Fascinating Tale of the Girl in the Portrait and Me~

Fascinating Tale of the Girl in the Portrait and Me~

While watching Steven Spielberg’s Young Sherlock Holmes on Amazon instant video this evening, I shouted, ‘that’s me!’ during the fiery scene in the Victorian gentleman’s home. Between the flames filling the unfortunate fellow’s room, I spotted the identical old family print/painting I grew up hearing referred to as ‘Little Beth’ hanging on his wall. I’ve never seen this painting before anywhere, although I’ve been told the original hangs in a museum somewhere in Italy. If anyone knows the name of the portrait and the artist who painted it, please share that info with me. But back to my tale.

(Image above of the painting on the television screen and ours beside it)

Long before ‘Little Beth’ was so-called, or I was even born, my great Aunt Margaret Gilkeson Wray, a woman I never met, had an antique shop in the Blair’s Brick House on The Duke of Gloucester Street. This home later became part of the restoration of Colonial Williamsburg and we’re no longer certain which house it is, or was. If anyone has that information I’d also be most grateful. In the 30′s and 40′s (not during WWII) Aunt Margaret would sail to Europe and bring things back for her shop. It was there that she came across this print which found its way to her younger sister, my grandmother, where it hung for decades in the family home place in Augusta County, VA (circa 1816). That gracious home is the inspiration behind many of my stories set in old homes, and is the setting for Somewhere the Bells Ring. (House pictured above)

As I grew older I realized the girl in the painting/print couldn’t be me despite the uncanny resemblance between us, because she was dressed in an elaborate costume I’d never worn, not even at Halloween, and I wasn’t ever in possession of such stunning jewelry. But her face, even her chopped hair was identical to mine. Eventually ‘Little Beth’ was given to me by my grandmother, we fondly called ‘Mommom’ while she still had the mental faculties to distribute some of these special family pieces. She’s hung in our farmhouse over the mantle in the living room ever since.

'Little Beth’ is the inspiration for the heroine Meriwether in my historical romance novel, Enemy of the King, whose hair was cut from fever.  The thought came to me one day as I studied the painting that, even for a child, her hair is too short. Mine was kept that way because I wouldn’t stay still long enough to have it brushed. But historically speaking, a girl or woman’s hair wasn’t cut for any reason I could think of apart from it being matted during fever. Perhaps this beloved girl had been terribly ill and her parents were so grateful she survived they had her portrait done.  Obviously these were very wealthy, possibly even noble people, which contributed to my thinking that I was once a princess. Definitely gentry. It also led me to speculate on former lives…another reason for my Somewhere in Time series.

***This just in. A friend discovered the painting and, as I suspected, the girl did have fever. I also always thought she died young, and she did.  She also lived in the 16th century which I'd concluded.  Weird, huh....

From wikipedia:

Bia de' Medici (c. 1536 – March 1, 1542) was the illegitimate daughter of Cosimo I de' Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, born before his first marriage.

After her death of a fever at about the age of six, her father commissioned a painting of her by Agnolo Bronzino that is one of his most famous works.

MORE, MORE, MORE!

By Sammie Jo Moresca, Leigh Ellwood, Victoria Blisse and Meg Winston

Phaze Publishing

ISBN 978-1-60659-057-7

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Featuring Sammie Jo Moresca's erotic romantic comedy, DIET ANOTHER DAY.

How do you like it? Some men like it super-sized, and readers will love this print collection of big, beautiful heroines who prove love has no size limit!

Excerpt from Diet Another Day
By Sammie Jo Moresca

Fontainebleau Resort and Spa, Miami Beach, Florida

"Remember, this is a team effort. Your roommate will be your lifeline when the chocolate calls. Don't let her fail you. The team that loses the most on the Body Mass Index at the end of the month will be awarded the spokesperson's contract worth upwards of forty thousand dollars," said the trim boot camp diva of ceremonies with legs of steel. She had her audience riveted.

Crystal couldn't have cared less about becoming an infomercial diva. She wanted a new life. As she looked around at controlled applause in the sea of pink skirt suits in subtle shades from cloud to fuchsia, she finger-combed her long, mousy brown hair and squirmed, tugging on her size 1X stretch jeans, to make her thighs and crotch comfortable. Giving up, she flicked a tiny dandruff flake off her black ribbed tank top and tucked her errant white bra strap back underneath.

One other soul stood out. Seated in the rigid conference chair next to her was her Scottish e-pal Rosaleen Dalrymple, who'd talked her into this retreat. Bespectacled, frizzy redheaded Rosaleen wore an ankle length, blue plaid jumper, dingy grey tee shirt with armpit stains, and plastic flip flops. Crystal shook her head. Had she any idea how Roslaeen dressed, perhaps she would have treated her to a new outfit or two.

"As you'll see on page forty-one, along with a strict ten carbohydrates per day diet, the exercise component is straightforward. Activity, ladies. The best and safest way for you Sofa Sherries to begin is walking. The valet will not release your Mercedes until after graduation. Cabs will not carry you, the busses will not shuttle. Don't even think of renting one of those cute little motorized scooters you see models zipping around on. Use your large muscles, ladies. Build endurance. Increase your aerobic capacity."

The women applauded again.

Crystal was on board. Yes. I can walk. Yes, if my meals are prepared, I can adjust to a restricted carbohydrate diet. All of the support will be fun. Just like college. Or what my impression of college is like from books. A wave of shame tried to overtake Crystal. Everybody here probably has at least a bachelor's degree. And a fabulous career.

"You will be assigned a canteen. Keep it filled and with you at all times. Optimum water intake is twelve eight-ounce servings per day. Strive to hit that target exactly. No more, no less. And subsequently, ladies, you need to feel free to pee. With two hundred women on the same schedule, the designated restrooms at this conference center will prove inadequate. Do not waste time in line. Guard the door of the men's room and take turns. A body waiting in line for a toilet is not a body in motion burning fat. If you stand in line for five minutes every time nature calls this month, you will be two pounds heavier. It's not worth it, ladies."

Uproarious laughter and nods filled the room.

No wonder I'm fat. Wow. I had no idea. Yes, absolutely I'll use the men's room. All right then, two pounds guaranteed weight loss. Check.

"Turn to page forty-eight. Tomorrow's itinerary: Breakfast in the Palm ballroom from five-fifteen to five thirty-five. Feel free to mingle and meet the other ladies. Most of you are sales consultants with the Patty Unger Cosmetics Company. Enjoy chatting with your counterparts from other states and territories. After breakfast, you all have a rigid list of activities to achieve before lunch at high noon, back in the Palm ballroom. You and your roommate are responsible for each other's successful completion. Don't be a weak link."

The ladies applauded yet again. Crystal turned to Rosaleen. The friends smiled and nodded in unison.

Crystal skimmed the activities. This sounded fun. A sunrise stretching period on the beach. Power walking in the saltwater pool. A four-minute restroom break. Thirty-six minutes on the cardio machines. Sweat a few pounds off in the sauna. Power Pilates. Thirty minutes to shower and dress for lunch.

"Our afternoons are for spiritual growth. We will meet for a prayer session on the beach, in front of the first lifeguard stand to the left of the steps. We will rotate through the world's great religions. Deeply contemplate the messages. Open your heart to your maker. Accept Him in different forms through the hearts of your peers."

Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. At least we'll get to relax.

"At one PM, you will break off into groups for barefoot beach walking. Please arrive in a suitable bathing suit with ample sunscreen, SPF 50 or higher, sunglasses, and sun bonnets. Each group will receive a unique novel to read while walking. Yes, ladies. We will learn to integrate exercise seamlessly into our lives. You can, and will, walk and read a book. Be prepared for a pop quiz at breakfast each morning, on the previous day's book."

Is she kidding? I'm supposed to read and walk and finish the book in one day? And not collapse of heat exhaustion? Miami in July. What was I thinking, signing on for this? Crystal turned to Rosaleen, who had an alarmed expression on her blotchy face.

The boot camp commander continued, "For our first week's reward, we have arranged to have a mixer with the Homeland Security First Responders Conference. Cocktail dresses are required. Don't forget hose, a minimum three-inch heel, and full make up."

Cocktail dress? Sausage casings and lip balm? Great. Homeland Security First Responders? Oh, don't they sound like a fun bunch? Crystal envisioned a group of fat, balding fifty-somethings so uptight they dance you suspiciously through metal detectors.

"All right, ladies. Retrieve your luggage from the holding area. Please form a line, two across with your roommate. Heads up, breasts high. Walk proudly through the hotel and out into the night to our dormitories at the Jesuit school."

Dormitories? Jesuit school? "Rosaleen, what's she talking about? I thought we were booked here at the hotel."

"Only for the meetings, meals, and spa services. We are rooming in the dorms to keep us away from temptation."

"In other words, they want to keep us from ordering room service."

"Exactly."

©2007, 2008 Sammie Jo Moresca

For Adults Only! Complete novella contains graphic love scenes.

Visit Sammie Jo's Website

By Beth Trissel

I’ve read that Virginia has more ghost stories than any other state in the Union, not necessarily because we have a more fertile imagination, but sadly because the Old Dominion has seen more bloody battles over the centuries than any other. Think back, Jamestown (1607) was the site of the oldest successful English settlement and its history is a violent one. And on we go to the many heart-rending wars fought with the usurped Indians, a number of them waged on Virginia soil. March on to the Revolution; anyone heard of Yorktown, to name just one famous battle? And let’s not forget that horrific most uncivil of wars, much of it fought in, you guessed it, Virginia.

And yet, this multitude of hauntings doesn’t only feature soldiers caught in an endless fray who haven’t gotten word the war’s over, although there are legions of tales that do and entire companies of ghosts said to battle on. Many tales feature the myriad of people, great and small, who dwelt in our richly historic state. The old Virginia homes and plantations have accumulated a wealth of such stories.

Thus, it was while touring some of these English styled manor homes that I conceived the idea for my paranormal romance, Somewhere My Love. Not from the movie, Somewhere in Time, which I only vaguely remember and then only after prompting. Nay, lay that notion to rest. Added to this meld of vintage Virginia is my own heritage, a vast source of inspiration from my childhood. On my father’s side, I descend from old Southern gentry, now impoverished after the Civil War, Great Depression, and various other misfortunes, including the untimely death of my brilliant grandfather. But the gracious Georgian home his ancestor built, called Chapel Hill (circa 1816) still stands outside the historic town of Staunton.

I was ever determined the family home place was haunted and wove stories through my fevered mind, along with my continual search for Narnia which entailed frequent treks into the old wardrobe. But I digress. The magnificent ancestral portraits in my family and on display in Virginia homes held me transfixed, wondering. And it was just such a portrait of a striking dark-haired gentleman who embedded himself in my thoughts. Who was he? Why did he die so young? That other painting of the fair young lady...did she love him?

Often, the guides at these old homes are brimming with tales. But other times we are left to wonder...and ask ourselves are these folk who’ve gone before us truly gone, or do some still have unfinished business in this realm? And what of the young lovers whose time was tragically cut short, do they somehow find a way? Love conquers all, so I answer ‘yes.’


Somewhere My Love is coming soon to the Wild Rose Press! For more on this and my other works, please visit me at http://www.bethtrissel.com/

SOMEWHERE MY LOVE (Coming soon to the Wild Rose Press!)
By Beth Trissel

CHAPTER ONE
June 2006

“He was Captain Wentworth, but we call him Cole.”

His name sent a shiver pulsing through Julia Morrow like a ripple from the past. Perhaps it was only her awe of Foxleigh, one of the most exquisite old homes along the James River in Virginia. Julia felt out of place among the Persian carpets and sumptuous mahogany pieces in her white sandals and pink-floral sundress. Foxleigh had been intended for satin slippers and ball gowns with sweeping skirts that swirled around her ankles.
Covered in goosebumps, she eyed the tour guide.

Mrs. Hensley’s round face was flushed beneath a white cap, her plump figure swaddled in a shapeless blue gown and checked petticoat that looked straight out of Colonial Williamsburg. Pale blue eyes alight, she laid her dimpled hand over an ample chest. “Such a gallant gentleman he was and handsome. Cole’s portrait makes my old heart flutter.”
Cole. The odd tremble inside Julia only grew.

Despite the air conditioning, Mrs. Hensley plucked a handkerchief out from under her white apron and mopped her beaded forehead. “His room’s just ahead.”

A mounting sense of expectation quickened Julia’s steps down the wide hall and she forced herself to slow in order to accommodate Mrs. Hensley’s waddle. Already intrigued by the prospect of a summer working at Foxleigh, home to the Wentworth family for eight generations, her wonder was enhanced by a sudden, almost aching need to throw open the bedroom door.

“Go on and open it, dear,” Mrs. Hensley said, catching up to her with a wheeze. “You’ll see we keep it like a shrine. But it’s such a lovely room. Mind you don’t lean on the walls. The paint was recently touched up.”

Julia closed her fingers around the white marble knob. A strange tingle coursed through her hand. Giving a small gasp, she drew back. “Is the wiring sound in here?”

“We had the electricity checked out for insurance last month. Why?”

“I felt a sort of current in the knob.”

Mrs. Hensley’s puckered creases relaxed in a smile. “You’re just more connected than most.”

“To what?”

She looked pointedly at Julia. “To the people who’ve gone before you, of course. The departed.”

Julia quivered with another prickling shiver. “I’ve always been a bit clairvoyant.”

Mrs. Hensley studied her closely. “Is this second sight what led you to Foxleigh?”

“Perhaps. But I see only in part.”

“The glass is cloudy, eh?”

Julia nodded and dropped her eyes from the mature woman’s scrutiny. She stared hard at the amber door. The wood was darkened with age and a slashing scar marred the oak. She slid her fingers over the deep scratch, more of a groove, really. A black one, at that. Some malevolence had scored the wood like an ancient burn.

“There’s a story in that mark,” Mrs. Hensley said. “In everything, it seems. These old homes accumulate tales. Come in and I’ll tell you Cole’s.” She grasped the doorknob, opening it without a qualm, and stepped inside.

Suspecting her life would never be the same, Julia walked in behind her. The deep-set window had been cracked open to chase away the lingering odor of paint. Bees hummed outside in white-flowering hydrangeas. Sunshine slanted through the wavy antiquated glass and washed mellow light over the colonial furnishings.

Along one nutmeg-colored wall, Julia saw a magnificent four-poster bed overhung with an ivory canopy. The counterpane covering the box mattress was a tapestry of blue and crimson flowers patiently embroidered by fingers long since idle. An inexplicable urge stirred in her to lie on that bed as if to keep a long held appointment.
Stranger still, was the faint scent of spice, like the whiff of a man’s cologne. She had breathed in this tantalizing fragrance before, but couldn’t remember when, or tell where it came from. Seeking the source, she drifted past a heavily carved armoire.

“There he is,” Mrs. Hensley said with whispery reverence as she gestured at the full-length portrait on the wall across from the bed. “Painted shortly before his death. His father, Charles Wentworth, was married to Lady Pembrook, the daughter of a British Earl. And Mr. Cole looks a true nobleman, doesn’t he?”

Julia halted. His presence was a soft breath on her neck that warmed and chilled her at the same time. The current running through her strengthened tenfold as she looked up at the young man and his gaze projected eerily back as if he knew she were there.

The artist had captured the intensity in Cole’s dark brown eyes allowing the force of his personality to shine through. His smooth forehead, slightly long nose, and clean-shaven chin balanced the three elements perfectly. He even had a small cleft in his chin as she’d imagined a nobleman would and his mouth was captivating, full, yet not too full.

Wavy chestnut hair met the white cravat circling his neck and made her want to reach out and touch it. She felt like a schoolgirl sighing at the poster of a film star, only this was so much more than that. Her awe at the house paled in comparison to the wonder rising in her as she ran her eyes down the length of the masterful portrait.

She couldn’t be certain of Cole’s height, but he appeared tall standing beside a splendid thoroughbred, his stunning figure clothed in an elegant scarlet coat fitted across his broad shoulders and cut away in front to reveal creamy white breeches molded to his thighs and long legs. He held a plaited leather whip with a crooked handle of carved ivory or bone like a stag’s horn and the thong looped in his left hand. The reins were casually circled around the tapered fingers of his right.
Maybe it was the sheltered life Julia had led, but it seemed to her that Cole embodied everything a man should.

“I see his appeal’s not lost on you,” her companion said.

She’d nearly forgotten the woman was there. “No. Cole Wentworth is––was––remarkable. What do you know of him?”

“He was passionate about horses and unbeatable in a race.” Mrs. Hensley nodded her capped head at several smaller gilt frames displaying portraits of hunting dogs and horses so beautifully done they appeared lifelike. “He was a gifted artist, as well. We have other paintings by him in the house, but most are here, where he was killed. Tragic.”

A cold finger laid its icy touch on Julia and ran down the length of her spine. “How did it happen?”

“He’s said to have been run through by the very man who made that mark on the door. A Mr. Cameron. Scottish fellow he was, back in...” Mrs. Hensley pursed her thin lips, blue eyes distant. “Ah, yes, 1806. Some fuss over a woman.”

“How dreadful. What about Mr. Cameron?”

“The friend of a neighbor, I believe. He escaped and was never found. No justice was ever done in the matter.”
Julia hesitated, then asked, “And the woman?”

“Heartbroken, poor thing. She returned to England. She was a guest of the Wentworth family and greatly enamored of Cole. All the young ladies were, but he had a particular fascination with this girl.”

“Why was she so special?”

“Apart from her legendary beauty? She had an angelic quality about her. Or so the story goes.”

An irrational jealousy twanged a jarring note in Julia. In the space of a few short minutes she’d fallen in love with the man in the portrait––typical of her impractical nature and unlikely to advance her nonexistent love life. And yet, she couldn’t help plunging into this sweet madness.
She tore her eyes from the portrait. “Do you recall the lady’s name?”

Mrs. Hensley gave a little laugh. She tapped a finger to her furrowed forehead. “Isn’t that odd? It was Julia something...hmmmm.”

Was Mrs. Hensley teasing her? She had to know.

“I’ve got it. Julia Maury,” the guide continued and arched graying brows. “You’re from England, aren’t you, Miss Morrow? Tread with care here, my girl. We don’t want you stirring up any ghosts. Foxleigh has enough already.”

“No,” Julia said, reaching out to the dresser to steady herself. Without meaning to, she suspected she’d already stirred up some force beyond her understanding.

A man spoke from the hall. “Charlotte, I need to speak to you about the new staff. Ah––I see she’s arrived.”

Julia startled at the low, uncannily familiar voice and whirled around to find none other than Cole Wentworth poised in the doorway.
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