So it’s my prayer that—as you read the story—you took the same journey I did in exploring your own heart even as you experienced the stark reality of prejudice in Cullen’s and Maggie’s journeys. We have a long way to go in healing the prejudicial wounds in this country, in this world, and that healing will only come through the powerful presence and name of Jesus Christ and in having a relationship with him. He can change hearts. He can move mountains.
The story also grew out of the many historical accounts I’ve read about marriages of convenience in the 1800s, and how the struggles these couples endured—and the unexpected blessings they encountered—shaped their commitment to each other and what they learned about real love.
History fascinates me, and a lot of true Nashville and Belle Meade Plantation history is woven into this novel. What’s some of the actual history, you ask? The thoroughbreds in the story—Bonnie Scotland, Vandal, and Bourbon Belle—are names of real horses that lived at Belle Meade, and many current day Kentucky Derby winners (including the famed Secretariat) trace their lineage back to Bonnie Scotland and Belle Meade in the 1870s.
The following characters were based on people who actually lived: the Harding family, Uncle Bob Green, Rachel Norris, and Adelicia Acklen. And in all of my novels, I include cameos from characters from previous novels. Did you catch who they were in this novel? If not, you might want to check out A Beauty So Rare and Within My Heart.
I invite you to visit www.BelleMeadePlantation.com for more information about the estate, the people who lived there, and the blood horses whose lineage still dominates the thoroughbred racing industry today.
You can also tour the grounds and mansion of Belle Meade Plantation with me by visiting my website (the Belle Meade Plantation novel page under Books) and by viewing several two-minute video vignettes we filmed on location at Belle Meade.
As I wrote this novel, a secondary character in To Win Her Favor, Savannah Darby, thoroughly captured my heart with her courage and strength in the face of insurmountable struggle. So much so that I wanted to write her story, and have done so, in To Mend a Dream.
To Mend a Dream is part of a novella collection comprised of four Southern love stories. The collection titled Among the Fair Magnolias releases in July 2015. I hope you’ll join me as we revisit the Darby Farm and characters from this novel, and discover whether Savannah’s deep longing for her family home, lost in the war, is ever fulfilled.
Until next time . . .
Through Jesus, our true shelter and strong tower,
Psalm 61:3; Galatians 3:28
Discussion Questions
1. How would you describe Cullen’s and Maggie’s personalities? What are their biggest strengths and weaknesses? And their biggest differences from one another?
2. Were you able to put yourself in Cullen’s place? Did you feel the prejudice and bias he experienced? Were you able to identify with Maggie’s “fall from grace” in a social sense? Which character did you identify with most and why?
3. How did you feel about Gilbert Linden’s “offer” to Cullen? How do you think you would fare with an arranged marriage? Would you trust your parent to choose for you?
4. Maggie was initially very resistant to the idea of marrying Cullen. Not surprising. Discuss her reasons for finally agreeing. Put yourself in her shoes. What would you have done?
5. In chapter 10 Maggie reflects on God’s presence in her life, or perceived lack of it. Have you ever felt as though God were punishing you for a choice you made, as Maggie did?
6. In chapter 11 Cullen reflects on little turning points in life. What are these as he defines them? Have you experienced something similar?
7. In chapter 16 Maggie is thinking about childhood memories and experiences that shaped who she became, who she is. What were those experiences? What childhood experiences have shaped you (for good and bad)?
8. In chapter 17 Cullen talks about hardships in his life. What were some of the hardships in his life and how did they affect him? Why do you think God allows hardships in our lives?
9. This novel delves into the issues of prejudice in the nineteenth century. Do you believe the same issues exist today? Which issues? Cullen shares with Maggie that people are rarely what they appear to be (from outward appearance). Do you agree or disagree?
10. Mr. Linden told Maggie that through the years he’s had to “let go of her” in a sense. Discuss that conversation that occurs at the beginning of chapter 19.
11. In chapter 33 Cullen reflects on vengeance and what it can cost a person. Did you agree with the actions he took toward Stephen Drake? Do you think he should have done more? Less? What would you do if faced with the same challenge of protecting those you love?
12. In chapter 38, Maggie wonders at all the events that led to her and Cullen being together. What is your opinion of God’s orchestration in peoples’ lives? Do you believe in coincidences? Is there an incident in your life that you’re convinced had divine intervention?
13. In chapter 41 Ethan and Cullen are discussing life choices on the front porch. Read Romans 7:14–25 and discuss the similarities between Ethan’s “excuses” for sinning and what Paul says. Do you relate to the same struggle? How?
14. Kizzy is a character Tamera quickly fell in love with as the story unfolded. What are your thoughts about Kizzy? Were you familiar with horse racing in the nineteenth century and how all the jockeys were young black boys? Would you allow your young daughter to ride in a race like Kizzy did?
15. Do you have a favorite scene? What is it about that scene you liked best?
Would you be willing to send Tamera a picture of your book club? She’d love to feature you on her Facebook page. Send the picture to [email protected] with your name(s), your group’s name, and the city where you’re located. Be sure to hold up your books!
Acknowledgments
Over the years many people have supported and influenced my writing. My family (Joe, Kelsey, and Kurt) have always been at the top of the list. Closely following are my parents. Mom went home in 2009, but there are days when I’m certain I can still hear her cheering me on, a part of that “great cloud of witnesses” the writer of Hebrews tells us about. Dad continues to be such an encouragement to me, too, as is his sweet wife, Esta.
My agent, Natasha Kern, manages the business side of my writing career with such grace and integrity. I wouldn’t want to walk this road without her.
I’m grateful to my team at HarperCollins Christian Publishing (Zondervan/Thomas Nelson) for partnering with me in this writing endeavor. It truly takes a team to write a book, and I’ve been blessed to work with some fabulous people in this industry who have graciously shared not only their expertise and talent, but their lives as well. Special thanks to Daisy, Ami, L.B., Katie, Jodi, and Becky. I appreciate my entire HCCP team.
Thanks also to numerous friends who have lightened my load and carried me in prayer during the writing process. Thank you to Lea Sullivan (and her father, Robbie) for sharing her story about finding a little puppy in a five-gallon bucket and naming it so appropriately.
Thanks to Carl and Heather Cartee for naming your four sons so creatively and for letting me borrow their names (Oak, Ezra, Ike, and Abe) for Maggie’s older brothers.
Author and friend Deborah Raney, my writing critique partner for twelve years and counting, is my first reader and lends such insight to my first draft. The ladies of Coeur d’Alene are truly the sisters I’ve always wanted but never had. Our July retreats are a highlight of my year, and a glimpse of heaven.
The folks at Belle Meade Plantation (Alton Kelley, Jenny Lamb, John Lamb, and Joanne Hostettler-Floyd, and so many others) always issue me such a warm welcome, and I’m forever grateful to them for allowing me access not only to the mansion and grounds but to the Harding family’s letters and personal histories, as well as those of the former slaves who lived and worked at the plantation both before and after the Civil War.
Thank you to you, the reader. I spen
d much of my time in the nineteenth century with characters who are as real to me (sometimes more so) as real people. So it’s a magical thing when—after these characters have inhabited my heart for so long—a book is finally published, and I hear from you saying that you love them the same. You make my joy in writing complete.
My prayer is that, as you read, you’ll take a step closer to Christ. Because truly, it’s all about him.
Aunt Issy’s
LEMON COOKIES
COOKIE INGREDIENTS
4-¼ cups unsifted all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. cream of tartar
1 tsp. salt
1 cup (½ lb.) butter, softened
1 cup confectioners’ sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 cup oil
1 tsp. lemon extract
1 tsp. grated lemon peel
ICING INGREDIENTS
3-½ cups confectioners’ sugar
7 Tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
COOKIE DIRECTIONS
In mixing bowl combine flour, baking soda, cream of tartar, and salt. Set aside. In larger mixing bowl, beat softened butter and both sugars on medium until well blended. Beat in eggs, one at a time, until dough is light and fluffy. Add oil, lemon extract, and lemon peel. Beat until well mixed. Gradually add dry ingredients to creamed mixture and beat until well blended. Wrap and chill for several hours.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Grease cookie sheets or line pans with parchment paper. Divide dough into thirds. Work one part at a time and refrigerate the rest. Roll a heaping teaspoon of dough into a ball and place on baking sheet. Flatten into a 2-inch circle with the bottom of a glass dipped in granulated sugar.
Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly golden at the edges (careful not to overbake). Let stand on baking sheet for 2–3 minutes before removing. Makes 7 dozen rich and crisp old-fashioned lemon cookies.
ICING DIRECTIONS
Combine sugar and lemon juice to make a stiff paste. Set bowl over a pan of hot water to warm icing to spreading consistency. Keep the pot over low heat while frosting the cookies, as the paste will stiffen as it cools.
Special thanks to Katie Rawls and her Aunt Issy for sharing this treasured family recipe.
AN EXCERPT FROM
To Whisper Her Name
PROLOGUE
August 17, 1863
In the hills surrounding the Union-occupied city of Nashville . . . First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper peered through the stand of bristled pines, his presence cloaked by dusk, his Winchester cocked and ready. Beads of sweat trailed his forehead and the curve of his eye, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. His focus was trained on the Negro hunched over the fire and what he was certain—if his last hour of observation proved true—the slave had hidden just over the ridge.
Best he could tell, the man hadn’t spied him, else he wouldn’t be going about making supper like he was. Beans and pork with biscuits and coffee, if Ridley’s sense of smell proved right. Real coffee. Not that foul-tasting brew the Rebs scalded over an open flame until it was sludge, then drank by the gallons.
Rebs. His brothers, in a way, every last one of them. Two of them the blood kind. And yet, the enemy. He hoped Petey and Alfred were all right, wherever they were.
A northerly breeze marked evening’s descent, but the air’s movement did little to ease the sweltering heat and humidity. Someone raised in the thickness of South Carolina summers should be accustomed to this by now, but the wool of the Federal uniform wore heavy, more so these days than when he’d first enlisted.
Yet he knew he’d done the right thing in choosing the side he had. No matter what others said or did. Or accused him of.
Ridley felt a pang. Not from hunger so much, though he could eat if food was set before him. This pang went much deeper and hurt worse than anything he could remember. God, if you’re listening, if you’re still watching us from where you are . . . I hate this war. Hated what this “brief conflict”—as President Lincoln had called it at the outset—was doing to him and everyone else over two bloody years later.
And especially what it called for him to do tonight. “At any cost,” his commander had said, his instruction leaving no question.
Jaw rigid, Ridley reached into his pocket and pulled out the seashell, the one he’d picked up on his last walk along the beach near home before he’d left to join the 167th Pennsylvania Regiment to fight for the Federal Army. The scallop shell was a tiny thing, hardly bigger than a coin, and the inside fit smoothly against his thumb. With his forefinger, he traced the familiar ridges along the back and glanced skyward where a vast sea of purple slowly ebbed to black.
It was so peaceful, the night canopy, the stars popping out one by one like a million fireflies flitting right in place. Looking up, a man wouldn’t even know a war was being waged.
When his commanding officer had called for a volunteer for the scouting mission, the man hadn’t waited for hands to go up but had looked directly at Ridley, his expression daring argument. Ridley had given none. He’d simply listened to the orders and set out at first light, nearly three days ago now. Ridley knew the commander held nothing personal against him. The man had been supportive in every way.
It was Ridley’s own temper and his “friendly” disagreement with a fellow officer—a loud-mouthed lieutenant from Philadelphia who hated “every one of them good for nothin’, ignorant Southerners”—that had landed him where he was tonight. The fool had all but accused him of spying for the Confederacy. Their commander had quashed the rumor, but the seed of doubt had been sown. And this was the commander’s way of allowing Ridley to earn back his fellow officers’ trust again, which was imperative.
Ridley wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat, careful not to make a noise. He’d tethered his horse a good ways back and had come in on foot.
He didn’t know the hills surrounding Nashville any better than the rest of his unit, but he did know this kind of terrain, how to hunt and move about in the woods. And how to stay hidden. The woods were so dense in places, the pines grown so thick together, a man could get lost out here if he didn’t know how to tell his way.
They’d gotten wind of Rebels patrolling the outlying areas—rogue sentries who considered themselves the law of the land—and his bet was they were searching for what he’d just found. So far, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them. But he could imagine well enough what they’d do to a Union soldier found on his lonesome—especially an officer and “one of their own kind” to boot—so he was eager to get this thing done.
Gripping his Winchester, Ridley stepped from the tree cover, still some thirty feet from the Negro. He closed the distance—twenty-five feet, twenty—the cushion of pine needles muffling his approach. Fifteen, ten . . . But the man just kept puttering away, stirring the coffee, then the beans, then—
Ridley paused mid-step. Either the Negro was deaf . . . or was already wise to his presence. Wagering the latter, Ridley brought his rifle up and scanned his surroundings, looking for anyone hidden in the trees or for a gun barrel conveniently trained at the center of his chest. It was too late to retreat, but withdrawal of any kind had never been in his nature, as that cocksure, pretentious little—he caught himself—lieutenant from Philadelphia had found out well enough.
He tried for a casual yet not too pleasant tone. “Evening, friend . . .”
The man’s head came up. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, which was still a good foot shorter than Ridley. He was thicker about the middle, older than Ridley too. In his thirties maybe, or closer to forty, it was hard to tell. The Negro was broad shouldered, and judging by the thickness of his hands and forearms, Ridley guessed that years of hard labor had layered a strap of muscle beneath that slight paunch. He hoped it wouldn’t give the slave a false sense of courage.
“Evenin’,” the man answered, glancing at the stripes on Ridley’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, sir.”
&
nbsp; Not a trace of surprise registered in his voice, which went a ways in confirming Ridley’s silent wager. The man’s knowledge of military rank was also telling.
The Negro’s focus shifted decidedly to the Winchester, then back again, and Ridley couldn’t decide if it was resignation he read in the man’s eyes or disappointment. Or maybe both.
Ridley surveyed the camp. Neat, orderly. Everything packed. Everything but the food. Like the man was getting ready to move out. Only—Ridley looked closer—not one cup but two resting on a rock by the fire. He focused on the slave and read awareness in the man’s eyes. “How long have you known I was watching?”
The Negro bit his lower lip, causing the fullness of his graying beard to bunch on his chin. “’Bout the time the coffee came back to boilin’ sir.”
“You heard me?” Ridley asked, knowing that was impossible. He hadn’t made a sound. He was sure of it.
The man shook his head, looking at him with eyes so deep and dark a brown they appeared almost liquid. “More like . . . I felt you, sir.”
A prickle skittered up Ridley’s spine. Part of him wanted to question the man, see if he had what some called “second sight,” like Ridley’ s great-grandmother’d had, but the wiser part of him knew better than to inquire. He had a job to do, one he couldn’t afford to fail at. Not with his loyalty to the Union being called into question by some. “I take it you know what I’m here for.”
There it was again, that look. Definitely one of resignation this time.
“I reckon I do, sir. It’s what all them others been lookin’ for too.” The slave shook his head. “How’d you find me?”
Only then did Ridley allow a hint of a smile. “I don’t know that I can say exactly. We got rumor of horses being hidden in these hills. I volunteered, you might say, and then just started out. I followed where my senses told me to go. Where I would’ve gone if I was hiding horses.”
To Win Her Favor Page 41