First Book Title: The Whispering Women
Series: Delafield & Malloy Investigations
Author: Trish MacEnulty
Publication Date: 09/06/22
Publisher: Prism Light Press
Page Length: 387
Genre: Historical Mystery, Women’s Fiction
The Whispering Women, Book #1, A Delafield & Malloy Investigation
The Burning Bride, Book #2, A Delafield & Malloy Investigation
Secrets and Spies, Book #3, A Delafield & Malloy Investigation
by Trish MacEnulty
"Richly drawn characters, the vibrant historical setting, and a suspenseful mystery create a strong current that pulls readers into this delightful novel. But it's the women's issues—as relevant today as they were in the early 1900s—that will linger long after the last page."-- Donna S. Meredith, The Southern Literary Review
Can two women get the lowdown on high society?
“Two powerless young women must navigate a soul-crushing class system and find the levers of power they wield when they combine their strengths. These women may have been taught to whisper, but when their time comes, they will roar.”– 5 Star Amazon Review
Louisa Delafield and Ellen Malloy didn’t ask to be thrown together to bring the truth to light. But after Ellen witnesses the death of a fellow servant during an illegal abortion, Louisa, a society columnist, vows to help her find the truth and turn her journalistic talent to a greater purpose.
Together, these unlikely allies battle to get the truth out, and to avenge the wrongful death of a friend.
What will our heroes do when their closest allies and those they trust turn out to be the very forces working to keep their story in the dark? They’ll face an abortionist, a sex trafficking ring, and a corrupt system determined to keep the truth at bay.
“If you like historical fiction and if you like mysteries, this one is for you!”– 5 Star Amazon Review
Was change possible in 1913?
To find out, read THE WHISPERING WOMEN today!
Excerpt from The Burning Bride by Trish MacEnulty
The problem was she didn’t have the right shoes. Louisa had managed to find a splendid lace and chiffon evening gown by French designer Jeanne Hallée at a broker’s shop in the garment district. It had been purchased by a Rothschild who had subsequently decided she didn’t like the color — a pale blue — so she sent it to a discreet dress broker for resale. The dress was a steal, but looking through her wardrobe, Louisa realized she didn’t have shoes to go with it, and the wedding was in an hour. She sank to the floor in despair. The door knocker resounded from downstairs. A moment later she heard footsteps on the stairs followed by a knock on her bed-room door.
“Come in, Ellen,” Louisa said. No one besides her assistant and friend, Ellen Malloy, would show up at the front door and be sent immediately upstairs.
Ellen, windblown, her red hair burnished with the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, wore her usual sensible cotton frock and toque. She looked at Louisa on the floor in her silk chemise.
“What’re ya doing on the floor, girleen?” Ellen asked.
“I have no shoes to wear to Hugh Garrett’s wedding,” Louisa said, holding up a worn lace-up boot with a broken sole.
“I should think you’d have more important things to worry about than that scoundrel’s wedding after what he did to my friend Silvia,” Ellen said. Hugh Garrett was Ellen’s previous employer, and she would never forgive him for sending a young servant off to have an abortion that killed her. His wealth and status had insulated him from any repercussions.
“I despise him as much as you do, but that ‘scoundrel’ is still one of the wealthiest men in the city and therefore I have no choice but to attend the wedding,” Louisa said. In spite of her feel-ings about Hugh Garrett, Louisa’s job was to observe and comment on New York society, a job she took seriously, not least because in some ways she was still one of them. She was a Dela-field, after all, no matter how meager her bank account.
“Well, I pity the poor girl who marries him,” Ellen said and dropped a magazine on the floor beside her. “Take a look at this.”
“What is it?”
“An article that slanders you,” Ellen said.
Louisa took up the paper and skimmed the article.
“L. Byron? That’s rich, isn’t it? Does he think this drivel is poetry?” she said. “He calls me a sycophant. That’s a big word from such a little mind. And apparently he’s not an art lover.” She tossed the article aside. “No one reads these anarchist magazines anyway.”
She peered into her wardrobe again as if, magically, the perfect pair of shoes would simply ap-pear like Cinderella’s glass slippers.
“Anarchists read them, and they’re a dangerous lot,” Ellen said. She shooed away the ginger cat curled up on cushioned chair, sat down at Louisa’s vanity, and took off her hat. The wind had pulled strands of hair out of her bun, which stuck out like red wires.
“They aren’t a danger to me,” Louisa objected. “Maybe to Rockefeller. There was that attempt on his life recently.” She rose from the floor and shut the door to her wardrobe before the cat could leap in it and get trapped inside as had already happened several times. She didn’t have time before the wedding to go shopping, and she couldn’t bear the humiliation of not looking perfectly put together for Hugh’s wedding. She hoped marriage would rehabilitate Hugh.
“The older or the younger Rockefeller?” Ellen asked, as she unpinned her hair, brushed it out, and then coiled it into a thick red rope, which she neatly fastened on the back of head.
“The younger, which is ridiculous,” Louisa said, taking up the dress she’d laid out on the bed and pulling it over her head.
Ellen came over and buttoned up the back, smoothing the lace overlay so Louisa looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Paris salon. Louisa clasped a pearl necklace around her neck, glad that her mother had held onto it through the days when they struggled so for money. She gazed at herself in the full length mirror and continued, “I can understand why the anarchists hate the elder but Junior is a philanthropist. He’s too busy giving away his father’s money to oppress anyone.”
“Except for the miners,” Ellen said.
“Are you one of them now?” Louisa asked. She knew Ellen had no love lost for the wealthy, but anarchism seemed melodramatic.
“A miner?” Ellen asked.
“An anarchist.”
“I’m not sure,” Ellen said with a shrug.
The books in this series are available to read on Kindle Unlimited.
Universal Link: Amazon UK: Amazon US: Amazon CA: Amazon AU: Barnes and Noble:
Trish MacEnulty is a bestselling novelist. In addition to her historical fiction, she has published novels, a short story collection, and a memoir. A former Professor of English, she currently lives in Florida with her husband, two dogs, and one cat. She writes book reviews and feature articles for the Historical Novel Review. She loves reading, writing, walking with her dogs, streaming historical series, cooking, and dancing.
Website: Twitter: Facebook: Instagram: Book Bub: Amazon Author Page: Goodreads:
Thank you for hosting Trish MacEnulty today, with a fabulous excerpt. xx
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