Somewhere My Love

Praise for
Somewhere My Love
:

“As I read
Somewhere My Love
, I recalled
the feelings I experienced the first time I read Daphne
DuMaurier’s
Rebecca
long ago. Using the same deliciously eerie elements similar to that gothic romance, Beth Trissel has captured the haunting dangers, thrilling suspense and innocent passions that evoke the same tingly anticipation and heartfelt romance I so enjoyed then, and still do now.”

~
joysann
for Publisher’s Weekly

“Bet
h T
risse
l h
a
s w
ritte
n a ca
ptivatin
g g
hos
t s
tor
y e
ntwinin
g a c
ontemporar
y l
ov
e s
tor
y w
it
h t
h
e m
yster
y of a
murde
r f
ro
m t
h
e n
ineteent
h c
entur
y. T
h
e w
onderfu
l c
haracter
s a
n
d e
vocativ
e h
istorica
l d
etail
s c
augh
t my a
ttentio
n f
ro
m t
h
e f
irs
t page.” ~A
utho
r H
ele
n S
cot
t T
aylor

“Colonial V
irginia is one of the most romantic settings imaginable and modern day Virginia is not far behind. In this fascinating novel the two are intertwined to make a love story to remember.” ~Amazon Reviewer Carole King

Author Awards
:

2008 Golden Heart® Finalist

2008 Winner Preditor's & Editor's Readers Poll

Publisher’s Weekly BHB Reader’s Choice Best Books of 2009

2010 Best Romance Novel List at Buzzle

Five Time Book of the Week Winner at LASR

2012 Double Epic eBook Award Final
ist

2012 Reader’s Favorite Finalist

Additional
Romance
Titles
by
Beth Trissel
:

Red Bird’s Song

Through the Fire

Enemy of the King

Into the Lion’s Heart

Somewhere My Lass

Somewhere the Bells Ring

(Short) The Lady and the Warrior

Kira, Daughter of the Moon

The Bearwalker’s Daughter

A Warrior for Christmas

Nonfiction Works by Beth Trissel

Shenandoah Watercolors

A Christmas in the 1960’s
in
A Very Virginia Christmas
by
Wilford
Kale

COPYRIGHT November ©2012
by Beth
Trissel

Contact: [email protected]

Cover
Art by
Elise Trissel

Published in the United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

All
rights
reserved.
No
part
of
this
book
may
be
used or
reproduced
in
any
manner
whatsoever
without written
permission
of
the
author
except
in
the
case
of
brief
quotations
embodied in
critical
articles
or
reviews.
This
is
a
work
of
fiction.
Na
m
es,
characters,
places, and incidents are
eit
h
er
t
h
e
product of
t
h
e
author
'
s
i
m
agi
n
ation or are used fictiti
ou
sly,
a
n
d
a
n
y
rese
m
b
la
n
ce
to
act
u
al
p
ers
on
s li
v
i
n
g
o
r
d
ea
d
,
bu
si
n
ess esta
b
lis
h
m
e
n
ts, e
v
e
n
ts,
o
r locales, is entirely
coincidental.

To Dennis, my dearest love and husband, without whose support this writing journey would not have been possible.

Chapter One,
June 2006

“He was Captain Wentworth, but we call him Cole.” 

His name sent a shiver pulsing through Julia Morro
w like a ripple from the past.
Perhaps it was only her awe of Foxleigh, one of the most exquisite old homes alon
g the James River in Virginia.
Julia felt out of place among the Persian carpets and sumptuous mahogany pieces in her white san
dals and pink-floral sundress.
Foxleigh had been intended for satin slippers and ball gowns with sweeping skirts that swirled around her ankles.

Covered in
goosebumps
, she eyed the tour guide.

Mrs. Hensley’s round face was flushed
beneath a white cap, her plump
figure swaddled in a shapeless blue gown an
d checked petticoat that looked
straight
out of Colonial Williamsburg.
Pale blue eyes
alight
, she laid her dimpled hand over an
ample chest
.
“
Such a gallant gentleman he was
and handsome.
Cole’s portrait makes my old heart flutter.” 

Cole
.
The odd
tremble
inside Julia only grew.

Despite the air conditioning, Mrs. Hensley
plucked a handkerchief out from
under her white apron a
nd mopped her beaded forehead.
“His room’s just ahead.”

A mounting sense of expectation quickened Julia’s steps down the wide
hall
and she forced herself to slow in orde
r to accommodate Mrs. Hensley’s
waddle.
Already intrigued by the prospect of a summer working at Foxleigh, home to the Wentworth family for eight generations, her wonder was enhanced by a sudden,
almost aching need to throw open the bedroom door.

“Go on and open it, dear,”
Mrs. Hensley said, cat
ching up to her with a
wheeze.
“You’ll
see we keep it like a shrine.
But it’s suc
h a lovely room.
Mind you
don’t lean on the walls.
The paint was recently touched up.”

Julia closed her fingers
around the white marble knob.
A strange ti
ngle
coursed through her hand.
Givi
ng a small gasp, she drew back.
“Is the wiring sound in here?”

“We had the electricity checked
out for insurance last month.
Why?”

“I felt a sort of current in the knob.”

Mrs. Hensley’s pucker
ed creases relaxed in a smile.
“You’re just more connected than most.”

“To what?”

She looked pointedly at Julia. “To the people who’
ve gone before you, of course.
The departed.”

A
nother prickling shiver
, and Julia conceded,
“I’ve always been a bit clairvoyant.” 

Mrs
. Hensley studied her closely.
“Is this second sight what led you to Foxleigh?”

“Perhaps.
But I see only in part.” 

“The glass is cloudy, eh?”

Julia nodded and dropped her eyes fro
m the mature woman’s scrutiny.
She
stared hard at the amber door.
The wood was darkened with age and a
slashing scar marred the oak.
She slid her fingers over the deep scratch, mo
re of a groove, really. A black one, at that.
Some malevolence had scored the wood like an ancient burn.  

“There’s a story in
that mark,” Mrs. Hensley said.
“In everything, it seems.
The
se old homes accumulate tales.
Come
in and I’ll tell you Cole’s.”
She grasped the doorknob, opening it without a qualm, and stepped inside.

Suspecting her life would never be the sam
e, Julia walked in behind her.
The deep-set window had been cracked open to chase awa
y the lingering odor of paint.
Bees hummed outside
in white-flowering hydrangeas.
Sunshine slanted through the
old
wavy glass and washed mellow light over the colonial furnishings. 

Along one nutmeg-colored wall, Julia sa
w a magnificent four-poster bed
overhung with an ivory canopy.
The counterpane covering the box mattress was a tapestry of blue and crimson flowers
patiently
embroid
ered
by fingers long since idle
.
An inexplicable urge stirred in her to lie on that bed as if to keep a long held appointment. 

Stranger still, was the faint scent of spice, like the whiff of a man’s col
ogne.
She’
d breathed in this
tantalizing fragrance before, but couldn’t remember
from
whe
n or where it came
.
Seeking the source, she drifted past a heavily carved armoire.