PRAISE FOR
At the Corner of King Street
“All in all I really enjoyed this novel. . . . I look forward to reading past and future novels of Mary Ellen Taylor and her tales of Alexandria.”
—Chick Lit Plus
“Talented Southern author Mary Ellen Taylor sets her collection of novels in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. . . . Readers will be totally mesmerized by this beautifully written book.”
—Single Titles
“If you enjoy Southern fiction and a good story with deep family history with an air of mystery and even some black magic thrown in, you should definitely read At the Corner of King Street.”
—Southern Girl Reads
Sweet Expectations
“When Daisy McCrae’s already semi-scrambled life abruptly turns even more upside down, it leads to deeper soul-searching, the exploration of family ties, and a quest for the ultimate meaning of her purpose and direction. . . . With Daisy’s narration alternating with her sister Rachel’s, the story unfurls at a slow yet steady pace, nicely layering characters, subplots, and backstory.”
—Booklist
“Sweet and totally satisfying . . . Absorbing characters, a hint of mystery, and touching self-discovery elevate this novel above many others in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] charming and very engaging story about the nature of family and the meaning of love, all set in the most delightful bakery one could ever imagine. The story is full of sugar and spice and is highly recommended for anyone looking for a pleasant and well-written novel.”
—Seattle PI
The Union Street Bakery
“Like a good recipe, the new novel The Union Street Bakery has a little bit of everything that makes a satisfying experience. . . . Taylor pairs the past with the present to please history fans as well as those who like tales of family secrets, reinvention, and renewal. . . . Taylor, who lives in Virginia, conveys the essence of the community, of regular shop patrons and history literally around every corner in centuries-old buildings. . . . Taylor serves up a great mix of vivid setting, history, drama, and everyday life in The Union Street Bakery. Here’s hoping she writes more like it.”
—The Herald-Sun
“A wonderful story about sisters, family, and the things that matter most. I loved this beautifully written journey of self-discovery.”
—Wendy Wax, national bestselling author of The House on Mermaid Point
“Interesting and intriguing . . . [A] fast-paced story of sisters, family, what really matters, betrayal, faith, healing, and life in general. If you enjoy historical facts, heritage, adoption, family, and love, you will enjoy The Union Street Bakery. . . . [A] wonderful story!”
—My Book Addiction Reviews
“An excellent job of showing how important a family can be and who your real family is. Ms. Taylor . . . makes you care not only about Daisy but about all the family and friends involved. . . . Get a copy and settle in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea or coffee.”
—Long and Short Reviews
“Readers will love Daisy and the McCrae family and be engrossed in both the historical and the present puzzles Daisy and her family must solve. Taylor never takes the simple plot path or gives in to melodrama. . . . Highly recommended for anyone who loves family stories with intelligence and heart.”
—Blogcritics
“I found myself so caught up in this family’s lives and turning the pages late into the night. You will not be able to put this book down until you turn the very last page. . . . I can’t wait to read more by Ms. Taylor.”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley titles by Mary Ellen Taylor
THE UNION STREET BAKERY
SWEET EXPECTATIONS
AT THE CORNER OF KING STREET
THE VIEW FROM PRINCE STREET
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2016 by Mary Burton.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18339-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Taylor, Mary Ellen, 1961–
The view from Prince Street / Mary Ellen Taylor.—Berkley trade paperback edition.
pages ; cm.—(Alexandria series)
ISBN 978-0-425-27826-0 (paperback)
1. Life change events—Fiction. 2. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.A95943V54 2016
813'.6—dc23
2015028677
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / January 2016
Cover illustration by Alan Ayers.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.
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Contents
Praise for Mary Ellen Taylor
Berkley titles by Mary Ellen Taylor
Title Page
Copyright
Family Tree
November 5, 1751
Chapter One
November 6, 1751
Chapter Two
November 10, 1751
Chapter Three
November 16, 1751
Chapter Four
November 19, 1751
Chapter Five
January 2, 1752
Chapter Six
July 6, 1753
Chapter Seven
August 1, 1753
Chapter Eight
September 1, 1753
Chapter Nine
October 4, 1753
Chapter Ten
January 12, 1754
Chapter Eleven
April 6, 1754
Chapter Twelve
May 10, 1754
Chapter Thirteen
December 17, 1758
Chapter Fourteen
June 17, 1759
Chapter Fifteen
March 17, 1769
Chapter Sixteen
March 30, 1769
Chapter Seventeen
July 12, 1769
Chapter Eighteen
December 13, 1769
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
July 3, 1782
Chapter Twenty-one
March 2, 1783
Chapter Twenty-two
April 1, 1783
Chapter Twenty-three
April 15, 1783
Chapter Twenty-four
July 14, 1800
Chapter Twenty-five
Recipes
Readers Guide
November 5, 1751
Dearest Mother,
The witch’s voice rode in on a frigid wind, heavy with the promise of snow, and tugged me from a restless sleep. Fresh on the heels of her witchcraft trial, I feared the beautiful widowed sorceress had arrived to curse me. I glanced to Mr. McDonald only to find rumpled sheets and a fading crease in his pillow.
Moonlight streamed through the unlatched front door and drew me from my bed and across the one-room cottage, past the glowing embers of the hearth. My aching heart momentarily forgotten, I peered into the night and saw the witch standing in the yard. Her wild red hair unbound and her gaunt, pale face illuminated by the heavens. She spoke in hard, desperate tones to Mr. McDonald, who wore work pants and boots pulled on hurriedly under his nightshirt. When I heard a babe’s squawk, I knew she had also brought her infant twin sons, who lay swaddled and tucked in a small cart she must have pulled over five miles of rutted paths from the Alexandria settlement.
As I leaned against the doorjamb, I watched her drop to her knees in front of my husband and beseech him to give her and the babes shelter. “I will do anything to save them,” she said.
They spoke in whispers and for a long moment she did not move before she slowly nodded and rose. When I saw him lean into her and raise his hand as if he wanted to touch her, I shouted, “Witch! The good wives have banished you, Faith, from the settlement!”
Faith didn’t dare look in my direction, but I saw her fingers curl into fists. My husband didn’t meet my gaze as he spoke in a low voice. She nodded again, never looking up. I realized a deal had been struck, and I was too late. The witch had spun her magic. My husband would allow her to stay.
She has cursed him, us, our lost children. Of that, I am sure. And I fear what evil Faith Shire will do now that she lives under our roof.
—P
Chapter One
Rae McDonald
MONDAY, AUGUST 15, 9:00 A.M.
The headline glared on the page. Rae McDonald: Matchmaker with a Heart of Stone?
When the reporter first reached out to me and explained she was doing a profile on successful businesswomen, I assumed her focus would center on my doctorate in psychology and my private family practice. The interview began well enough. I discussed my undergraduate work at Georgetown, graduate studies at the University of Virginia, and my thriving family practice. The reporter scribbled notes and appeared interested. Then she mentioned a friend of a friend who was a client of mine. “Not a family practice client,” she said, leaning forward with a grin. “One of your matchmaking clients.”
I am not a matchmaker. There are times when I make suggestions to couples, I explained, but I was not a matchmaker. Then, she detailed my high success rate and shared several glowing quotes from couples that had found happiness because of my marital advice. I supplied more statistics about my family practice, and she listened. Took notes. Nodded. And when she left my home, I assumed the matchmaking was a forgotten diversion.
Rae McDonald: A Matchmaker with a Heart of Stone?
People read the weekly Lifestyle edition of the paper, but also the online version, which had the potential to reach far beyond the limits of Old Town Alexandria to every corner of the world that had access to a computer. Dr. McDonald, who sometimes appears to have a heart of stone, cuts through the emotional chaos of finding love to help her clients discover lasting happiness.
It felt like a tabloid exposé.
Heart of stone.
It didn’t sit well. I wasn’t the Tin Man looking for a heart. A robot. Mr. Spock. In fact, sadness nearly destroyed me when I was sixteen. My older sister had died, and I subsequently made reckless choices that resulted in a pregnancy. I carried a healthy baby boy to term, gave birth, and when he was hours old, laid him in another mother’s arms forever. The loss and pain were crushing. Devastating. And on that day, I realized my very survival depended on suppressing all my feelings.
Heart of stone. Anyone with a heart of stone would never be forced to live with such a choice, because they lacked the capacity to feel. Such are the traits of sociopaths. And my pain had been very real until I exorcised it.
My detachment had served me well. I survived abandonment guilt, and I also thrived academically and professionally. My ability to keep feelings at bay is the reason I can navigate my clients’ emotional maelstroms. Because I remain detached from all their turmoil, my perspective is unencumbered and clear. I can see the forest for the trees.
As I stare out the window at the square, muddy patch of dirt in my backyard, raindrops roll lazily down hand-blown glass. The panes were original to the home, which was built over two hundred fifty years ago. I thought about the couple sitting behind me on the couch. They were here because of the article. They wanted a matchmaker to politely analyze and approve their union. They didn’t need counseling. They wanted a rubber stamp on their rock-solid relationship.
Each had a clipboard, paper, pencil, and the charge to perform a simple exercise. Write your deepest, darkest secret. Fold the paper in half and wait for my instruction.
These two individuals, like many of my clients, were successful in their own right. They were well on their way to enviable careers and shared high IQs, elite educations, drive, and ambition. But as valued as all those traits were on the corporate ladder, they didn’t necessarily translate into thriving marriages.
Today, He was Samuel Morris: mid-thirties, a lawyer on track to be a partner in a Washington, D.C., law firm. He had a passion for great food and intended to have at least three children. She was Dr. Debra Osborne, a surgical resident at Georgetown Hospital who loved hiking, visiting Paris, and skiing. Though she spoke briefly of children, she neglected to check the box regarding children on my questionnaire.
In the first minutes of our initial interview today, they said that as soon as I gave my blessing on their match, they would formally announce their engagement. But this office wasn’t a drive-up window, and I didn’t give out gold stars unless they were earned.
Pencils scribbled, stopped, and scribbled again as I continued to stare out the window at the freshly graded square patch of land in my backyard.
This spot had once been the location of the original McDonald homestead hearth, which had long ago fallen into a tumble of moss-covered rubble, entwined with weeds and strawberry vines. It had stood on the property like a sentry since the Native Americans walked this land.
As legend had it, the stones were collected from the rivers and streams of Scotland to serve as ballast on merchant ships bound for the Virginia Colony. They were then loaded into the hull and placed around cargo so that in the event of a storm, the goods wouldn’t shift, throwing the vessel off balance and sinking it. These stones arrived with the 1749 voyage of the ship Discovery, which also carried two newly married Scots, Patience and Michael McDonald. They’d fled Scotland and a cholera epidemic to start afresh and tame the wild Virginia woods into profitable farmland.
According to my mother, Discovery’s captain had been ready to dump the stones into the deep harbor at Hunting Creek and fill his hull with hogsheads of tobacco for the return voyage when my ancestor, never one to waste, offered to transport the stones ashore. The captain, anxious to anchor and see his wife, agreed. Michael McDonald and his wife offloaded the stones into a cart on shore and built the hearth that would be the centerpiece of their cottage. Those stones warmed two generations of McDonalds before lightning struck the hearth
in 1783, sending loose cinders from it onto the cottage’s thatched roof. Fire broke out and within minutes chewed through the roof, the rafters, and the home’s contents.
The blackened stones were forgotten, and there they lay for over two centuries. Someone in each generation suggested that the stones be dismantled and hauled away, but there was always an elder at the ready to prevent their removal. The stones, the old ones said, warded off evil and protected the family. How many times had crops been spared from gale-force winds? When the Union troops marched through Virginia, why was the McDonald house left untouched? The stones protected the house and the land. But perhaps not its inhabitants.
I didn’t believe in talismans or curses, but if I did, I’d note that the stones’ power was bogus. The McDonald farm, which had been reported to cover a thousand acres at one time, had dwindled to a one-acre lot. Generations of McDonalds died young, including my sister. And my son was gone. Complete bunk.
After my mother’s passing two years ago, the stone sentry grew more and more unsightly and became an embarrassing reminder of superstition and outdated fears.
My contractor had finally cleared the land six weeks ago, but the angry patch of red clay still looked startlingly out of place each time I glimpsed at it. I still expected to see the stones. My gut was beginning to tell me I had made a grave mistake.
The near-monsoon rains prevented any new construction, and with each passing day, the bare soil looked more and more like a sunken grave. Whatever relief or sense of accomplishment I might have anticipated was sorely missing.
Turning from the window, I studied the couple. They each sat rigid, their hands gripping their papers. Body language spoke volumes. “Have you finished?”
Debra tugged her black skirt, sitting a little taller. She was petite, with dark brown hair and eyes that carried an intensity that was difficult to miss. She was the type who studied hard, made good grades, and played by the rules. “I’m not sure of the purpose of this exercise.”
Samuel raised a soft uncallused hand to his mouth and coughed. “Doesn’t really make sense. You’ve heard us talk for an hour today. Surely you must see we’re nearly perfect for each other.”
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