Looking for a present for a historical fiction fan (or for yourself!)? My Mother's Daughter will be available on Amazon on Jan. 1, but you can always order either My Mother's Daughter or One Amber Bead from the author:

Order from Elizabeth Stolarek, email bettystolarek@gmail.com, phone 231-580-7879.
I would like ____ copies of My Mother’s Daughter ($15.00) and ____ copies of One Amber Bead ($15.00)
for a total of $_____________ (add $2.50 per book if shipped)
Name ________________________________________________________________
Address_______________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________
City____________________________________________State______ Zip ________
You can also purchase through Amazon using a credit card or large orders through support@plainviewpress.net.
Plain View Press website: http://www.plainviewpress.net

My Mother's Daughter Chapter One

     Part I—Eugenia—1789                                            Chapter One

The Mississippi River had cradled the boat carrying Eugenia Meier in its gentle swells all morning. The sun was hot, but not nearly as brutally stifling as it would be in an hour. Despite the bonnet she had fastened snugly under her chin, she would soon need to retreat to the lower deck of the keelboat to escape its strongest rays.  Mama had warned her many times to guard her dove-white complexion from the sun so she would look her best on the blessed day when she would meet “her dearly beloved,” the man God had chosen to be her spouse.

Eugenia hated to leave her spot on the bow of the keelboat where she could watch the world pass slowly by. Below deck would be steaming in the afternoon heat and humidity, and even lying very still on the cot in her tiny passenger’s den would not save her from its intensity. Besides, she wanted to observe the changes in the riverbanks, where flatlands and cane fields were beginning to replace the heavy forest she had observed for so many days. Captain Kerry, the steersman of the keel, had told her that cultivated fields were a sure sign they were nearing Natchez, and she would know her new home by its high bluffs to the east, higher, he asserted, than any they had already encountered on the river.

She anticipated the end of her journey with both excitement and terror, not knowing whether she was escaping an increasingly intolerable situation or advancing foolishly into a worse one. Papa had begged her to reconsider her decision, to not let her quick temper and impetuousness be her guide. But she had been stubborn, another frailty of character she knew she needed to control, and she had said words she felt she could never take back.

“Nia, you still up here? Shan’t you be gettin’ out o’ the sun?”

“Yes, Mrs. Monroe, very soon.” Harriet Monroe, the only other female passenger on this trip, had, in some respects, stepped in for Nia’s mother. But Nia was grateful for her presence; Papa would never have let her board the keelboat if there had not been at least one other woman making the journey. Mrs. Monroe was traveling all the way to New Orleans, a distance beyond Natchez, which made her an acceptable chaperone for Nia’s entire journey.

“And what’ve you seen onshore this fine mornin’, m’dear?”

“Mostly buffalo.” The first sight of these massive creatures had entranced Nia. She’d seen cows and bulls during trips to the farmland outside of Philadelphia, but those farm animals hadn’t the fearsome presence these beasts displayed. And their numbers: when she spotted a herd grazing on a patch of flat land or drinking from shallow river banks, she often hadn’t nearly enough time to even begin to count them.

“And some deer,” Nia continued. “A whole deer family, with Mama and Papa Deer guarding their three fawns as they splashed in the water.  Just like little children.”

“Ah seen that as well, even back home.” Home for Mrs. Monroe was Kentucky. The wife and helpmate of a merchant who took household goods down the Mississippi to New Orleans several times a year, she had made this trip many times before. Her weathered complexion and gray hair, interspersed with signs of the sandy brown it had once been, seemed to Nia a testament to the hard life Mrs. Monroe had lived.  The battered straw hat, men’s boots and sack-like skirt she wore had even made Nia wonder, upon first sight of Mrs. Monroe, whether she was a woman or a man. It wasn’t until Nia had heard her voice, its melodic tones and gentle lilt countering the harshness of her appearance, that Nia knew she was speaking with another woman.

“Ah ‘magine animals like to have their fun, too,” Mrs. Monroe smiled.

“No bears yet,” Nia added, a bit of hope sounding in her voice.

“Oh, they’s out there all right. They kin be kinda shy. You’ll see one soon enough—jes hope it ain’t one o’ them times you don’ wanna see one.”

Mrs. Monroe had shared with Nia more than enough stories about what she would find in her new home. Alligators capable of grabbing small children and devouring them in one bite. Wild hogs with bodies as long as a grown man’s height. And bears. Bears, she assured Nia, could tear down doors and enter homes. Nia, who shuddered at the sight of a mouse scurrying across the floor or a bat zig-zagging its way above her head, had not considered the fauna she would need to deal with in the Mississippi Territory.

“I did see two of the big birds with the long beaks flying downstream,” she continued, hoping to turn the conversation toward more benevolent creatures.

“Blue or white?” Mrs. Monroe asked.

“Blue.”

“Then them’s herons. The smaller white ones is egrets.”

Nia was, as always, amazed by Mrs. Monroe’s knowledge of all things on the river, realizing that she, herself, would have a great deal to learn. Mama would doubt her daughter could learn anything worth knowing from a woman whose grammar she would consider contemptible, would even forbid her daughter from having any conversation with such a woman. But when Mrs. Monroe suggested again that she retire below, Nia acquiesced without any objection.

Getting up from the trunk that held all her belongings and now served as her chair, Nia waved at Davey, the youngest of the four oarsmen who skillfully directed the vessel on its journey. The Mississippi was a difficult passage—even she could see that. It meandered its way south, sometimes circling to almost the same spot it had traversed as many as twenty miles earlier. And the current varied constantly. This morning’s passage was as gentle as a sailboat ride down the Schuylkill River; yesterday’s had been a torrent of frightening eddies and whirlpools.

Her first sight of the keelboat moored peacefully in the busy Pittsburgh harbor had filled her with confidence. Almost eighty feet long, its rough sawn timbers looked sturdy enough to withstand an Atlantic crossing.  It comprised three levels: the lowest section, which was mostly below the water level, was both the longest and deepest of the three and held the passengers’ quarters as well as storage for supplies and cargo. A second level was set back about a quarter of the length of the boat, providing an open deck in the front where passengers could sit in good weather. This level was manned by the oarsmen and was topped by a much smaller platform from which the steersman could observe the river from a greater height. Passengers entered their quarters from the open space between the lowest level’s deck and the second level.

The passage along the Ohio River had been relatively peaceful, with vistas of stately pine and hardwood forests visible on both banks. When the keelboat put in at a small French trading post at the junction of the two rivers and she realized she had actually arrived at the Mississippi River—the river that would mark the western border of her new home—her exhilaration was almost more than she could handle. 

But nothing could have been more terrifying than their entrance into the Mississippi, which was the watery equivalent of a mountain range with cavernous valleys. Their small craft had bounced and bobbled in the violent current like a feather caught in a breeze. She’d feared her journey would end before it had hardly begun. The oarsmen had later assured her that what she had experienced was normal—they’d taken the boat safely through the perilous passage many times before. She trusted them, certainly a great deal more than she trusted her own wisdom in even beginning this journey. She worried that what lay at the end of her trip might be even more daunting.

Nia blamed her mother for pushing her into the perilous journey down the Mississippi River. She sometimes feared she acted impetuously, even foolishly. Still, she had made her decision, and she vowed to live by it. After all, she was a grown woman now, almost sixteen years old.                        

She was coursing down the Mississippi to meet the man who would be her guiding light, her master, the father of her children—her future husband.

Chapter Two

Papa was kind. Every man wanted a son, of course: a boy to follow in his footsteps and to carry his name into the future. And Papa had had two: Nicholas, who had never taken even one breath at  birth, and Samuel, who had died of the consumption before reaching six years. Papa visited their graves frequently, never missing one of their birthdays or saint’s days or any holiday the family celebrated.

But despite this burden of grief, Papa cherished his three girls, referring to them as his princesses. While Nia appreciated her father’s praise, she grudgingly conceded her older sister Abigail’s appearance was more princess-like than her own. She would have gladly traded her own straight, honey-blonde locks for Abby’s crown of soft, sunny curls. And although she was often told her sapphire-colored eyes were her best feature, Nia wished she had been blessed with Abby’s cornflower blue. She consoled herself by realizing she did not have to deal with her younger sister Emilia’s bright red locks and freckles, but wished she could duplicate Mellie’s endearing, saucy smile.  

At other times, Papa would call his daughters his constellation. “There you are,” he would say, pointing up at the sky on the summer evenings they’d spend sprawled on an old quilt in a public park to escape the heat of their small apartment. “Those three beautiful stars, with Vega at the crest. Those are my girls.”

“And which of us is Vega?” Abby would always ask, tugging at his sleeve. As the oldest, she believed she should be considered first in all things, or at least that was Nia’s opinion of her.

“Why, the one who loves Papa the most,” he had always answered.

“Me! Me! Me!” Mellie and Nia would chime in unison, climbing on his lap. “I love Papa the most!” Papa would smile, hugging his daughters while kissing the tops of their heads. Yes, Papa was kind.

But Mama: that was another story. Mama seemed to wear every ache and pain, every disappointment, every slight, as a badge of honor. She was certain that the butcher saved for her only the worst cuts of meat, the pastor prayed less for her than for any of his other parishioners, and Mrs. Schultz, their next-door neighbor, spoke unkindly of her behind her back. She seemed to see her girls, or at least her younger daughters, as a burden and a trial, as small monsters who needed constant remonstrance and painful reminders to head them toward the path to civility.

Other women, like Mrs. Schultz, displayed their creativity in the wonderful repasts they made for their families, or, like Mrs. DeVille, the pastor’s wife, in the beautiful quilts and dresses she crafted for the parish’s many baptisms. But Mama’s creativity was displayed in the punishments she designed for her daughters: in the pinches that were always delivered in the areas of their bodies where they would cause the most pain, or in such practices as requiring, for the most minor infractions of her many rules, an hour of gazing, arms held straight out at their sides, at the picture of Jesus displayed prominently over the dining room sideboard.

Many nights Nia and Mellie, who were supposed to be asleep, would lift the attic’s trap door just a bit and cram together to listen to their parents’ discussions. “Ah, Dorothea, don’t you think you were a bit hard on our Nia this evening?” Papa would suggest. “You know her stomach is sensitive, and she was able to finish most of her dinner. Was the punishment really necessary?”

“It is your fault Nia is so ungrateful for what’s been given to her. When I think of the times I went to bed without any dinner when I was her age—not because of any naughtiness on my part, you understand, but because there was no dinner to be had at our house that evening. Nia and Mellie should realize how very lucky they are. You spoil them, Nicholas. And I wouldn’t have to be so hard on them if you were not so lenient yourself.”

“But Dorothea, an hour of kneeling on rice. It must have been very painful: her poor knees were terribly pock-marked. And not finishing dinner hardly merits. . .”

“You do not understand! It is not about dinner. The girl is insolent and disobedient, and acts this way only to show her disdain for the rules of this household. Do you think you know more about the wickedness of young girls than I?” 

At this point Papa would return to his copy of the New England Courant, choosing the path of least resistance. Yes, Papa was kind. And Mama was quite a different story.

Hi Everyone

I've been remiss at checking this blog, but for a good reason. My next novel, My Mother's Daughter,
has been published and will appear on Amazon on January 1. I'll be  sending the first chapter of MMD within the next couple of days.