As for me, during all that time, I acted in the role of
primary care giver (particularly during the first few weeks of the recovery
process) and paid scant attention to my writing. That all changed toward the end of winter,
when I returned to editing the manuscript of Falling From The Sky. That
process took longer than I’d anticipated, but is now behind me and the process
of creating a Word document to ePub and MOBI begun. The book’s launch date is on the horizon, so I
though you might like to know a bit about it.
The gestation period of Falling
From The Sky was not short lived.
For more than a decade, and through several iterations, I struggled with
what originally was intended to be a liberally fictionalized account of an
alleged event in my paternal grandmother’s family history. The novel’s first draft, entitled The Pouch, was set at the end of the 20th
Century, with substantial flashbacks to events that took place in the mid 18th
century. More drafts followed, but it
was only when I changed the main plot focus to a time and place that has always
intrigued me, World War II and the role American B-17 pilots played in that
conflict, that I finally I hit upon a premise that allowed me to paint the tale
I wanted to tell.
Falling From The Sky
is a story of heroism, a tribute to the brave young men who took to the skies
over Europe during the war in the face of
massive losses of life and property to help defeat the Axis aggressors. It is also a tale of mystery and suspense as
well as a love story. To give you a bit
of the story’s flavor as well as setting the stage for you, I’m including a
blurb detailing what the tale is all about as well as the book's Prologue. I hope you are intrigued enough to want to
read more.
FALLING FROM THE SKY
When American B-17 pilot Alex Kent
isn’t struggling to survive World War II bombing raids in the skies over Germany
he spends time trying to unravel a conundrum with even greater dangers: uncovering the lost legacy of William Kent,
his great-grandfather seven generations removed. Alex knows nothing about his ancestor’s life
prior to William’s arrival in 1740 colonial Virginia as an eleven-year-old
indentured servant although Kent family folklore suggests William might have
been the exiled child of an English noble.
Over the generations, several Kent family members have tried to
confirm that speculation. None
succeeded. Some died trying.
On leave in war torn London from his bombing
duties, Alex meets Sarah Perkins, fiancée of the Duke of Wyeford’s only
son. Alex and Sarah soon realize they
are attracted to one another and she volunteers to help in his pursuit of
William’s heritage.
When Wyeford becomes aware of
Alex’s quest, he understands the American pilot poses a threat to the
conspiracy of silence concocted two hundred years earlier to deny young William
his legitimate birthright. Exposure of
the conspiracy would topple the Wyeford dynasty, stripping the duke of his
title and wealth. He vows to take
whatever actions are necessary to see that never happens. Danger and tension escalate as Alex’s search
barrels toward a shocking conclusion.
PROLOGUE
Albert Drayton paused just inside
the door of the fetid smelling bedchamber, his gaze coming to rest on his
father, the Duke of Wyeford. The duke, his
head propped on pillows, appeared to be asleep in the room’s massive
four-poster canopied bed. Mouth agape,
the old man’s chest shuddered raggedly with each wheezing breath. At the duke’s bedside with his back to the
door, Sir James Percival, the Drayton family doctor, was taking the duke’s
pulse. Albert had been aware for several
months that his father was in failing health, but he’d not expected to
encounter a scene like this when he arrived at the duke’s home on London ’s Hanover Square .
Percival lowered
the duke’s wrist onto the bed then turned to face Albert. “Your father has been comatose like this for
more than twenty-four hours. I’ve been
administering massive doses of laudanum to ease his pain, but I have no idea if
it is helping. What I do know is that I
was despairing of your arriving before the duke passed on because he has little
time remaining on God’s good earth. I
doubt he opens his eyes ever again.”
“I came as quickly
as my horse could carry me,” Albert said, “but the roads to the west between
here and Drayton Hall are almost impassable what with all the snow that’s
fallen in the past three days. This is a
horrible winter.”
“Tis the worst
December I can remember,” Percival agreed.
“I’ve been riding
for the better part of the last two days.
I’m starving,” Albert said, “and I’m soaked to the bone.” He moved across the gloomy room to the
granite faced fireplace where a crackling wood fire cast flickering shadows.
“Should I send
downstairs for some food?”
“I spoke with
Thomas when I arrived ten minutes ago,” Albert said, referring to the duke’s
valet, the son of the old man’s former majordomo, Silas Carter, who died in a
carriage accident two years earlier.
“He’s seeing that
a proper meal is being laid for me in the dining room. It should be on the table by the time we’re
through here and I get into some dry clothes.
Now, what is it that is so important that I had to risk life and limb
getting here? The bloody messenger you
sent to fetch me said the duke had something urgent to tell me, but he had no
idea as to what it was.”
Percival picked up
a leather pouch from atop the ornately carved lamp table next to the duke’s
bed.
“What is that?”
“I’ve no clue,”
Percival said, handing the pouch to Albert.
“Your father told me the day before yesterday that I was to give it to
you should he pass before your arrival.”
“It’s what’s
inside that is important,” a raspy voice announced.
Albert and the
doctor turned to see the duke trying to raise himself to a sitting position.
“Prop some pillows
behind me, Percival,” the duke wheezed, and then leave me alone with
Albert. There is something only he needs
to hear before I draw my last breath—which will be quite soon now.”
“Would you like
more laudanum, my grace? It will help
with your pain.”
“Damn it,
Percival, I don’t need laudanum. My mind
must be clear for what it is I need to tell my son. Just do as I say and get out.”
“Leave us,
Percival,” Albert said moving to draw a chair close to the bed. “If I require your presence, I shall ring.”
“I’m a bastard,”
the duke announced without forewarning when the door closed behind Percival’s
reluctant departure, his voice so low Albert had to strain to hear the words.
Albert
smiled. “Tell me something I don’t
already know, father,” he said, edging his chair even closer.
“I’m not making a
joke,” the duke managed to say after taking several gulps of air. “I’m truly a bastard, illegitimate, something
I only learned from my father when he too lay on his deathbed.”
“I don’t
understand what you are trying to tell me,” Albert said from behind the hand he
was using to shield his nose from the rank smell of the duke’s decaying body.
“Just that the
words mean. I am my father’s bastard son
and as such should not have been entitled to claim the Wyeford title at his
death. The title was not mine to
inherit. By the laws of the land it
should have gone to my younger half-brother William, the third duke’s only
legitimate heir. William was ten or
eleven at the time.”
“But that
means—that means, if what you are saying is true, you have no title to pass to
me,” Albert said, his voice quaking.
The duke took
several more ragged breaths then reached to wrap cadaverous fingers around
Albert’s wrist. “Yes, but only I, you
and Thomas know that truth. I’ll soon be
dead, Thomas has good reason to keep our secret and I’m sure the two of you
will take the steps necessary to see no one else ever discovers it.”
“Thomas? How does Thomas know any of this?”
“It’s a long tale,
one you’ll find related in a journal I’ve kept since the night of my father’s
death. The journal is inside the
pouch. It discloses everything. Read all I’ve written and you’ll understand.”
Several racking
coughs shook the old man’s body. When
they finally subsided, he continued.
“What’s most important is that on the night I became the Duke of Wyeford
Silas and I concocted a scheme, a conspiracy of silence, to insure William
would never have the opportunity to discover the truth. The next day we brought you mother into our scheme. We all agreed that William should meet an
unfortunate end. You mother came up with
the plan to make that happen. She saw to
it that he was imprisoned on a family ship departing for America . She gave him the surname Kent and instructed the ship’s captain that
young Kent
was to meet an unfortunate accident on the voyage, his body buried at sea.”
More coughs shook
the duke’s body. His chin dropped to
rest on his chest and wrapped his arms around his ribs as if he was trying to
hold his body together. After several
seconds, he raised his head and resumed his tale. “That didn’t happen because the bloody
Captain was a greedy sot,” he said, his voice weaker, now almost a
whisper. “He sought to make himself a
few extra crowns by taking William all the way to America and selling him as an indentured
servant. He assumed we’d never find out,
but we did and he was made to pay for his perfidy. As for William, we never learned of his fate
other than that he had been indentured to a Virginia
plantation owner—beyond that, nothing.
I’ve lived in terror for the past forty plus years that he would show up
claiming to be the legitimate heir to the Wyeford title.”
“How would a young
boy have any knowledge of that? Surely
he knew nothing of the circumstances of your birth.”
“May I have some
water, please?”
Albert poured from
a pitcher on the bedside table and held the crystal goblet to his father’s
lips.
After several
feeble sips the duke indicated enough by pushing the glass away. “You’re probably right,” he gasped. “There is no way William could have known any
of that. Still I quake every time I hear
that surname—Kent . You should, too, because there is everything
for you to lose if the truth ever became known.
Read my journal and you’ll truly understand.”
“Yes, your grace,
I pledge to do that this very night.”
“I have one final
request of you,” the duke wheezed. He
took in a noisy breath.
“Anything, your
grace.”
“Do for me what
Silas Carter did to my father.”
“What is that?”
“End it all for
me—right now. Smother me with one of my
pillows. I’m exhausted by the pain and
wish for it to be over.”
Albert stared at
his father. “But—"
“Please, that is
my last request.”
Albert stared at
his father. Finally, he stood and yanked
a pillow from behind the duke’s head then pressed it against the old man’s
face. There was no resistance and soon
the rise and fall of the duke’s chest stopped.
Albert shuddered. By his act of
mercy he had become part of a conspiracy of silence. He’d also become the fifth Duke of
Wyeford. He started to the door, but
then turned back to the bed. Grasping
the dead duke’s left hand he removed the symbol of the Wyeford title. God help anyone who tried to take this away
from me, he thought as he slipped the signet ring onto his own little finger.
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