Splinter and thorn. Harsh fruits of a harsh world, but safe enough if treated with caution and respect. At Chemignac, under a sunshade in the rose garden, Isabelle Duval wriggled her feet. She was winding crochet cotton and enjoying the summer scents and the drone of bees making short-haul flights between flower heads. She’d cried off the ceremony, citing her bad legs, knowing it would be too much for her.
Justice had been served. The stone block, cleaned and polished, sat on a brand new plinth, the correct names carved on it for all to see. Chemignac, she imagined, was proud of its achievements, not the least of which was creating two new pairs of lovers.
Laurent and Shauna, a matched pair of science-obsessed wine makers who were taking the world by storm. Not just in wine-making, either. Clos de Chemignac had recently helped sponsor a course run jointly by the University of Bordeaux and Shauna’s old faculty at LJKU. Something to do with grape skins, and isolating antioxidants capable of curing disease. Shauna was a part-time, unpaid, research fellow, balancing both sides of her life with an energy that awed Isabelle.
More quietly, Elisabeth and Mike had come together after that fateful fête de vendange. A relationship that had ‘come out of left field’ as Nico would say. Professor Ladriss was the perfect project for Elisabeth, who, Isabelle had often observed, soothed difficult people like cucumber on burned skin.
Elisabeth had written to Isabelle with the news that she’d found “Yvonne”. Her aunt. Or ‘half-aunt’, to be accurate. That had been two years ago, just as the vines had started to bud. Within a week of that news, Albert had died and Louette had woken within days. A life for a life. That’s how things worked in this place.
Hearing the fluttering of wings under the tower eaves, Isabelle glanced up. Many times in the past, as she drifted off to sleep, she’d feel she was leaving her body and joining the doves in flight. She’d soar up and into the tower room to stare out of the window. A window she herself had blocked, but which melted into glass under the force of her need. She would gaze over the meadows, offering her life for the chance to go back and do things differently. To be a good child and not the jealous hysteric, pulling pictures off the wall.
So real had those flights been, it hadn’t surprised her to hear Laurent and Shauna claiming that they’d seen a vision of a female at the window. Well, this was Chemignac, a place of possibility. The branches above her shook – what was upsetting those birds now? She pushed herself up with her stick, sucking her teeth at the slowness of her legs. Then she laughed. The doves were mating. In this heat? They must be mad.
The ancient thorn tree guarding the chai relinquished a few desiccated leaves. The Gown of Thorns in its wardrobe at the top of the tower slept.
Letter from Natalie
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Natalie Meg Evans New Releases Email
Hello, and thank you for reading A Gown of Thorns. Whenever I plan a new novel, I always ask myself ‘What do I love most?’ Writing about things that inspire passion not only makes the process more fun, but transmits itself to the reader. At least, that’s the idea and I hope you feel I’ve succeeded!
I set A Gown of Thorns in one of my favourite places, rural southwest France. Say ‘Périgord’ or ‘Dordogne valley’ and my mind floods with the region’s signature colours; earthy sienna, russet, amber and dark, brooding greens. A walk through a forest is a trip into an ancient landscape, your footsteps accompanied by red squirrels and other wildlife. Beware wild boar!
During my first trip to the Dordogne, to a tiny place called Rouffignac, I wandered off on my own early one morning. Coming out through the trees, I found myself in a stretch of meadow which ran like a green motorway between wooded slopes. Bursting with wild flowers and birdsong, it held not a trace of modern life. I lay down and dozed, and that’s when I strongly envisaged a man on a powerful white horse galloping towards me . . . and why not? Rouffignac, on which Chemignac is very loosely based, is a cradle of human history. In such places, anything can happen.
To set A Gown of Thorns in a vineyard was irresistible. I love wine, particularly ‘old world’ varieties. I suppose at this point, I ought to add a ‘Drink Aware’ catchphrase and advise you to enjoy your wine sensibly. But we’re all grown up and just as I never fall off my chair clutching a bottle, I am sure you don’t either. A glass of full-bodied red after a long day is simply one of life’s great pleasures and I thoroughly enjoyed my research into viniculture!
The Fortuny ‘Delphos’ gown of this story, the eponymous Gown of Thorns, is inspired by the evening dresses created by Mariano Fortuny and his wife. Rather shocking when they appeared at the dawn of the twentieth century, they were part of the move towards the natural female shape and a nod to classicism. Pleats as fine as the gills of a mushroom gave a Delphos gown its ‘cling’ - but how did Fortuny achieve it? It’s still something of a mystery but may have something to do with thousands of tacking stitches and heated ceramic presses. Research is one of the great unknowns of writing. You start with a thread, having no idea where it will lead you.
The character of Yvonne fell out of the sky into my head. I have always wanted to write in tribute to the brave women and men of SOE, Special Operations Executive, the wartime secret agents who parachuted behind enemy lines. They were a species apart, and many of them paid a terrible price. In some cases, their sacrifice is marked by memorial stones in the quiet hearts of French forests, on hardly-used paths. Visit secret France, and you may stumble upon one yourself.
I’d love it if you’d write a review of A Gown of Thorns. I like to hear your comments and I love it when other readers discover my books by word of mouth. Perhaps you could recommend to friends and family.
Connect with Natalie:
@natmegevans
NatalieMegEvans
www.nataliemegevans.com
Also by Natalie Meg-Evans
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‘The Dress Thief goes way beyond a story of Parisian fashion. It is a story of mystery, romance, friendship and the everyday struggles of life. Right from the start this book will grip hold of you and draw you into Alix’s story and it won’t let you go till the very last page…’ That Thing She Reads
'A delicious treat of a novel. I loved the setting in 1930s Paris - a place of intrigue, exquisite silk frocks, and dangerous secrets. And I was utterly charmed by the story's delectable heroine, as she struggled to make her mark in this seductive but perilous world' Margaret Leroy
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London,1937. A talented young woman travels to Paris with a stranger. The promise of an exciting career as a milline
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Londoner Cora Masson has reinvented herself as Coralie de Lirac, fabricating an aristocratic background to launch herself as a fashionable milliner. When the Nazis invade, the influence of a high-ranking lover, Dietrich, saves her business. But while Coralie retains her position as designer to a style-hungry elite, Paris is approaching its darkest hour.
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A breathtakingly beautiful and evocative tale for readers of The Book Thief, One Lavender Ribbon, and Suite Francaise.
‘Fresh and exuberant and full of authentic detail.’ Rosanna Ley
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN
United Kingdom
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Natalie Meg-Evans 2016
Natalie Meg-Evans has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-78681-011-3
A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress Page 28