Dear Readers,
Never say that the Teatime Tattler reporters don’t travel far and wide for a story! Today’s happens to be from the outer reaches of Britain’s former colonies.
Without further ado, we bring you to Blake’s Folly, Nevada, in the year 1889:
Samuel Graham a local farmer, has brought suit for divorce against his wife, Hattie Graham. The complaint, after stating that the couple were married in Lovelock, Nevada on October 3, 1885, declares that the plaintiff has, during much of the time subsequent to that event, been treated by his wife in a “cruel and inhuman manner”.
It is further alleged that at their residence, the defendant threatened the complainant’s life, making a move as if to secure the complainant’s shotgun. Samuel Graham avers that at the time he was engaged in actively chiding and disciplining his wife in reference to undue reluctance on her part to submit to her wifely obligation.
Mrs. Graham is also accused by her husband of abandoning their home and, under her maiden name, Hattie Paumier, taking up work in the town of Blake’s Folly, Nevada as a piano player in a disreputable public tavern and dance hall, the Mizpah Saloon, also the residence of ladies of unacceptable morals; and that furthermore, she has been seen in the company of Westley Cranston a shiftless chaser of women, and riverboat gambler who is also resident of aforesaid saloon.
The plaintiff avers that his reputation has suffered much because of these acts on his wife’s behalf.
D.S. Trueman attorney for the plaintiff – The Morning Sun
A Room in Blake’s Folly
If only the walls could speak…
In one hundred and fifty years, Blake’s Folly, a silver boomtown notorious for its brothels, scarlet ladies, silver barons, speakeasies, and divorce ranches, has become a semi-ghost town. Although the old Mizpah Saloon is still in business, its upper floor is sheathed in dust. But in a room at a long corridor’s end, an adventurer, a beautiful dance girl, and a rejected wife were once caught in a love triangle, and their secret has touched three generations. The six stories in A Room in Blake’s Folly tell the tale.
Purchase Links: https://books2read.com/BlakesFollyRomance
Excerpt
“You a widow?”
“No.” She could hear the tightness in her voice and feel the tension in her shoulders.
His eyes glinted. “A runaway wife.”
“Not that either.” Did she have to say more? She didn’t. But since people were bound to be asking that same question over and over, she might as well get used to it, even though the answer was only partially true. Even though it could never express what her life had been like up until now. “I left of my own accord, but with my husband’s full agreement. He’ll be looking into getting a divorce.”
“And your children?”
Ah, there it was. The big question, the one thing everyone would be curious about. “No children. I’ve never had any.”
He said nothing. Had he heard the note of anger in her voice? She’d done her best to sound neutral, but neutrality wasn’t an easy note to hit. How vividly she remembered the first time she’d caught sight of her future husband, Sam Graham, waiting with a little knot of men by a shanty train station in the middle of nowhere. He and the others had been eager to grab a sight of their brides-to-be, women lured west by the promise of marriage, land, and a home. How had the other women fared? Had they been as discouraged as she at the sight of the vast lonely wasteland, the emptiness, the bleached-out colors, and the coarse men who would be their lifetime partners? Men honed by the elements, a hard life. And rough alcohol.
Westley Cranston stood, walked in her direction—no, walk wasn’t the word she could use. He sauntered, a slow, elegant saunter. A man sure of himself, of his power to seduce. Yes, that was why she’d felt so wary yesterday. He stopped when he was standing beside her. Smiled. No, there was nothing seductive in his smile. She’d been wrong. What had she been imagining? That she was still the young attractive woman she’d been years ago? What a fool she was.
He touched the top of the piano with a gesture that was almost a caress. “Don’t worry. You’ll do well. The boys you’ll be playing with are good musicians, nice guys, too. They play at all the dances in town, and they’ll teach you the sort of pieces folks out here are used to hearing.”
“Thank you.”
His eyebrows rose. “For what?”
“For being so kind.”
“Kind?” He guffawed. “It’s not kindness. I’m fighting for survival. High time we got a good piano player in this place. Bob, before he let that stray bullet hit him, knew how to slap at the keys, all right, but he didn’t know the first thing about keeping time. I’ll bet pretty well all the customers were happy to see him taken out of the running.” Grinning, he moved away in that casual easy way of his, headed toward the front door. Then stopped, looked back, his eyes twinkling. “But they couldn’t do that, not legally, anyway. One of the rules here in town forbids shooting pistols in a barroom.”
She grinned back at him. “Sounds like a pretty good rule to me.”
About the Author
Writer, social critical artist, and impenitent teller of tall tales, J. Arlene Culiner, was born in New York and raised in Toronto. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, has lived in a mud house on the Great Hungarian Plain, in a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, a haunted house on the English moors, and on a Dutch canal. She now resides in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village of no interest where, much to local dismay, she protects spiders, snakes, and weeds. Observing people in cafes, in their homes, on trains, or in the streets, she eavesdrops on all private conversations, and delights in hearing any nasty, funny, ridiculous, sad, romantic, or boastful story. And when she can’t uncover really salacious gossip, she makes it up.
Author Website: http://www.j-arleneculiner.com
Author links : https://linktr.ee/j.arleneculiner