Historical Fiction Virtual Blog Tours
Presents…
The Secret Life of Mrs. London
By Rebecca Rosenberg
San Francisco, 1915. As America teeters
on the brink of world war, Charmian and her husband, famed novelist Jack
London, wrestle with genius and desire, politics and marital competitiveness.
Charmian longs to be viewed as an equal partner who put her own career on hold
to support her husband, but Jack doesn’t see it that way…until Charmian is
pulled from the audience during a magic show by escape artist Harry Houdini, a
man enmeshed in his own complicated marriage. Suddenly, charmed by the
attention Houdini pays her and entranced by his sexual magnetism, Charmian’s
eyes open to a world of possibilities that could be her escape.
As Charmian grapples with her urge to explore the
forbidden, Jack’s increasingly reckless behavior threatens her dedication. Now
torn between two of history’s most mysterious and charismatic figures, she must
find the courage to forge her own path, even as she fears the loss of
everything she holds dear.
Praise for The Secret
Life of Mrs. London
“An
impressively original and exceptionally well-crafted novel by an author who is
a master of character- and narrative-driven storytelling, Rebecca Rosenberg’s
The Secret Life of Mrs. London is an inherently riveting and thoroughly
reader-engaging story from beginning to end and feature[es] many an unexpected
plot twist and turn.”
Midwest Book Review
“Interesting, and based on the actual lives of the
participants…Learning more about Jack London was enjoyable, as well as seeing
early feminist examples.”
Historical Novel Society
“…Rosenberg paints an immensely intriguing portrait of a
marriage and tells it in an accomplished lyrical prose that captures each
moment with poetic intensity.”
Prairies Book Review
Excerpt
Beauty Ranch, Glen Ellen, California September 1915
For her I accomplished Odysseys, scaled mountains,
crossed deserts; for her I led the hunt and was forward in battle; and for her
and to her I sang my songs of the things I had done.
All ecstasies of life and rhapsodies of delight have been
mine because of her.
And here, at the end, I can say that I have known no
sweeter, deeper madness of being than to drown
in the fragrant glory and forgetfulness of her hair.
—Jack London, The Star
Rover
Nothing breathes vigor into a marriage like a boxing
match. And it helps to have a stupefied audience to witness the fight. If I can
get Jack boxing this morning, with his drinking buddies cheering him on, he’ll
be revved up for a good writing session followed by a “grand lolly” that will
linger in our loins for days.
So I pull on muslin bloomers and leather boxing boots
from my wardrobe, twist my hair into a topknot, daub on lavender oil for luck.
Our fox terrier raises his head from my bed, ears perked. I stroke his chest
and lift him down, his little heart beating in my palm. “Come on, Possum, he
can’t say no to you.”
Slinging boy-sized boxing gloves over my neck, I cross
the hallway to Jack’s own sleeping porch, where he sleeps it off after our
houseguests plied him with martinis at the Glen Ellen saloon until the wee
hours. Possum romps at my heels. Jack still reeks of gin, and his snoring
drowns out the jeering blue jays.
“Rise and shine.” I whisk off the plaid blanket, exposing
fine muscled legs in red flannel shorts.
Jack’s not moving. So I lift Possum up and let him lick
Jack’s face. “Time for our match.”
“Charmian, no. It can’t be morning.” He pulls a feather
pillow over his head, and Possum nuzzles underneath.
“Oh, but it is.” I throw the pillow to the floor, and
Possum laps at his cheeks. “And a deal is a deal.”
Jack groans and lifts up onto one elbow, holding the dog
off with his other hand. “I can’t do this after last night.”
“You can. I know you
can.” I take Possum in my arms.
Jack’s valet, Nakata, enters with a cup of coffee
balanced on his upturned palm, dressed as usual in a haori jacket and skirted
trousers. “Kishi kaisei, Mr. Jack.”
Jack sits up and takes the coffee. “My head’s too fuzzy
for Japanese this morning.”
Nakata smiles with teeth straight as piano keys. “Wake
from death and return to life.”
Jack grimaces. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
Nakata bows and leaves, Possum following him for breakfast. The Socialists
criticize Jack for employing servants, but Nakata is essential to his
well-being. He starts Jack’s day with platitudes and strong coffee, grants his
wildest wishes, manages our household staff so we can focus on writing, and, in
the evening, prepares Jack’s cot with philosophy books and farming journals,
small and large writing pads, sharpened pencils, and a thermos of martinis
(equal splashes of vermouth and olive juice). Together, Nakata and I handle
Jack’s needs, and I pray he will never leave us.
I lace on Jack’s boxing boots while he slurps his coffee,
his ankles swollen. Drinking always kicks up his gout.
“I was kidding about the boxing,” he says. “A joke for
the Crowd . . .” His nickname for the Bohemian-Socialist-literary folks who
worship at his feet. Come to think of it, that’s exactly where I happen to be
at the moment.
“Oh no.
You’re not getting away with it this time.” I knot his laces tighter. “‘Bring
me the boxing gloves if I’m not up by eight,’ you said. ‘Best thing in the
world for a hangover,’ you said. ‘We’ll do the drop-and-grind drill,’ you
said.”
Jack smirks. “I love
it when you talk dirty.”
“Come on, champ. Let’s give it a go. Our audience
awaits.” I hoist his arm over my shoulders, staggering under the weight he’s
gained of late.
He limps to the back
door.
Nakata and some of the staff have gathered to watch on
the back stoop between our separate sleeping porches, Jack’s remedy for my
chronic insomnia and his late hours.
In an apron and calico dress, Jack’s sister, Eliza,
washes the windowpanes, doughy underarm flesh swinging with each swipe of her
dish towel. “Boxing is no good for Jack.” She clucks her tongue at me. “Just
brings out the poison in his system all over again.”
“Better out than in,”
I answer.
Lawrence Godfrey-Smith, the Australian concert pianist
turned eucalyptus broker, and George Sterling, poet king of the Bohemians,
follow us out to the porch with coffee mugs.
“What’s all the ballyhoo?” Lawrence nudges me in the
overfamiliar way he’s adopted since that time on the beach in Australia . . .
I step down to the garden. “Don’t you remember Jack’s
promise when you stumbled in last night? He wanted to box this morning to get
his blood flowing for writing.”
“Who’s he going to
wallop?”
I thrust up my gloved
hand. “Me, of course.”
Lawrence turns to
Sterling. “Do all American couples fight?”
“Of course,” Sterling says, stroking his goatee. “They
just don’t usually wear gloves.”
It’s nine o’clock already, and the sun just cleared the
top of the redwoods, illuminating the garden like an arena. Our boots crush the
creeping thyme, melding with the herbaceous smell of ripening chardonnay
grapes.
Jack bounces forward on his left foot, then weaves back,
shifting his weight to the right, then back again. Red shorts hug his waist and
skim his well-built thighs. He looks fitter than he is, from a past regimen of
boxing, swimming, horseback riding. It’s not fair how men look better than us
as they age. Not fair at all.
“Come on, pretty
boy.” I hold my fists up in front of my face.
“Let’s
see what you’re made of.”
“The legs of a Roman
goddess.” Sterling whistles.
“Mind your p’s and q’s, Greek,” Jack says. “Those are my
wife’s gams you’re looking at.” He throws the first punch, which lands square
to my glove.
“I’m talking about your
legs, Wolf.” Sterling combs long fingernails through his goatee, making my skin
crawl. The disheveled poet could use a comb and nail scissors . . . and a bath,
come to think of it.
Jack camps a pose and spins his white satin boxing sash
around like Jack Johnson at the world championship.
After I take a playful poke at his ribs to get his
attention, suddenly he’s jumping around me like Possum dancing for a scrap of
meat.
For a while, Jack and I practice our drill, throwing
rhythmic punches, gaining confidence and speed. We must look hilarious with
Jack so much taller and broader and me, his “small woman,” holding my own.
“Hey, Wolf,” Lawrence says. “If you win, I’ll take a
hundred dollars off your eucalyptus starts.”
Jack thumbs his nose in jest, though I know it eats at
him to owe Lawrence for the seedlings, with no way to pay yet. Our Aussie
friend convinced Jack eucalyptus would make him a fortune, but the seedlings
have only added to our growing debt.
A mighty punch whizzes past me. Jack huffs and rolls his
eyes. “You’ve got the advantage today, Mate-Woman. I have the willies.”
“Excuses, excuses.” I make a right jab at his chest, and
he takes it, his shoulder swinging back. Abdomen, chest, or shoulders are fair
game, but anything below Jack’s belt isn’t allowed— his kidneys and liver have
taken all the abuse they can handle.
Eliza shoos the staff inside. “Don’t you people have work
to do this morning? The ranch doesn’t run itself.” Her nostrils flare at me.
“Though some folks seem to think so.”
Nine years married to her brother, and Eliza still sees
me as a nuisance to endure.
“Stay in the match or I’ll knock your block off.” Jack
takes a swipe.
We go at it for another quarter hour. Jack’s chest swells
out, his breath labors. I prance and punch to give him a fight, but not too
much to tire him out or bruise his ego.
Lawrence watches my antics with palpable pleasure, which
Jack pretends not to notice. Now for the tricky part, how to end this thing. In
an effort to go down fighting, I swing in the air, but my glove catches his
jaw. I lose my footing and fall on the flagstones, hitting my tailbone with a
searing pain. Lawrence runs and lifts me up. “Are you all right?” Jack asks,
blood trickling from his mouth onto his chin.
“You won. You won, Wolf.” Sterling claps long hands
together in mockery. “You beat the stuffing out of the little lady.”
“Did I hurt you, Lady-Boy?” Jack holds his jaw, jiggles
it side to side.
Breaking free of Lawrence’s grasp, I run to wipe the
blood from Jack’s chin with my shirttail. “Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen,
we have a novel to write.” Jack’s golden rule: write a thousand words a day.
And my job is to keep him to it.
I take Jack’s hand and pull him up the steps, feeling
Lawrence’s eyes on my backside, tingling despite my good intentions. Damn
eucalyptus. Damn blue-eyed, blond Aussies.
“I feel like a new man.” Jack pats my rear and makes me
jump. “You know just what I need, don’t you, Mate?”
“What you
need is a shower.” I hold open the screen door. “After we finish the story,
we’ll figure out what else you need.”
Giveaway
During the Blog Tour, we are giving away 3 signed
paperbacks + swag and 7 eBooks!
Enter HERE!
Giveaway Rules
• Giveaway ends at 11:59 pm EST on October 14th.
You must be 18 or older to enter.
• Giveaway is open to the US only.
• Only one entry per household.
• All giveaway entrants agree to be honest and not cheat the systems; any suspicion of fraud will be decided upon by blog/site owner and the sponsor, and entrants may be disqualified at our discretion.
• The winner has 48 hours to claim prize or a new winner is chosen.
• Giveaway is open to the US only.
• Only one entry per household.
• All giveaway entrants agree to be honest and not cheat the systems; any suspicion of fraud will be decided upon by blog/site owner and the sponsor, and entrants may be disqualified at our discretion.
• The winner has 48 hours to claim prize or a new winner is chosen.
Pick up your copy of
The
Secret Life of Mrs. London
Rebecca Rosenberg
Rebecca and her husband, Gary, own the
largest lavender product company in America, selling to 4000 resorts, spas and
gift stores. The Rosenbergs believe in giving back to the Sonoma Community, supporting
many causes through financial donations and board positions, including Worth
Our Weight, an educational culinary program for at-risk children, YWCA shelter
for abused women, Luther Burbank Performing Arts Center to provide performances
for children, Sonoma Food Bank, Sonoma Boys and Girls Club, and the Valley of
the Moon Children’s Home.A California native, Rebecca Rosenberg lives on a
lavender farm with her family in Sonoma, the Valley of the Moon, where Jack
London wrote from his Beauty Ranch. Rebecca is a long-time student of Jack
London’s works and an avid fan of his daring wife, Charmian London. The Secret
Life of Mrs. London is her debut novel.
For more information, please visit Rebecca’s website and blog. You can also find her on Facebook and Goodreads. Visit the Facebook page for The Secret Life of Mrs. London
Thank you so much for featuring The Secret Life of Mrs. London!
ReplyDeleteAmy
HF Virtual Book Tours