By Sarah Jio
A sweeping international battle II saga of thwarted love, homicide, and a long-lost painting.
in the summertime of 1942, twenty-one-year-old Anne Calloway, newly engaged, units off to serve within the military Nurse Corps at the Pacific island of Bora-Bora. extra exhilarated via the journey of a life-time than she ever was once through her predictable fiancé, she is attracted to a mysterious soldier named Westry, and their friendship quickly blossoms into colorations as deep because the hibiscus plants local to the island. less than the thatched roof of an deserted seashore bungalow, the 2 percentage a personal world-until they witness a ugly crime, Westry is unexpectedly redeployed, and the idyll vanishes into the winds of war.
A undying tale of putting up with ardour from the writer of Blackberry wintry weather and The Violets of March, The Bungalow chronicles Anne's decision to find the reality concerning the dual losses-of existence, and of love-that have haunted her for seventy years.
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Example text
But our lovemaking had been very real, and I yet treasured the memory. Nor, I told myself, would I forget this one, for I’d never been inside the vast structure that housed the queen’s wardrobe, that which was not of immediate need and kept at Whitehall Palace. I’d adored Elizabeth of England from the first moment I’d seen her, gorgeously gowned, on a white horse, when I was but eleven and she’d come to visit her favorite, the Earl of Leicester, near my home in Warwickshire. The boy led me round the corner into an alcove hidden from the street.
I asked, for a man as important as Edward Arden in this area owed direct allegiance to Leicester. He shook his head and leaned closer. “More like, he’s foregone it. Leicester’s been as mean as that bear on the tunics. He pesters and prosecutes recusants, and Cousin Edward’s spleen is up over it. ” Recusants were those with Catholic loyalties or leanings. They were recorded and fined if they didn’t attend the Protestant church. In the early days of her reign, the queen had commanded that everyone could keep his conscience private, but since several attempted Catholic plots and rebellions, she’d let her advisors convince her to change her policy.
We seemed to have passed from attire to military materials. As we rounded the next corner, my worst fears leaped at me from the shadows. Within a dimly lit grotto of garments, behind a small portable table sat a man simply but finely attired all in black; his amber eyes shone flatly, like an adder’s. It took me but a moment to realize I knew him—that is, I knew who he was. I had glimpsed him at court the time the players had taken me with them. His hunchback form was unmistakable. For months, the whole city had talked of naught but the bloodless battles between this man and the Earl of Essex.