She agrees to marry Owain and all the members of her family are delighted. But just as she starts to believe that she can have a quiet, calm life, Martha is terrified by a ghostly apparition, which the servants start to call The Nightwalker. Further troubles await her - an orphan is abandoned on the front doorstep, a ship is wrecked on the rocky coastline nearby, and one of the local squires tries to intimidate and undermine her.
Finally, Owain, her anchor, disappears. For the first time since becoming its Mistress, the Plas Ingli estate is in serious trouble. It is up to Martha to lead the family out of dark times - even if the journey will test her to her limits Read more Read less. Review What a synopsis doesn't mention is the richly textured background against which the drama is all played out; the deep, underlying sense of place; the wisdom and humour of ordinary and sometimes extraordinary folk; and the keenly researched and observed cameos of rural life in the community, living and working in the protective shadow of Angel Mountain.
To get the free app, enter mobile phone number. See all free Kindle reading apps. Don't have a Kindle? No customer reviews. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a product review. Most helpful customer reviews on Amazon. Verified Purchase. John really has nailed his time and place Pembrokeshire and brings us into the life of his engaging heroine as she establishes herself and her family amid the envy and nasty politics of the area. I love this series and can guarantee you'll learn a whole lot about Welsh customs and life in the late s and early s in rural Pembrokeshire. Great stories!
It shows a new side to this saga and I am looking foward to the next book in the Angel Mountain Saga.
Dark Angel ( Part 3 of the Angel Mountain Saga)
One person found this helpful. Go to Amazon. Back to top. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Audible Download Audio Books. A lump came to choke my throat.
Angel Has Fallen: is Gerard Butler Hollywood's weirdest action hero? | Film | The Guardian
And what about my college education? Who would pay for that if not them? I bit down on my tongue in order not to cry or say the wrong thing. Perhaps I could work my way through. I did know how to type.
- Get A Copy.
- Product details.
- Angel Mountain Saga.
- Enter Mussolini (RLE Responding to Fascism): Observations and Adventures of an Anti-Fascist (Routledge Library Editions: Responding to Fascism).
And in their black limousine I sat for long moments completely stunned by the enormity of their misunderstanding. Again stunned, I felt myself shrink. I swallowed again, and bit down even harder on my tongue, letting go of the image of this fine, handsome man being of my own flesh and blood, and with great difficulty I tried to picture Cleave VanVoreen. What kind of name was VanVoreen? No one in the hills and hollers of West Virginia had been called anything as odd as VanVoreen.
Puzzled by his voice, by his tone, I turned questioning eyes on my grandmother. For some reason she blushed, and the flood of color into her lovely face made her even more beautiful. I loved him in the beginning of our marriage, when he gave me enough of himself. He neglected me in favor of his business.
Cleave was inordinately proud of it. His silly boats and ships demanded all his attentions, so even his holidays and weekends were stolen from me. I grew lonely, just as your mother did. Can you believe those eyes? I had to be careful! I should think more about what my eyes might reveal. Never, never should they even guess what had happened between Cal Dennison and me.
They would despise me if they knew, just as Logan Stonewall, my childhood sweetheart, despised me. And grandmothers in the hills came in very young ages, especially when they married at twelve, thirteen, or fourteen. I found myself speculating on just how old my grandmother was. My mother had been only fourteen the day I was born; the same day she died. This grandmother would have been at least twenty when she married the first time.
That would put her in her fifties, at least. Imagine that. The same age as I remembered Granny best. My intense and unrelieved study of my youthful grandmother brought two small tears to shine in the corners her cornflower blue eyes so much like my own. Tears that lingered without falling. But what else had he told them? Had Pa told them everything? And I needed someone to love me for what I was—less than perfect. Those shining blue eyes swung my way, totally void of expression. It bothered me how empty she could make her eyes, as if she knew how to turn all her emotions off and on.
I confess I always lie about my age, sometimes even to doctors. In private, maybe on rare occasions, you could call me. If I allow you. Women have to do what they can to create their own mystique. I suggest you start right now lying about your own age. And I will simply introduce you as my niece, Heaven Leigh Casteel. And if someone is rude enough to persist, tell that hateful someone your dear daddy took you back to his hometown. Back in the Willies most women competed to become grandmothers at the earliest age possible! It was something to boast about, to be proud of.
Why, my own granny had been a grandmother by the time she was twenty-eight, though that first grandson had not lived a full year. Yet, still. I have never liked titles, mother, aunt, sister, or wife. My Christian name is enough. He was grinning wickedly. From one to the other my head turned, so I paid very little attention to where our long car was headed until the highways broadened into freeways, and then I saw a sign that said we were heading north.
Uneasy about my situation, once again I made my feeble attempt to find out what Pa had told them during his long-distance telephone call. Her lace handkerchief delicately touched her eyes from time to time. He said you had just lost your mother, and grief had put you into deep depression, and naturally we wanted to do what we could to help. It has always pained us that your mother never kept in touch with us, or let us know where she was.
About two months after she ran away, she did write us a postcard to say she was all right, but we never heard from her again. We tried our best to find her; even hired detectives. Your loss is our loss as well. If only we could have known of her condition before it was too late. There is so much we could have done to have made her last days happier. I think your father mentioned. How horrible for Pa to lie! My mother had died less than five minutes after my birth, shortly after she named me. His lying deceit made my blood run cold and drain down to my ankles, leaving a hollow ache in my stomach so I felt sick.
But life had never been fair to me; why should I expect anything different now? Damn you, Pa, for not telling the truth! It had been Kitty Dennison who had died days ago!
Kitty, the woman he had sold me to for five hundred bucks! Kitty, who had been so ruthlessly cruel with her scalding hot bath, her quick temper and ready blows before illness stole her strength. Desperately, as I sat with my knees together, my hands nervously twisting on my lap and trying not to ball into fists, I rationalized that maybe this lie had been very clever of Pa. If he had told them the truth, that my mother had died years and years ago, perhaps they would not have been as willing to help a hillbilly girl who had grown used to her deprived situation and accustomed to being motherless.
Indulge me, darling, please. Did you like Winnerrow?
We would so hate to think that Leigh and her child were unhappy. Can I forget and forgive her for that? I waited and I waited for her to write and plead for forgiveness! She hurt me when she ran away! I cried for months! I hate to cry; you know that, Tony! She never loved me. It was Cleave she loved best. Oh dear God, how could I answer that without spoiling my chances? I pushed backward on the rich suede seat and tried to relax. I bit down harder on my lower lip, trying to keep from showing my emotions, and then, like the blessing white lies could sometimes be, my pride came back in full dress parade.
I sat straighter. I swallowed my tears. I vanquished the throat lump. My shoulders stiffened. His home was not exactly in Winnerrow, more on the outskirts. They were married in a proper church ceremony, with flowers, witnesses, and a minister to say the words, and later they drove away to honeymoon in Miami.
And when they came back Daddy had a new bathroom added to our house just to please my mother. It was Angel this, and Angel that. She could do no wrong. You would have liked my granny. She died a few years ago, but Grandpa still lives with Pa. He had long, strong fingers, and his nails shone. And only when the words were out of my mouth did I realize just what I had done. I had trapped myself. Now they thought I was only sixteen. Oh, God, forgive me for wanting to secure my own place first!
You know I have to rest between three and five if I am to appear fresh for that dinner party tonight. Already they were finding reasons for escaping me. No one in the hills would leave a guest alone in a strange house. Do you know how to ride? I was born on a horse ranch and my first horse was a stallion.
- Product description.
- Cape Horn Vol.3 : The Black Angel of Paramo - Digital Comic?
- Missing Linc;
Your first horse was a timid little pony. Really, what difference does it make? It just sounds better to learn on a stallion than on a pony, but Scuttles was a dear, a sweet little dear. I wanted more than anything for her to like me, eventually to love me, and I was going to try to make it happen fast, fast! What would they say if they knew the truth about me and my family? And I was not going to be scared and let them see my vulnerability. Yet, they spoke a different kind of English than I did.
I had to listen very carefully; even familiar words sounded strange in their pronunciation. Thoughts of my stepmother Sarah came fleetingly to mind. The rain that I had predicted earlier began with a soft drizzle, and in seconds sheets of water drummed on the blacktop. The driver slowed and seemed to take more care, as all three of us behind the glass barrier stopped talking and sat each with our own thoughts. My dream was happening too fast for me to drink in all the impressions.
I wanted to save and savor all of this first ride to wherever they were taking me, and ponder the memories later, when I was alone.