I am privileged to join the other book bloggers on the blog tour for The Whispering House and have an extract of the book to share with you.
A dead sister, a dark and rambling house, the mystery of a lost painting: the spellbinding new novel from Elizabeth Brooks, for fans of Rebecca.
SYNOPSIS:
Freya Lyell is struggling to move on from her sister Stella’s suicide five years ago.
Visiting the bewitching Byrne Hall, only a few miles from the scene of the tragedy, she discovers a portrait of Stella – a portrait she had no idea existed, in a house Stella never set foot in. Or so she thought.
Driven to find out more about her sister’s secrets, Freya is drawn into the world of Byrne Hall and its owners: charismatic artist Cory and his sinister, watchful mother.
But as Freya’s relationship with Cory crosses the line into obsession, the darkness behind the locked doors of Byrne Hall threatens to spill out.
EXTRACT:
This extract is from the beginning of the novel, when Freya sees the idyllic Byrne Hall for the first time. Try as she might, she can’t stop thinking about her sister, who died nearby, several years before.
I’d never have set eyes on the place if my cousin hadn’t held his wedding reception in the grounds. His fiancée had grown up locally, and once she’d discovered it was possible to hire a marquee in the gardens at Byrne Hall, nothing else would do. You can’t blame her. Objectively speaking, it was an idyllic spot for a wedding reception: all those lush, towering trees, and the garden in full-scented flower, and the sea spread out below the cliffs like a sheet of hammered gold. If I were the kind of woman who fantasised about getting married, I’d want a wedding like that.
~
‘You look lovely,’ my father said, studying our reflections in the pond. ‘A real picture.’
‘A picture of what, though?’ I was doing my best to make light of the whole thing. ‘A picture of misery?’
But Dad wasn’t going to fall in with my tone. ‘You look very nice,’ he insisted gravely.
One of the bride’s hearty uncles had told me off for having a long face – that was all. It wasn’t a big deal. ‘Cheer up, love,’ he’d said, as we were queuing for drinks. ‘You’re meant to be a bridesmaid, not an undertaker’s mute.’
I don’t think he was trying to be horrible. He clapped me on the shoulder as he said it, and handed me a glass of prosecco, but Dad had overheard and steered me away, and we’d ended up here, by the pond. It wasn’t the nicest part of the garden, which is probably why it was deserted. The water flickered with midges and smelled of mud, and there was a stone fountain in the middle – a fat boy blowing on a conch shell – that had gone all black and mossy, and looked as if it hadn’t functioned in years.
‘Bastard,’ said my father, and I laughed despite everything, because he wasn’t one for profanities, not even mild ones. He was too scholarly sounding and well-spoken to carry it off. I took his arm and gave it a squeeze, but he still wouldn’t smile, so I decided to stop trying and accept that this day was a write-off as far as we two were concerned. I watched our silhouettes waver over the water, brownish-green against the glaring sky. My dress, an A-line, scoop-neck, floor-length, chiffon bridesmaid’s gown in ‘Pale Sage’, had looked so airy in the bridal catalogue, but I wasn’t keen on the real thing. Not on me, anyway. It seemed heavier now than it had this morning, and the skirt was damp and wilting round my legs.
‘This ought to be a nice day,’ I said. ‘It’s good to be out of London for a while.’
I didn’t mean to sound irritable, but how often did Dad and I get the chance to step out of our ordinary lives? Here we were in a garden by the sea, tipsy on wine and sunshine and flowers in bloom, and all we could think about was my dead sister. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d been able to discuss her in a gentle way – I miss her; she’d have loved it here; imagine if she’d been a bridesmaid too, wouldn’t we have looked a pair? – but it wasn’t possible to think, let alone talk, about my sister in that way.
I pressed Dad’s arm. ‘Stop worrying,’ I said, addressing our watery shadows. ‘That Uncle Whatever-His-Name-Is: he probably doesn’t have a clue who we are. I bet he’s never even heard of Stella.’
There. I’d said her name out loud. It dropped through the space between us, with a whistle and a thunk, and we both flinched. I hated how that always happened. Sometimes I’d say her name accidentally-on-purpose, in the middle of a conversation, just to make us both hear it. One day, I thought, we’d get used to it, and be able to talk about her in a free and easy way, and she would belong to us again. I would be able to say ‘Stella’ and move lightly on, instead of feeling like I’d drawn a curtain across the sun.
~
This sounds great! I cannot wait to read and review. My review will be up in the coming month. But for now why don't you check out the other blogger's reviews.
AUTHOR:
Elizabeth Brooks writes:
“I began with the idea of two sisters whose stories echo one another’s - they fall in love with the same place, the same man, the same dream of an idyllic bohemian life - but the first sister dies and the second survives.
As the middle one of three sisters, I am fascinated by sibling relationships. My older sister, Rachel, committed suicide when she was 28. The circumstances were nothing like those described in The Whispering House, but obviously there were aspects of that experience that I drew on.
I am also very drawn to books about big, creepy houses…the genesis of Byrne Hall was Greenway, Agatha Christie’s house near Dartmouth in Devon”
Elizabeth Brooks grew up in Chester, and read Classics at Cambridge.
Her debut novel CALL OF THE CURLEW was shortlisted for the Waverton Good Reads award. The setting for her new novel, THE WHISPERING HOUSE, is a manor house named Byrne Hall and is inspired by the home of Agatha Christie. It is full of dark corners and old portraits that carry untold stories of their subjects.
Elizabeth Brooks lives on the Isle of Man with her husband and children.