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Thursday, May 29, 2014


Klara sings at an afternoon salon filled with aristocrats, although she doesn't feel well. She is accompanied by Akos Almassy, a pianist and servant to one of the titled guests. She feels strangely drawn to him. 
Whenever there was pain in Klara's life, she ran to Music, let it carry her to a world of calm, grace and balance.
Music could heal any wound, dry any tear. Music was her tender Mother, the only one Klara had ever known.

She filled her lungs, felt the muscular pleasure of response in throat and diaphragm, heard the rich glory of her voice. As Almassy's strong fingers moved upon the black keys, his amber eyes stayed upon her. He was utterly focused on her every move, her every breath.

When the first song was done, Klara curtsied and smiled at the heart-felt applause. On the walls of this elegant reception room, ornamental details flowed up supporting columns and from these, onto the vaulted, painted ceilings, where angels and cherubs flew into clouds. She turned to include Akos in the applause, but she didn't quite dare to look into his eyes now that there was no music between them. Her heart raced, and not entirely from the exertion of song.

Perhaps if I translate this sensation into something recognizable, I can dismiss these queer, disturbing feelings...

Klara was accustomed to the games men played, either because they imagined it politic to feed her vanity, or for the very masculine reason that they had to feed their own. She had learned to flirt lightly, meaning nothing.

After all, who would dare to challenge Maximilian, the man who owned her, the man whose perverse desire had pierced her, a butterfly struggling on the jeweled pin of his passion?

~~~~Juliet Waldron

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Friday, May 23, 2014

Angel's Flight/Excerpt for Friday Free bits

Captured by the cruel redcoat officer who has been pursuing her, Angelica
considers her options. Believing that Jack, her new husband, has just been murdered, her family threatened with death, she resolves to agree to Major Armistead's demands.  
...As she sat there, drained, a strange feeling fluttered deep in her belly. She’d felt it for the first time only a few days ago. The sensation was as if a butterfly had been released, wings tapping the walls of some secret cave.

I must talk to Harriet, or Mary McGregor. One or the other, they can tell me. In spite of what has happened to my dear mate, the egg may already be in the nest. And, if that is so, what I suspect, then I must survive. Survive any way I can!

Cruel fate has once again destroyed the man I love, but this time, perhaps, something of him, of his love, remains. A miraculous someone I can hug, and kiss.

Fumbling in the pocket, she withdrew her thimble and thread; she pulled a length of cotton through the needle. It will be stronger now, she promised herself.

What God has joined together—

Slowly, Angelica pulled the ragged edges of the tear together. She knew what her answer to George Armistead would be. She would save her family. If she had lost Jack, she would not shame his memory with cowardice.

“Chains do not hold a marriage together.” Angelica spoke aloud to the empty room, imagining Jack was there with her. She pulled cotton through the edges, neatly mending the rent. "It’s the threads-- hundreds of tiny threads--which sew people together through the years..."

~~Juliet Waldron
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Thursday, May 15, 2014




It was said of the enigmatic Mozart that "...'tis unfortunately all too well known that fast living in ill-chosen company shortened his precious days."  My Mozart is the story of Nanina Gottlieb, who begins her narrative as a musiker brat.                                                                                                       


"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."

"Come here, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."

My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.

Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.

He had once been boyishly agile, doing handsprings over chairs, turning cartwheels of joy at a prima donna’s kiss or a perfect performance of his own celestial music. He was never tall, and was, like most men of his age, working on a bit of a belly. Still, he kept more or less in shape by a daily regimen which included running from bailiffs, dashing out the back doors of taverns to avoid payment, and climbing in and out of the bedroom windows of adventurous (and talented) musical gentlewomen.

I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year.

His jacket, now spotted and stained, must have been fine enough to wear in the presence of the Emperor. Bright blue, it perfectly matched his eyes. I can still feel the fabric sliding under my fingers as my arms passed over his shoulders and around his neck.

I can still see him‑‑a woolly frizz of blonde hair, long, aquiline nose--a ram that had once been an angel. Sometimes, when he was loving me in some exquisitely naughty way and joyfully smiling as he did it, I could almost see horns…


Buy My Mozart  at: 

My Mozart by Juliet Waldron from Books We Love

 Learn more Juliet’s NOVELS at:  http://www.julietwaldron.com

“The brilliance of the plot is that it is timeless ... The characters are as real as today, once again underscoring the fact that people, after all, never change in motives or behavior ... only in time.”  Patricia A. Martin

Friday, May 9, 2014

MOZART'S WIFE, an excerpt

MOZART'S WIFE is a Kindle Countdown deal, today through May 14th

…When Mozart presented himself at our door, my little sister, Sophie and I would scamper to open it. We knew, you see, that Aloysia would make him wait. It was a torment she routinely inflicted on all her admirers.

Sophie and I didn’t care how long she took. While Mozart waited for his goddess, we had him all to ourselves. He was always obliging; a delightful playmate who showed us cat’s cradles we’d never seen. He was also a dangerous and incredibly dexterous opponent in games of jacks.

As soon as Aloysia appeared, however, the fun was over. By the time the little man straightened from bowing to the coquette posing in the doorway, lover’s anxiety had entirely extinguished his natural sparkle.

I couldn’t endure being around them then, even though their music was beautiful. I hated the slave who now gazed from Wolfgang’s blue eyes. I hated the gushing Italian compliments he paid. I knew my sister. The more he doted, the more she would despise.

Poor Wolfgang! His tics, and he had a fair number, intensified in the presence of his idol mio. His nervous fingers were the worst, often going completely out of control, either drumming on the tabletop or tying his watch chain into hopeless knots.

Within a few weeks Aloysia could mimic him perfectly—his busy hands, his submissive bow, his florid Italian. Spiteful Jo was her most appreciative audience. Heaven knows, Mama and Papa, who had begun to dream about a match with the wunderkind from Salzburg, would not have been amused.

“I think you’re both horrible,” I said, wanting to defend him, but this only sent Jo and Aloysia onto the sofa where they rolled about giggling in a most unladylike fashion...
~~Juliet Waldron
See all my historical novels @ http://www.julietwaldron.com


Thursday, May 1, 2014

HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE~~ Now at a special price at Amazon!

Sophie's traveled all the way from Germany to marry a wealthy older man. She's scared and alone, but her sisters and mother are depending upon her...

Now on Special, only $.99 at Amazon!

...To Sophie, Karl was polite, but little more.  He hardly spoke more than a sentence or two to her during the meals that she and Divine worked so hard to make.

Dull, grim Americans! Sophie watched them eat, the line of elbows rowed up on the table. Here they have plenty to eat and they do it like pigs swilling at a trough, not a word to say.

"Could you please pass them biscuits, Wida' Wildbach?" asked one of the hands, breaking in on her reverie.

Sophie passed the wicker basket.  Karl kept his eyes on his plate, although at least he did not use his knife like a trowel as the others did. 

Once upon a time, someone taught him manners... 

"Nothin' like Mrs. D's biscuits." Karl said.

"Mrs. D, nothin'." Divine had been waiting for just such an opening.  "Why, Miz Sophie made these, while I was cuttin' de slaw."

The shoveling ceased and a line of faces, all ruminating like cattle, solemnly regarded Sophie. 

"Well, they sure fooled me." Karl became a bit redder in the face than he already was.  Yesterday he'd been out all day, up to a place called Big Spring, to look at the wheat. 

"Yes, sir.  This year I may get early to preservin', now that I kin hand off them darned beaten biscuits to someone else."

Dishes of potatoes, green beans and bacon were annihilated.  More was called for and scooped out of seemingly bottomless pots on the stove...



 ~~~Juliet Waldron
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