Haunting Miss Trentwood
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Synopsis
If you love Amanda Quick, Mary Jo Putney, Deanna Raybourn, and Victoria Holt, you will love HAUNTING MISS TRENTWOOD!
Mary Trentwood is horrified when she watches her father crawl from his grave the day of his funeral. Mistaking the newly-arrived Alexander Hartwell to be her father’s solicitor, Mary welcomes him into her home, not realizing he hunts a blackmailer.
Why is Trentwood’s ghost determined to make everyone think Mary is insane? Why is Hartwell snooping around Mary’s home rather than looking over Trentwood’s papers? Who is the blackmailer, and what are they doing in Mary’s home?
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Reviews
I don’t know how someone can find humor in a story about your dead father haunting you while a dangerous blackmailer lives under the same roof as you, but Belinda Kroll found a way. If you enjoy Haunting Miss Trentwood, I highly recommend her first novel Catching the Rose. Belinda Kroll is the Queen of Quirky Historical Fiction.
Rachel Fisher, from Goodreads
Similarly, Kroll achieves the proper restraint evocative of the classical Victorian era while harmonizing it with just the right amount of shadowy eeriness necessary when portraying a haunting. The use of the dying house as a character as well as setting is specific and greatly important in this style of novel. Much like Jackson and other gothic authors, the home is often a breathing thing that isolates or separates characters. There is a definite elegance presented in the word choice and proves the painstaking effort the author took in committing to the voice of the story. The lead character, Mary, is vulnerable, but not overtly fragile. There is a feminist quality to her reactions and thoughts, which is evident in her finding a prince in need of rescuing.
Charlie Courtland, from Goodreads
I give it four stars because I had a hard time getting into the book, the beginning didn’t do it for me. The can’t-put-it-down feeling finally happened when two of the main characters began their adventurous liaison about a quarter of the way in. Give it a chance and I promise it will suck you in.
Boil up a few cups of tea, grab this book, and you’ve got the makings of a great winter afternoon.
Adrienne Dye, from Amazon.com
This was definitely a ghost story, and it was set in the 1800′s, but it wasn’t typical by any means. There was a lot of quirky humor in this book, especially when Mr. Trentwood was around. And I love quirky humor.
I was really entertained by this book and I enjoyed it even more than I thought I would. It was one of those books where I carried my Kindle around reading, almost running into walls. :) Great story!
Lauralynn Elliot, from Goodreads
The character development was great. You can’t help but like Mary Trentwood. She is brave and has a great sense of humour. Alexander Hartwell is so different from the usual “sexy mysterious ” heroes. I instantly liked him. The scenes and dialogues between him and Mary are very enjoyable.
Add to that , the ghost of Mr Trentwood whose one-liners created several laugh-out loud moments.
Then there is the whole suspense angle to the story…There is so much happening in every page you turn, that you can’t wait to see what happens next.
Despite all the humour and mystery, there is still more depth to the story. Losing a parent is one of the hardest things to cope with. I think this book has captured that well , but with a twist.
This was a perfect Halloween read for me!
Misha from Amazon.com
Book Bloggers
- From Tamela Quijas
…Haunting Miss Trentwood is the novel to curl up with and leaves the reader with that warm and fuzzy feeling that can only be delivered by a fantastic bit of delightful historical romantic fiction. - From Coffee Time Romance
…I do have to say I found Mary to be more of the anguished heroine versus the typical tormented hero, which shows Ms. Kroll used a unique and fresh idea while penning this book. - From My Love Affair with Books
…Belinda Kroll describes herself as writer of “quirky historical fiction”. I totally agree. I love historical fiction and I have read a lot of it. But I have never read a historical fiction like this one. There is romance, suspense, humour, drama and even the supernatural. Infact it reminded me a lot of Victoria Holt books which I devoured as a 16 year old. - From Bitsy Bling’s Book Review
…There is a definite elegance presented in the word choice and proves the painstaking effort the author took in committing to the voice of the story. The lead character, Mary, is vulnerable, but not overtly fragile. There is a feminist quality to her reactions and thoughts, which is evident in her finding a prince in need of rescuing. - From Dear Author
…The premise of the story is one that takes the usual romance plot of the orphaned young lady and adds this interesting twist: that her father’s ghost is haunting her. Not in a metaphorical way, but actually haunting her. That is intriguing. That is a ripe and rich vein to harvest a story from. - From Readers Favorite
…This is a novel that not only is humorous throughout, there is also a touch of suspense that kept me turning the pages. This book contained just about everything I like to read: Victorian, slightly paranormal with humor and suspense combined throughout, and cleanly written.
Excerpt
ONE
Compton Beauchamp (three days ride west of London), February 1887
At two in the afternoon the coffin of Mary Trentwood’s father was lowered to its grave. The sun shone unseasonably bright. Mary squinted through burning eyes. She heard the wooden box hit the bottom of the hole. She heard the whispers of her servants and father’s friends behind her. However quietly they thought they were speaking, Mary heard every word. The whispers grew louder and moved closer, crowding her ears.
“Right barmy, that’s what she is.”
“I heard she hasn’t any feeling at all.”
“Certainly would explain the lack of tears.”
“Making us stand here and watch the digging of the grave, it’s indecent, that’s what it is.”
“Well, I certainly don’t know how you can expect any better from hermits, they’re not fit to be gentry, I say.”
Mary didn’t know who they were, these people whispering about her as she stood a mere four feet in front of them. She didn’t care. They weren’t there for her, they—whoever they were for she hadn’t invited them, no, that had been the workings of her aunt Mrs. Durham—only cared about their gossip mongering. The local farmers and tenants would never treat her thus. But the funeral guests were certain to spread their hissing rumors across the countryside. Mary hated that unnamed mass of huddled, whispering heads standing behind her. She hated her father for dying, for making this entire ordeal necessary in the first place.
The vicar finished his sermon and snapped his Bible shut.
Mary hunched her shoulders as the mourners filed past. She gritted her teeth, but allowed the men to solemnly brush their lips against her gloved fingers. Her jaw all but shattered in her effort to not scream at the women making tut-tutting noises.
And then Mary was alone, her black netted veil scratching her pale cheek as the wind blew. She stared at that father-sized hole. She stepped closer. How close to the edge did she dare tread? How soon before her nerves, strained to their last, snapped, rendering her as lifeless as her dear father at the bottom of that dark pit?
Mary jumped when Mrs. Durham’s hand touched her arm.
Mrs. Durham was a squat woman, with soft features that hinted at great beauty, once. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, Mary figured. Mrs. Durham had been her mother’s twin, fraternally speaking. Mary was glad she didn’t resemble her aunt in the slightest. Mrs. Durham’s cheeks arched upward—reaching, straining, pushing—trying to touch the topmost curve of her eye sockets. Truly an appalling sight; Mary decided her aunt should never squint, if she could help it.
“Come away,” Mrs. Durham murmured, “let the men folk do their job.” She shifted so Mary’s view of the gravediggers filling the grave was blocked. She began pushing Mary back to the manor house, where a light luncheon waited for them.
Whatever suggestive power Mrs. Durham had on Mary could not prevent the horrifying vision of a man, muddy and coughing, clawing his way from the grave site. He hung from the edge of the hole into which Trentwood’s coffin had descended, his elbows digging into the dirt as he wriggled his way out.
Mary stared open-mouthed.
He was dismayingly flexible, able to swing a leg over the edge and roll onto the disturbed ground. He stood, brushing himself off almost apologetically though no dirt clung to his clothing. He gave Mary time to study his determined chin, firm mouth, and snappish eyes. He combed his sandy hair back from his forehead while clearing his throat, revealing streaks of gray running from temple to crown. The overall effect was chilling familiarity.
Mary wrenched free of Mrs. Durham. “Father?” she said, her voice hoarse from not speaking the week since his death. “Papa?”
* * *
Mary sat upright, kicking her bed sheets away from sweat-soaked legs. A lock of her dark hair was plastered to her cheek. Her head ached from the bobby pins still shoved into her scalp. She lifted her hand to pull the bobby pins out and noticed she was wearing black crepe sleeves, the same she wore in her nightmare.
Her hands shook. She hadn’t been dreaming. Mary knew she hadn’t been dreaming. She had buried her father, and he had crawled from his grave right before her eyes.
Her bedroom door opened to reveal Mrs. Durham with a tray of tea. “Oh good,” Mrs. Durham said with false cheer, “you’re finally awake.”
“Finally?” Mary said. Her voice was no more than an awkward croak, but it seemed Mrs. Durham understood her.
“You’ve been sleeping for three days.”
Mary shook her head. She gasped. Three days? Had it been three days since she had buried her father? Panting, she unbuttoned her dress to her collar bone, unable to inhale with the neck buttoned to her chin. She felt so hot. Why hadn’t anyone undressed her? Right, that’s right, she had dismissed her maid after her father died to alleviate costs.
Mary shook her head again as Mrs. Durham placed the tea tray on the little table beside her bed. Everything felt fuzzy.
Mrs. Durham sat in the vanity chair that had been dragged to the bedside while Mary slept. Her black dress rustled sweetly as she moved, the fabric shining in the gray sunlight. “You fainted dead away after the coffin went down.”
Mary sighed. “Yes, I just—I thought I saw Papa.”
“But you did, my dear.”
Mary’s hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “I did?”
“Well, do forgive my callousness, but I’m not certain who else you think we buried.”
Mary felt a retort forming, but she held her tongue. She had to remember her aunt had lost her dear husband only four months ago, and was still out of sorts. She took the time to study Mrs. Durham’s shiny black earrings, the way her hands folded in her lap, the perfection of her graying hair pulled into a tight chignon topped with white lace.
Do I tell her? Do I admit I saw Father crawl from his grave? No, Mrs. Durham was not one for believing such “folderol” as she called it when Mary confided her nightmares or shared folklore and haunting stories with the servants.
Mary looked at the bedroom door, not hearing the raucous laughter of the funeral guests. “Where is everyone?” Mary asked instead, accepting a lukewarm cup of tea.
“Ah, I sent them home. Well,” Mrs. Durham chuckled, “they left fairly quickly on their own. They were quite startled when you announced you wanted everyone to follow the coffin to its grave. What in the world made you do such a thing? It simply isn’t done.”
No, it wasn’t done, but then, there were a great many things that Mary had done to satisfy Society, and she had decided that Society, in turn, could grant her this one aberration. Mary swallowed the last of the tea and placed the cup on the tray. “I’m rather tired.”
Mrs. Durham frowned, hearing the finality in Mary’s tone. “Of course,” she replied, standing. “I trust you will send for me should you need me?” At Mary’s silent nod, she took her leave, looking none too pleased.
As soon as the door was shut, Mary threw her hands to her face. “I did not see my father’s ghost.” She shivered despite being drenched with sweat. “I must be mad.”
“A bit dramatic, I suppose, but mad? Would I allow you to run my household if you were mad?”
Mary screamed. She grabbed her skirts and scrambled atop her headboard.
At the foot of her bed stood her father. At least, she thought it was her father. It certainly looked just like him. Trentwood stood as he always had when lecturing her, hands clasped behind his back with a stern look on his face. “So you didn’t see me, eh?”
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Kindle | NOOK | Smashwords | Sony | All Romance eBooks | Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.de | Paperback | XinXii | Wowio
1st Edition October 2010.
