I'm really excited to bring The Velvet Spy into the world. Some fans of the Ginger Gold Mysteries have been following along on Ginger's WW1 espionage experiences through her Journal entries. These little unedited vignettes were for the benefit of my newsletter subscribers, and when I started, I hadn't envisioned that one day I'd have enough story for two volumes!
The journal entries have now been expanded, edited with new entries included to create an emotional, full story experience. Here is the first one for your enjoyment!
July 31st, 1912
How fabulous that I found this journal today, tucked away at the bottom of my wardrobe! Good old Pippins—our English butler in London—gave it to me years ago as a parting gift when Father whisked me off to America so he could marry Sally. Pips said it was for me to record my new adventures.
I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t pen a single word until today. I think I was simply too sad back then. But no matter—I’m writing now, and this will be the first of many entries, I hope. I imagine myself as an old woman, sitting by the fire, thumbing through these pages as they bring back cherished memories of a long and adventure-filled life.
This old leather-bound journal takes me right back to that emotional time. I cried enough tears to fill an ocean and remember telling Father, dramatically, that I would surely cause a flood to rival Noah’s. At eight years old, I was well-versed in my biblical studies, though in hindsight, I might have bordered on heresy with my little tantrum.
The first week of my so-called “adventure” was spent aboard a big steamship, feeling wretchedly sick to my stomach the whole way. There were far too many embarrassing episodes involving a bucket and Father holding back my long hair so I wouldn’t soil it with vomit. I was convinced I was being punished for some unknown offense.
Hartigan House—though large and sometimes lonely—was my home. And Pips, dear Pips, was my good friend. He often entertained me with games of I Spy or Noughts and Crosses.
“Very good, Little Miss,” he’d say with a twinkle in his blue eyes when I won, which I did often. Looking back, I suspect Pips wasn’t above letting me win, even when I hadn’t earned it.
Father claimed he’d uprooted us because I needed a mother, though I think he simply wanted a wife. Sally—a woman half his age—turned out to be a sufficient spouse in the end, but I could never bring myself to call her “Mother.”
Well, Pips, you’d be glad to know things turned out all right here in America. My childhood was pleasant—school, new friends, and learning to ride horses and shoot guns, a pastime that’s very popular here, even beyond the elite. I went to an excellent school, and I focused on studying modern languages and science. Boston is a beautiful city, and much of it reminds me of England.
Oh, and I suppose I should mention that Father and Sally produced a sister for me—Louisa. She’s dark-haired, with a sweet teardrop-shaped face, and the very image of Sally. I don’t hold that against her, though. She’s as spoiled as they come, with Sally pandering to her every whim and Father far less strict with her than he ever was with me. With ten years between us, we don’t have much in common, but I adore her all the same.
This afternoon was spent preparing for the evening’s activities. Father was hosting a soirée in honor of my nineteenth birthday, and I planned to enjoy a large slice of Mrs. Bakker’s Dutch Dark Chocolate Cake. Her cakes are legendary—so rich and moist they melt in your mouth like cocoa-laced ecstasy. My mouth waters just thinking about them.
Father adores throwing soirées—or as in this case, “dinner parties,” as the Americans call them. I often feel caught between two cultures. Outside this Beacon Hill brownstone, I’m American, but inside, I cling to my English roots. Father and I still enjoy traditional tea with scones and clotted cream, served properly, the English way. Our conversations often turn to politics—both here and across the Atlantic. Some of the news is deeply worrisome, but I won’t dwell on that tonight.
“Not too tight,” I told my maid Molly as she tightened the straps on my corset. The columnar corset forced me to stand straight and tall, though I silently thanked the heavens that those horrid S-bend corsets had gone out of fashion. It’s a wonder we aren’t all deformed!
Molly helped me into a gown of shiny emerald silk, with an open neckline and slender sleeves that ended at my elbows. I spun in front of the long mirror, admiring the fitted gown with its beautifully contrasting lace ruffle.
“The color brings out your eyes, Miss Hartigan,” Molly said as she pinned my red hair into an elegant coiffure, a delicate wreath of ribbon encircling the style.
Molly held up a hand mirror. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, miss.”
“Thank you, Molly,” I said, smiling. “I’m excited for the evening, though I do wish Father hadn’t assigned me a date.”
An English gentleman would be joining the festivities, he’d announced. Apparently, the gentleman is the son of a family friend—a baron, no less. I worry my American friends might find his title pompous. No matter. After tonight, I doubt I’ll see him again.
What did Father say his name was? Right—Daniel, Lord Gold.