashes.
“This conversation bores me,” I tell him, standing. “I
will not be your wife. I’m sorry that you wasted your time in coming here.”
But he makes no move to stand, his cool gaze sliding over
me in a way that leaves me feeling horribly exposed. “I’ve seen you often,
Cornelia. In church, sitting so demurely with your hands folded in your lap.
You may think to have everyone else fooled, but I see the spirit in your eyes.
A woman like you can never be satisfied with the life of a spinster, put on a
shelf here in Sussex. I can offer you fine things, take you to exciting places
abroad with me.”
And I’ve seen you, I think. I’ve seen how
cruelly you used your first wife, the bruises on her pretty face. The way she
faded little by little every week in church, until she was just a ghost in a
dress, her final service that of her funeral. That will not be me.
“Surely there are other
young ladies that would be flattered by your attentions,” I tell him.
“None so beautiful, none
that I would take so much pleasure in breaking. The more you deny me, the more
determined I am. Ask your uncle. I am a man who gets what he wants, one way or
another.”
All the promise of gold or
Continental trips would not be enough to tempt any marriage-minded mama to let
her daughter enter into an arrangement with a man like Mr. Reeves. But of
course, I have no mama to arrange such matters for me, to keep me safe.
“Then, perhaps it was time
you lose for a change. Do you not find it dull to always get what you expect?”
He stands, drawing close and
jabbing a finger into my bodice. It takes some great force of will to stand my
ground and not let him see my fear. “You may think yourself clever, but this
visit was just a courtesy. Your uncle and I have
all but drawn up the contract already.”
He storms out, and the room grows quiet in the wake of
the front door slamming. Betsy startles from her seat where she had fallen to
dozing. I close my eyes, take a breath, wait until my heartbeat grows even
again. Then I return to my waiting drawing in the parlor.
If I work quickly, I can still finish it and have it
ready for tomorrow’s post. But for now, there is no waiting publisher, no
silly French pseudonym; it is just the light and the shadows and me, a silent
dance as I commit them to paper. Mr. Reeves and his odious proposal quickly
fade away from my mind.
But then a raised voice shatters the silence, breaking my concentration, and there is the thundering velocity of Uncle coming down the hall.
Excerpted from THE BOOK OF THORNS by Hester
Fox. Copyright © 2024 by Hester Fox.
Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.
Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical archaeology. She is the author of such novels as The Witch of Willow Hall, A Lullaby for Witches, and The Last Heir to Blackwood Library. When not writing, Hester can be found exploring old cemeteries, enjoying a pastry and seasonal latte at a café, or scouring antique shops for old photographs to add to her collection. She lives in a small mill town in Massachusetts with her husband and their two children.
Author site: https://hesterfox.com/
GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17440931.Hester_Fox
Twitter: https://twitter.com/hesterbfox?lang=en
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hesterbfox/
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