Historical Virtual Book
Tour Presents....
That Woman
By Wayne Clark
2017
Book Excellence Awards Finalist for Fiction
2017
Winner 50 Great Writers You Should Be Reading
Kidnapped
in France and brought to America as an indentured servant, a young woman takes
on the brutal merchant king of New York’s East River waterfront…
Illness
suddenly deprives 17-year-old Sarah Da Silva and her older brother Jacob of a
mother. Before Sarah has come to terms with that loss, her merchant father
grows frail and increasingly desperate in the face of impending bankruptcy. On
the rainy night their father scours the docks of Bordeaux, France, to make his
final bid to save his family, his children are kidnapped and forced onto a ship
bound for New York City where they’ll be separated and sold to the highest
bidder as indentured labor.
Purchased
by a grotesque merchant whose wealth, backed by a team of henchmen, allows him
to dominate the chaotic East River docks, Sarah strikes back the only way she
can. Vowing to never allow him to put his hands on her again, she presses a
knife to his fat neck. She demands her freedom, a roof over her head and the
means to start a business. Her leverage? Knowledge obtained on the voyage that
would bring the big man to his knees forever. He yields to her demands but
privately swears to become her worst nightmare.
Praise
for That Woman
“…Well-stocked
with vibrant details about the merchant trade, this engaging Colonial tale
delivers likable heroes, despicable villains, and a strong female protagonist.”
Kirkus Reviews
“…Here
is a story that dramatically captures the spirit of colonialism and slavery,
with a masterful handling of the theme of freedom. Readers are taken on a
roller coaster ride to colonial New York to witness a drama that will take
their breath away. It’s utterly mesmerizing and tantalizing. 5 stars.”
Romuald Dzemo for Readers’ Favorite
Excerpt
October 29, 1748
Bordeaux, France
IT WAS the highlight of Sarah’s week when her father
signaled for her and her older brother Jacob to prepare themselves to accompany
him while he conducted business on the quays of Bordeaux. Preparation meant
simply to spruce up, straighten up and, above all, look up. Show that you are
someone, he would say.
Since his wife died two years earlier, Gabriel Da
Silva had placed his children on the pedestal his wife used to occupy. His
taciturnity at home still made the days long, but Sarah had her brother to
chatter with as they worked in the shop, its little office upstairs and the
warehouse on the third floor. When Jacob teased her, which he would find any
excuse to do, she laughed. Since their mother had died their father no longer
barked out their names when he caught them playing word games while supposedly
doing his accounts, or playing hide and seek in the store room when they were
supposed to be finding space for a new consignment of goods. Mostly it was wine
from their father’s best client, a producer in Pessac, a short distance
southwest of the city.
Gabriel Da Silva was not a major merchant, so he was
particularly proud of acting on behalf of the prestigious winery that had been
in production for hundreds of years on the order of Pope Clément, a former
archbishop of Bordeaux. Da Silva never had a problem with Catholics. Jews no
longer had to pretend to be Catholic to get married. The King liked Jews when
he profited from their commerce and borrowed their money to finance his
fantasies of glory, first for himself, then for France.
Like many businessmen in coastal ports, Da Silva
bought and sold whatever was at a good price, from fine silk fabrics made in
Lyon to furniture made by the world-renowned craftsmen of Paris. Trade with the
New World had made Bordeaux France’s major port, and many a merchant and
shipowner had made their fortunes. Compared to them, Gabriel was a small fish,
like the sardines from his native Portugal. But, he told himself, “I am one of
them.”
Gabriel Da Silva was thin. His back was slightly
hunched so he could not stand tall as he asked his children to do. Sarah, the
youngest, was only 17 but she was already taller than her father, and almost as
tall as her brother, two years her elder.
Sarah loved the days she spent on the docks of the great
city. Though she knew only her little neighborhood, the streets around their
shop on the Ruelle des Fosses, near the new Porte Dijeaux, she believed
everything worth seeing in Bordeaux could be seen from the harbor, like the
Église St. Pierre and the newly erected stock exchange, the Place de la Bourse,
designed by the King’s very own architect as a symbol of the city’s prosperity.
And she could gaze all day long at the ships anchored along the Garonne River.
Even the river had come from far away, in the mountains of Spain, they said.
She and Jacob were not allowed to walk the quays
alone. Her father said the press of men on the docks comprised men like
himself, men with goods to offer, arrangements to conclude, or men of the sea,
who seemed forever bent under the weight of the cargo they loaded or offloaded,
or, if not bent, at least crooked under the effects of wine. And, said her
father, there were men whose purpose on the docks was not declared, men who
moved little else but their eyes. That only increased Sarah’s excitement as she
and her brother followed their father, watching as he nodded to people,
stopping occasionally to converse, or occasionally even boarding one of the
merchantmen, sometimes for an hour on end. When that happened she and Jacob
would dutifully sit near the end of the pier, away from the crowded quays.
Though it was late fall, as reflected by the blue of
the sky, which she found far richer than that of midsummer days, the heat was
unseasonal. Men, masts, buildings and the waters of the harbor shimmered before
Sarah’s eyes. For a moment it caused her to lose sight of her father. He had
grown smaller after the death of her mother.
As she hurried to catch up, Sarah instinctively
stepped aside to evade the stench of a toothless man who’d tripped and stumbled
toward her. She shielded her eyes with her left hand. Her father’s long, thin
grey hair lurched back into view. She hurried to catch up. Jacob was already at
her father’s side. On the docks, Jacob was never supposed to let his sister out
of his sight. She realized she’d been too absorbed by the routine of chaos to
notice she was lagging behind.
As she neared her father she thought she saw alarm in
his eyes. He had been in intense conversation with a man she knew to be an
agent. As she drew alongside, she caught a few words of the discussion. Finally
the agent shook his head slowly, as if with regret. The hands he held up before
his chest confirmed some kind of refusal. Her father sank down, coming to rest
on a bollard. The agent turned away. Sarah was at Jacob’s side. They waited for
their father to speak.
For long moments he remained silent, and swallowed a
lot.
Links
for Purchase
Wayne Clark
Award-winning author Wayne Clark was born in 1946 in
Ottawa, Ont., but has called Montreal home since 1968. Woven through that time
frame in no particular order have been interludes in Halifax, Toronto,
Vancouver, Germany, Holland and Mexico.
By far the biggest slice in a pie chart of his career
would be labelled journalism, including newspapers and magazines, as a
reporter, editor and freelance writer. The other, smaller slices of the pie
would also represent words in one form or another, in advertising as a
copywriter and as a freelance translator. However, unquantifiable in a pie
chart would be the slivers and shreds of time stolen over the years to write
fiction.
For more information, please visit Wayne Clark’s website and blog. You can also find him on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads
That Woman by Wayne Clark
Publication Date: May 2, 2017
eBook & Print; 455
Pages
ISBN-13: 978-0992120269
Genre: Fiction/Historical
Good Luck with the rest of the tour!!
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