Jennifer Chiaverini:An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler
- Pasta blanda 2009, ISBN: 9780743260183
Pasta dura
Definitions. Very Good. 5.08 x 0.79 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 326 pages. <br>Intriguing and captivating.-Celia Rees, author of Witch Child WRONGED. HANGED. ALIVE? (AND TRUE!)… Más…
Definitions. Very Good. 5.08 x 0.79 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 326 pages. <br>Intriguing and captivating.-Celia Rees, author of Witch Child WRONGED. HANGED. ALIVE? (AND TRUE!) Anne can't move a muscle, can't open her eyes, can't scream. She lies immobile in the darkness, unsure if she'd dead, terrified she's buried alive , haunted by her final memory-of being hanged. A maidservant fals ely accused of infanticide in 1650 England and sent to the scaffo ld, Anne Green is trapped with her racing thoughts, her burning n eed to revisit the events-and the man-that led her to the gallows . Meanwhile, a shy 18-year-old medical student attends his first dissection and notices something strange as the doctors prepare their tools . . . Did her eyelids just flutter? Could this corpse be alive? Beautifully written, impossible to put down, and meti culously researched, Newes from the Dead is based on the true sto ry of the real Anne Green, a servant who survived a hanging to aw aken on the dissection table. Newes from the Dead concludes with scans of the original 1651 document that recounts this chilling m edical phenomenon. Newes from the Dead is a 2009 Bank Street - B est Children's Book of the Year. Editorial Reviews From School Library Journal Grade 8 Up--A grabber of a premise: It's England, 1650, and as the dissection of an ill-fated 22-year-old servant woman newly unstrung from the gallows begins, the participants de tect the cadaver's eyes flickering. Hooper alternates perspective from Anne (the not-actually-dead corpse), who flashes back to ex plain how she ended up there, to that of a young intellectual att endee of the dissection, a sympathetic stutterer named Robert. An ne's story, rife with gruesome scenes of Puritan-era life (e.g., a rat-infested prison, a bloody miscarriage in a dirty privy) tru mps Robert's drier account of the discourse among various disting uished intellectuals of the day, unless readers are well versed i n the period's historical details (e.g., when Christopher Wren is teased for his poor poetry). The resulting back-and-forth of the two narrators makes for a poorly paced read, but the pervasive s ense of injustice and indignity is vibrant enough to buoy readers through to the unexpectedly positive ending. Loosely based on a true story--hence the title, taken from broadsides published at t he time--with a decidedly unromantic view of the era, this is a m ust-read for teens learning about Cromwell and the Puritan revolu tion, or for young feminists who appreciate narratives about the treatment of women in history.--Rhona Campbell, Washington, DC Pu blic Library Copyright Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One It is v ery dark when I wake. This isn't frightening in itself, because m ost of the year I rise in darkness, Sir Thomas insisting that as much of the house as possible be put in order before any of the f amily is about. It is the quality of the darkness that is strange ; blacker than black, soft and close about me. I go to turn my head toward the window, to see if any streaks of light can be see n in the sky, but my head doesn't move! I try again, and again. I lift my hand-or try to-but it doesn't want to obey me either. It must be that I am deeply asleep, in some sort of trancelike st ate, and aware that I'm dreaming. I think I will just waitfor it to pass so I may rise, dress, and go about my household duties. The waiting continues, and I feel nothing: neither cold nor warm , hungry nor replete. I just sense the blackness and soaring empt iness, but this is not too unpleasant. Some time later, though I cannot tell how long, I perceive movement across the backs of my eyes: four blurry white streaks, moving and gliding in the blackn ess. The streaks are feathery soft and remind me of doves, or of the soft, enveloping wings of angels. The blurry shapes dance acr oss my eyelids, but when I try to stop them, to endeavor to focus on one and see if I can spy a shining halo or a gold harp, I fin d it impossible. I would like it to be angels that I dream of, for I know that would be very lucky. The Reverend Coxeter told us that. He said that no matter whether you are a scullery wench or a lord in his castle, you are truly blessed if you dream of ange ls. I have tried to dream of them ever since I heard that, but ha ve never succeeded. Suddenly I remember something and want to s cream with terror, and the blackness loses its velvety softness a nd takes on an aspect of such vast and unknown fears that the ang els disappear. What I have remembered is this: the last time I sa w the Reverend Coxeter 'twas not in church, but in a bleak yard i n the icy rain, and he was entreating the Lord to have mercy on m e, preserve my soul, and convey me quickly to paradise. Behind hi m had stood a great crowd of people, a man wearing a black hood, and a mighty wooden scaffold from which hung a heavy, knotted rop e. And it was for me that all these were waiting, for I was . . . was about to be hanged. A terrifying thought comes to me: If t his happened, am I now dead? No, I cannot be, for surely I can he ar my heart thumping within me and echoing through my ears. Then is this the state that they tell us about in the Bible? Is this p urgatory? I struggle to think, and recall that purgatory is sai d to be a painful state, with tortuous fires that cleanse the sou l and bring it to righteousness. But how long does it last, this purgatory? A very long time, I think-thousands of years. My sta te is not painful now, though, so perhaps it might not be too ter rible to be in purgatory. If it just means lying here quietly in the dark, it might be quite bearable. There would be no rising at two in the morning on washing day to soak the linen, no more scr ubbing of the kitchen range until my hands bleed, no more going w ithout food for breaking a plate and being unable to sleep for hu nger. No more of that, either-that which Geoffrey Reade sought. A s I think on this, I feel a shadow pass over my soul and know, wi thout being sure of the circumstances, that he is inexplicably co nnected to my fate. I leave this thought atremble in the air an d move on. Yes, I could, perhaps, bear purgatory. What I cannot b ear . . . what I won't contemplate is . . . no, no! I won't let t hat thought in. But it comes anyway: What I could not bear, dare not consider, is the possibility that I'm not dead, but merely oc cupying a coffin, having been buried alive. I'm of a sudden des perate to come out of the trance I must be in, for surely-oh, sur ely-I am still in the little bedroom I share with Susan, and only deeply asleep. I urge myself on. In my mind's eye I picture myse lf pushing back my coarse blanket, swinging my legs out of the be d, and rising up, but though the urge is there, though I think I can perceive my muscles trembling with the effort to work, nothin g happens and no part of me moves. I concentrate harder. Maybe sitting up is asking too much of my body. It will be enough if I can move my hand, feel what's around me: the straw mattress benea th me and the blanket on top. Once I know that I'm safe in my bed , I'll be content to lie here longer. I realize then that inste ad of being in my usual sleeping position, curled up like a wood louse, I'm lying straight and still with my hands crossed over my breasts. But this is not the usual manner in which I go to sleep . . . My limbs are not working, but my mind is going ahead, wh irling on a dance, showing me images of the effigy in St. Mary's: a stone woman lying with her arms crossed over her cold stone bo dy. Indeed! That's how they lay out the dead! I'm so disturbed by this image that for a moment I forget to breathe. I open my ey es; close them again. It makes no difference to the quality of th e darkness. In fact I don't know if I'm opening my eyes or just d reaming I am. Am I asleep or awake? Alive or dead? Am I already a cadaver? My heart contracts with terror; there is a pain behin d my eyes where I long to cry and a choking in my throat, but it seems that even crying is denied me. I begin to count to calm mys elf down. It is what I learned to do when Master Geoffrey was-but no, I cannot think on that yet. I wonder if this state, this c ondition of mine, is punishment for what I have done, for they ar e very hard with all who commit sin now, and I have heard of wome n who have fornicated being tied on a ducking stool and dropped i nto a pond, and those who have stolen being whipped around the vi llage behind a cart. I have never heard of anyone being buried al ive, though. I am very, very frightened. If I find out that I a m buried, I'll claw at the wood that surrounds me, scratch the wa lls of my coffin, and break out. But what will I do then? If I'm a buried corpse, then I'm under six feet of earth and will never get free. Best to die quickly perhaps, to clamp my lips together, stop myself from drawing breath, and perish. In the blackness behind my eyes I try to see the blurry shapes again and turn them into comforting angels, but I cannot. Instead, chunks of my life come crowding in, clamoring to be heard, asking that they be con sidered in order to make sense of what's happened to me. So to start. It seems to me that going to work for Sir Thomas Reade was the beginning of it all, for that was how I came to be acquainte d with his grandson and heir, Master Geoffrey Reade. His name evo kes a terror, but I don't want to think why. Not yet. It is ahead of me though, a source of shadows in my head, waiting to be expl ored. But surely not all my recollections of that household are painful? There must be some that are not, I think, and I scuttle through my mind, throwing up memories like fallen leaves, lookin g for the bright ones. I have been working for the Reades since I was but a young child and, this titled family being the most n oble in the area, 'tis thought a great honor to serve in their ho usehold. They own several estates in the county of Oxfordshire, a nd at first I worked for them at Barton Manor, a vast dwelling in Steeple Barton, the village where I was born. This village conta ins about a hundred people, who mostly work on the land, and is a small but ancient place with farms and cottages, bakers and blac ksmiths. At one time it also contained a gracefully ordered churc h, but that was before Cromwell's men tore down its altar rails a nd broke its windows and pretty statues to turn it into a bare me eting house. Being well taught by my ma as to cleaning, washing , and the making of soaps and scented waters, I began working at Barton Manor as a scullery maid. This meant that I was the lowest person in the household and had to heed the wishes of everyone, which-if two persons had opposing wishes-was sometimes very diffi cult. I soon got to know the ways of the Reades, however, learned how to walk softly about the house so as not to disturb them, to bob a neat curtsy, and to discourse with lowered head if address ed by a member of the family. I can remember some good days then, for life seemed easier in the old house, and we servants had an amount of freedom. In Maytime there was always a pole on the vill age green to be danced around with ribbands. In the summer we'd w hile away hours cherry-picking in the orchard and gathering soft fruit-raspberries, strawberries, and mulberries-eating as much as we collected in our baskets. Later in the year, when the harvest was in, there would be a dance in the servants' hall, with a fid dler paid for by Mr. Peakes, the butler, with his own money, and we'd have a merry time dancing most of the night. We always sang as we worked at fruit picking or scrubbing or scouring: old songs we'd learned from home and ballads that the pedlars sold, and so my first two years with the Reades, before the war started, pass ed quite pleasantly, for I was but a child then, and my wants wer e few. The big house, however, Barton Manor, was burned to the ground during an early battle in the Civil War, and two of Sir Th omas's sons died during this skirmish, for they fought for King C harles-which was to say they fought for the losing side. When I t hink of our King Charles, he that was beheaded, I suddenly recall a bright memory that concerns that good man. On one particular d ay Lady Mary, Sir Thomas's wife, bade all the servants line up to gether in the great hall, saying she wished to speak to us on a m atter of great importance. There were about twenty of us: cooks, housemaids, laundry maids, dairy maids, ostlers, footmen, butlers , and valets, and you can be sure that on that day we were all lo oking our neatest and best. Milady stood halfway up the stairs, w here she could see everyone, and told us that two very important personages were coming to the house and everything had to be faul tless for their visit. The house was to be seen at the peak of pe rfection, the evening meal was to consist of the rarest and most extravagant items, the musical entertainment to be the most delig htful, the wines and sweetmeats the most delicious, and the whole household must work together to achieve this end. Every aspect of the house must be immaculate and we must fill our visitors wi th wonder, said Lady Mary. We must show them that even in remote Oxfordshire we are able to be hospitable. However, she went on to say, all this perfection had to be achieved as if by magic, for- apart from the waiting men who would serve the food-the servants were not to be seen going about their duties at any time. If we w ere seen, we would be dismissed in an instant. Why should that be? I asked one of the housemaids the following week as I flew be tween the innumerable jobs to be done before these feted guests a rrived. Why are we not to be seen? It's not so much they must n ot see us, she said, but we who must not see them. Why then, wh o are they? You goose, she said, 'tis King Charles and Queen He nrietta who are coming. Did you not know that? I shook my head. But no one can know they are here, for there is money on their heads. I must have looked at her stupidly because she added, T here's to be a war, haven't you heard? And it's to be called a ci vil war-that is, 'twill not be fought with France or Spain this t ime, but between ourselves and across our own lands. And the figh t will be between those who are for the king, and those who are f or parliament. And we are for the king? I asked. Of, Definitions, 2009, 3, Preview this book. Good. 24.9 x 16.3 x 5.7 centimetres (0. Hardcover. 2003. 736 pages. Spine faded<br>Three Complete Novels, The Quilter's A pprentice, Round Robin, and The Cross-Country Quilters, from Th e New York Times Bestselling Author, Jennifer Chiaverini Here' s where it all began -- the three novels that first made beloved friends of the Elm Creek Quilters, who stepped out of Pennsylvani a's idyllic Elm Creek Manor and into the heart of America. The Q uilter's Apprentice: Master quilter Sylvia Compson shares the sec rets of her creative gifts with her young assistant, Sarah McClur e. During their lessons, the intricate, varied threads of Sylvia' s life begin to emerge. It is the story of a young wife living th rough the hardships and agonies of the World War II home front; o f a family torn apart by jealously and betrayal; of misunderstand ing, loss, and a tragedy that can never be undone. As the bond be tween them deepens, Sarah resolves to help Sylvia free herself fr om remembered sorrows and restore her life -- and her home, Elm C reek Manor -- to its former glory. In turn, Sylvia helps Sarah co nfront her own troubled past. Out of their shared triumph is born a lifelong friendship and a fledgling business called Elm Creek Quilts. Round Robin: To celebrate the beginning of Elm Creek Qui lts, Sarah, Sylvia, and their circle of friends name themselves t he Elm Creek Quilters. As a gift to Sylvia, the others have begun a round robin -- a quilt created by sewing concentric patchwork to a central block as it is passed around a sewing circle. As eac h woman makes her creative contribution, she adds her story to th e history of Elm Creek Manor. Resplendent in green, blue, and gol d, the quilt serves as a symbol of the complex, lasting ties that unify mothers and daughters, sisters and friends. As they stitch together the sometimes harmonious -- often discordant -- scraps of their crazy-quilt lives, the Elm Creek Quilters learn that fri endship is a most precious gift and that even in the darkest of t imes, love illuminates the way home. The Cross-Country Quilters: Five women arrive at Elm Creek Manor, hoping to find in their qui lting lessons an escape from the problems they have left at home. This far-flung group becomes fast friends who pledge to complete a challenge quilt -- symbolic of each woman's personal goals -- in one year's time. Although the Cross-Country Quilters share a c ommon creative goal, as the year goes by, their bonds are tested by the demands of daily life. But despite differences in age, rac e, and background, the friends' love for quilting and affection f or one another unite them in a patchwork of caring and acceptance . The quilt they make reminds them of an everlasting truth -- fri ends may be separated by great distance, yet the strength of thei r bond can transcend any obstacle. Endearing characters and plea sant vignettes render this series as charming and cozy as a favor ite blanket, said Publishers Weekly of the Elm Creek Quilts books . Jennifer Chiaverini is at her heartwarming best in these three novels that launched a bestselling phenomenon. ., Preview this book, 2003, 2.5<
