I enjoyed this book filled with romance, scientists, insane asylums, suffragettes and ghosts. I love how each of these items are woven into one great story. These are wonderful characters. I really liked how Alva and Sam become friends and lovers. I received a copy of this book from St. Martin’s Press for a fair and honest opinion that I gave of my own free will.
I give this book a four out of five stars.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ON SALE: October 8, 2019 CONTACT: Sarah Schoof, St. Martin’s Press 646.307.5568, sarah.schoof@stmartins.com
**Named a MOST ANTICIPATED ROMANCE of 2019 by BookPage**
Advanced Praise for THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE
—
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—Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author of the Veronica Speedwell series
“Take a Joanna Shupe Gilded Age romance, stir in a Simone St. James ghost story, add a pinch of Julia Quinn banter, and, voila! Sheer fun with a satisfying emotional conclusion.” —Lauren Willig, New York Times bestselling author of The English Wife
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THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE
By Diana Biller
Diana Biller’s debut novel, THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE (St. Martin’s Griffin; October 8, 2019; $16.99), is a gorgeous piece of prose, with a decidedly dark Victorian Gothic flair and an intrepid and resilient American heroine guaranteed to delight readers everywhere.
Prior to penning this novel, Biller had one idea in mind: “Edith Wharton, ghost hunter.” After touring Wharton’s estate, The Mount, and the Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park, New York, she came away with a wealth of inspiration, and THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE was born.
It’s 1875, and New York’s Gilded Age is in full swing. After fleeing her abusive husband, Alva Webster spent three years being pilloried in the newspapers of two continents. Now he’s dead, and she’s returned to New York to start over, restoring Liefdehuis, a dilapidated Hyde Park mansion for her new home decoration book and hopefully her reputation in the process. So when the eccentric and brilliant
“Biller’s complex and intriguing debut, set in 1875 New York City…is part romance, part ghost story,
and part period piece with just enough modern sentiment on the topics of
feminism, mental illness, and abuse.”
Publishers Weekly
“A chemistry-fueled debut with a bit of a ghost story, great for readers of gothic romance”
Booklist
“Utterly irresistible. With engaging, original characters and dialogue as crisp as a new apple, Diana Biller’s debut will have you rooting for Alva and Sam through every spooky twist.”
“Get ready to devour Diana Biller’s magnificent debut novel in one sitting. The Widow of Rose
House boasts memorable and vibrant characters, a delicious romance, great period detail, and a hint
of the supernatural. Alva and Sam spring off the page and to life, so that I now feel as though they are
friends of mine. This novel is a treat not to be missed!”
Alyssa Palombo, author of The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel
Professor Samuel Moore appears, threatening her fresh start with stories of a haunting at her house, she refuses to give him access. Alva doesn’t believe in ghosts.
A pioneer in electric lighting and a member of the nationally-adored Moore family of scientists, Sam’s latest obsession is ghosts. When he learns about a house with a surprising number of ghost stories, he’s desperate to convince its beautiful owner to let him study it. Can he find his way into her house…and her heart?
About the Author
DIANA BILLER lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their very good dog. THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE is her debut novel.
For more information or to set up an interview with Diana Biller, please contact:
Sarah Schoof, St. Martin’s Press 646.307.5568, sarah.schoof@stmartins.com
THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE by Diana Biller
Published by St. Martin’s Griffin | On sale: October 8, 2019 Trade Paperback Original | ISBN: 9781250297853 | $16.99
Read the excerpt:
New York City, February 1, 1875
Alva stood on the city sidewalk and sucked in a deep, triumphant gulp of air. The clock had just struck ten—the middle of the eve- ning by New York City standards—and she was surrounded by elegantly dressed men escorting women dripping diamonds and rolled up tightly in furs. A few feet from her, the street was busy
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a
THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE 13
with carriages. She could smell the city: The damp fog, the sharp tang of refuse, the high floral notes of perfumed women. Horse dung.
Had she missed it? She wasn’t sure, although she knew she missed the steep, tangled streets of Montmartre already.Butit wasAmericathatheldherfuturenow,evenas it held her past. For a second her triumph was tempered by the remembrance of the thin envelope in her pocket, a few brief lines from her mother’s secretary, thanking her for her interest in visiting and regretting that Mrs. Rensselaer would be unable to see her. Alva knew her mother, likely even now sitting down to a stiff dinner with her husband and twelve of their closest friends fifty blocks away, did indeed feelregret.Shejustsuspecteditwasaboutgiv- ingbirthto her at all.
The restaurant door opened behind her, and, recalled to the moment, she signaled to the boy hailing cabs to find her one.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice said. “Mrs. Webster?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Couldn’t she stand outside for one min- ute without some intrepid lothario assuming she must be wait- ing for him? In the less than seventy-two hours she’d been back in the States, she’d been propositioned eleven times. Twice by friends of her father’s.
She glanced over her shoulder at the man, receiving an in- stant impression of big, though he stood mostly in the shadows. “I don’t know you,” she said, her voice flat. “Go hometoyour wife.”
“But I don’t have a wife,” the man said. He took a hesitant step towards her, leaving the shadows, and her eyebrows lifted. Helookedmorelikealaborerthanamanfinishinga dinner at Delmonico’s, for all he was dressed in a suit and tie.Sortof dressed,sheamended;thesuitlookedlikeithad been made for someone two inches shorter and two inches narrower across the
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14 DIANA BILLER
shoulders. “Do I need a wife to talk to you? Is it a chaperone sort ofthing?Ihaveamother,butshe’sinOhio.”
Alva blinked. “You’re not very good at this,” she observed. “I’m not a man, but I don’t think it’s standard behaviortoinvoke one’smotheratatimelikethis.”
They stared at each other in puzzlement. He was attrac- tive in the sort of way she’d always imagined the heroes of west- ern folktales to be: tall, broad shouldered, with a strong nose and a square jaw. He could stand to add barber to the list of people he needed to see, though, the one that started with tailor. Actually, looking at the way hisdarkblondhairfellinto hiseyes,shethoughthe’dbetter haveitstartwithbarberandgo fromthere.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said finally. “Perhaps if I introduce myself—my name is Professor Samuel Moore.”
He held out his hand. She looked at it, looked up at him, and did not extend her own. Bafflingly, he smiled at her, as though she’d done something rather clever.
Was he really a professor? He certainly didn’t look like one, not that it mattered, because she made it a policy, thesedays, nevertotalktostrangemen—
“A professor of what?” she heard herself saying, although she was pleased it at least came out with a nice air of sarcasmand disbelief.
“This and that,” he said, still smiling. “Engineering, mostly.” Shelookedathisrumpledclothes.Yes,shecould seethat, oneofthosemenwhoalwayshadatoolinone hand and a grease can in the other. She didn’t know they
weregivingprofessorships outtomenlikethat,butwhynot, afterall?Shewasasapprecia- tiveofthingsliketrainsand working carriage wheels as the next
person.
And now she’d gone and encouraged him. Stupid. “I see,” she
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THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE 15
said as coldly as she could manage. “Well, I’m not interested, so I’ll wish you good evening.”
“But how can you know if you’re not interested?” He shook his head in confusion, still smiling at her. The smile was . . . im- pressive. “I haven’t even explained my proposition, yet.”
“I find that if you’ve heard one proposition, you’ve heard them all,” she replied. Stop talking to him, you idiot. “They’re notas uniqueasmenwouldliketobelieve.”
“But—who else has approached you? Was it Langley, from Yale?”Histoneturnedplaintive.“Howdidhehearabout this before me?”
“Langley—who?”
“Piers Langley,” he said. “No? I can’t think of anyone else reputable—look here, if you’ve been approached by anyone from that quack Santa Fe institute you should know they’re absolute frauds.”
“Institute?” Alva said faintly. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your house, of course. I hadn’t realized I was so behind on the news.” His face fell—What must it be like to let all your emo- tions float freely on your face?—but he nodded gravely. “If it’s Langley, though, he’s an excellent researcher, and a decent human,too.”
“It’s not Lang—what do you want with my house?” It was her turntosoundplaintive.
“But that’s what—” He stared at her, his brows crunched to- gether.“Ohgod.Iwasn’t—Iwouldn’t—”
To her astonishment, a distinct touch of pink appeared in his cheeks.Heclearedhisthroat.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Henry warned me—that is, I shouldn’t have; my proposition is not of an intimate nature.”
“I’m coming to understand that,” she said.
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16 DIANA BILLER
“You thought . . . do men . . . they must—good lord.”
She began to feel in charity with this befuddled giant. “In- deed,” she said. “I quite agree. But I must ask again—what is it you want with Liefdehuis?”
“To study it,” he said. “One of my personal interests is in metaphysical energies, you see, and from what I’ve heard, your housemayproveamostinterestingcase.Yourghost story is so recent, you know. I hardly ever hear one claiming to be that new—”
He broke off as she shook her head. “You almost had me con- vinced that you were unlike the majority of your sex,” shesaid. “AndnowIseeyouare.I’mjustnotsureinsanityis muchofan improvement.”
To her surprise, he smiled again. “You’re not the only one who thinks so,” he said. The embarrassment had left his face; he was quite relaxed once more. A man who apologizes for a propo- sition and grins at an insult, Alva thought. Where did you come from, Professor Moore?
“And I’ll admit there’s no conclusive evidence yet,” he con- tinued, “but what I have collected looks extremely promising. Certainly promising enough to warrant extensive study.”
A hint of cold pierced her thoughts. Firmly, she banished it. “You’re talking about ghosts,” she said.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Or I could be studying some kind of
alien intelligence that just happens to concentrate in areas cor- responding to local folklore.”
“Alien intelligence.”
“Invisible alien intelligence,” he clarified. “At least invisible to the naked human eye. But ‘ghost’ is probably the easiest term.”
“Really.”
“People tend to go a bit strange when you talk to them about invisible alien intelligences,” he confided. “Which is odd, when
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THE WIDOW OF ROSE HOUSE 17
you think about it, because why are the shades of one’s dead an- cestorsanylessunsettling?”
She found herself nodding before the rest of her wits caught up with her. “No,” she said, not because the word corresponded withanyparticularquestion,butbecauseshe had the feeling the only way to survive here was to stick to very black-and-white words. His nuances were both compellingandsticky.“I’mafraid Iwon’tgiveyouaccess.I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’m about to start several months’ worth of building work.”
“Don’t decide yet,” he begged. “I’m willing to pay you for the privilege,andIpromiseIwon’tbeintheway…although there isratheralotofequipment,soIsuppose—”
The boy hailing cabs caught her eye and gestured as a han- sompulledupbesidehim.
“That’s mine,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Good evening.”
“Wait!” he said. “I’ll—I’ll send you a letter. Henry said that was the way to do it—I’ll write you and explain more.”
“It won’t help,” she said as the cab boy helped her into the carriage. “I’m sorry. Good-bye, Professor Moore.”
Finally, he sighed acceptance and raised his hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Webster.”
As the cab pulled away from the sidewalk, though, she looked back at him, to find him staring after her with his hands shoved in his pockets and that apparently irrepressible grin back in place. An uncomfortable lightness expanded in her chest as she watched him standing head-and-shoulders taller than the passersby around him, looking back at her as though he would be perfectly happy never to look at anything else ever again.
What couldn’t I get, if I could look at people like that?
she thought,andsettledgrumpilybackagainstherseat.
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