Excerpt: Mrs. Walford by Brenda Tyedmers
Mrs. Walford is a story of found family, love delayed, and the power of friendship in turbulent times.
Synopsis
In June of 1887, Sadie Walford, the wife of a prominent Brooklyn, New York, ship broker and mother of two, registers at the Queen Hotel in Halifax, Nova Scotia, using a false name. Two weeks later she is buried in the local cemetery. Or is she?
Without family or friends, health or hope, Sadie arrives already contemplating a drastic next step. But she hasn't counted on the likes of Eleanor, the hotel's no-nonsense bookkeeper, or Maggie, the annoyingly helpful head maid, who both have other ideas.
A chance encounter with a thief sets events in motion, and Sadie will be forced to choose: How far is she willing to go to conceal her past, preserve her freedom, and claim the future she desires?
Inspired by actual events, this epistolary tale of heartbreak, healing, and hope unfolds through the journal entries, letters, recollections and accounts of women and girls. Set in Halifax, Manhattan, and on Long Island during the Gilded Age, Mrs. Walford is a story of found family, love delayed, and the power of friendship in turbulent times.
***Mrs. Walford is available on Amazon.ca in Kindle, Paperback, and Hardcover editions.
October 20, 1920
Beverley Road, Brooklyn, New York
I lurked beneath the oak, watching the two handsome buildings across the road and wilting in the unexpected heat. I noted their three storeys, broad verandas and fresh paint, and the gleaming Hudson parked in between, and mused—not for the first time—how very well Alice Williams had done for herself.
Finally, the door of the larger boarding house opened, and black-clad guests streamed forth, donning hats, clapping shoulders, opening mourning parasols, and drifting down the sidewalk. At length, the flow trickled to a stop, and a few minutes later I emerged from the tree's shadow, also wearing black.
I took one step into Beverley Road, but froze, heart pounding, when a last straggler appeared at the door. Not a guest: family. My eyes tracked her figure until she rounded the corner.
A motorcar roared by, horn blaring, which jolted me back to the present and onto the curb. My flailing hand sought the tree behind me and I clung to the rough bark, gasping, swiping sudden tears from my cheeks and mouth. After several moments I righted myself, and, checking left and right this time, crossed the street. I mounted the stairs of the larger house, my knees wobbling, my satchel growing heavier with every step. Could I do this? Would I see it through at last?
I knocked, and was admitted by a brisk and efficient Miss Martine. Yes, I said, I am inquiring about a room, and yes, I have boarded with Mrs. Williams in the past—the distant past. No, I would not care to give my name, and yes, I would prefer to speak to the owner. Miss Martine ushered me into a large parlour, shooed away the two servants with their tea carts, and withdrew. I perched on a settee, my knees creaking on the way down.
Tasteful flower arrangements and iridescent Favrile vases—themselves mimicking exotic blooms—were placed about the room, which was still dotted with cups and saucers from the reception. The scent of spiced shortbread lingered in the air. My eyes latched onto the display of silver-framed photographs and I rose, stepping nearer the silk-covered table to better absorb the fading images: blonde schoolgirls, here demure in braids, there frolicking and carefree at the beach; young women with tennis rackets, on bicycles, in amateur theatricals, at costume parties; two blushing in bridal finery; one bleak in widow's weeds.
The approaching clip of agitated heels was softened by thick carpeting. I straightened and took a quavering breath, steeling myself for whatever was to come.
“I'm sorry,” Alice's silvery voice addressed my back, “but you'll have to apply on another day. We've had a death—”
I turned from the table and took in the elegant woman before me: a touch shorter, a little thicker than I remembered, the still-handsome face sagging under the weight of her grief. I observed the moment of recognition, her intake of breath, her open-mouthed confusion, but realized I was hoping for something more. Then, there it was, for the smallest shard of a moment: joy. Followed, as expected, by a kaleidoscope of other, less pleasant emotions.
“Sadie?” Fear was not the least of them.
“Hello, Alice.” Was that as gentle, as benign, as I'd intended?
Alice shook her head, stunned. “You're ... alive?”
“As you see,” I said, presenting my form with an illusionist's hand.
Alice stared, mouth agape; her eyes darted toward the street and back to me, no doubt calculating how much longer we had. “But when you left us, left your family in President Street,” she shook her head, “you—”
“I was not at my best,” I conceded. “Nor were you.” Understatements both. She had the grace to blush.
“But the—incident, Sadie. In Halifax.” That silvery voice foundered. “How?”
How, indeed. I smiled faintly, and reached deep into my satchel.
About the Author
Having recently retired from a career spanning environmental consulting, learning and development, and change management, Brenda Tyedmers is embracing life as an author of historical fiction. A produced playwright, acrylic artist, avid gardener, and community theatre set designer, Brenda likes, and writes, fiction that embeds mystery and romance. She's a sucker for a happy ending and literally finds story ideas in the dirt.
Book Details
Publication date : Oct. 11 2025
Language : English
Print length : 410 pages
ISBN-10 : 1069545716
ISBN-13 : 978-1069545718