“This old book? She’ll think we’re poor!”
 
My mother corrected me: “No, she’ll think we’re rich. Books like this are rare.”
 
Then she proceeded to tape it up some more. Those tape fragments adhere to the book’s spine and pages to this day. My teacher, Miss Cohen, was duly impressed. I treasure that book, one of many on my “Lincoln shelf” which holds books about our murdered president, his wife Mary, his assassin John Wilkes Booth and his family, the “Mad Booths of Maryland” and the conspirators who faced the gallows or years of hard labor because Booth, their charismatic leader, sucked these poor impressionable souls into his insane plot.
 
In 2017 I wrote A NECESSARY END, a romance thriller about Booth’s plot to kill President Lincoln, with a touch of the paranormal. My new historical novel, THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, features John Surratt, a loyal Southerner embroiled in Booth’s plot. As Booth and his other cohorts meet in the Washington D.C. boarding house of Mary, John’s mother, John begins to struggle with a dilemma that soon tears him apart emotionally: should he avenge the South as a hero, or back out as a coward to avoid an unforgiveable sin?
 
Mary Surratt was hanged as one of the conspirators, although no one will ever know the degree of her involvement. It was in her house where Booth and his crew met to hatch their plot. Her son John is a footnote to history, but he also was one of Booth’s most trusted followers.
 
John may have joined Booth out of need for approval and recognition as a war hero, which he never got from his alcoholic father. As Booth’s cohort, he took dangerous risks for his beloved South. But as Booth’s plan to abduct Lincoln changed to assassination, a mystery arises—was John Surratt there in Washington to assist Booth in the murder, or was he in New York? No one knows for sure, as witnesses claim to have seen him in both places. We do know that he agreed to carry out Booth’s order to shoot General Grant, but backed out at the last minute. We will never know why, but this story explores the possibilities—did he have an attack of conscience, of cowardice, or did he just promise to obey Booth, without any intention to carry out the deed?
 
We witness the inner workings of John Surratt’s mind—and his heart—tormenting him, tearing him apart. His dilemma—whether to carry out this deed for his love of the South, or back out and be branded a coward, but live free from sin—consumed his thoughts, prayers and dreams throughout this part of his life.
 
He never achieved his wish of being a famous war hero. He’s a rather obscure historical figure. But this isn’t about the failed efforts of a would-be hero; it’s the story of an emotionally torn young man devoted to his beloved country. On one level, avenging the South was a noble deed. But deep down, his fear of God’s wrath prevailed.
 
We see how a backwoods Maryland boy comes of age during the Civil War, starting out as a courier, and becomes embroiled in one of the most notorious plots in American history. Students and adults will learn the more intricate details of the Booth plots, from the point of view of one of his most faithful followers. 

DIANA RUBINO

I write about folks through history who shook things up. My passion for history and travel has taken me to every locale of my books: Medieval and Renaissance England, Egypt, the Mediterranean, colonial Virginia, New England, and New York. My urban fantasy romance FAKIN’ IT won a Top Pick award from Romantic Times. I’m a member of the Richard III Society and the Aaron Burr Association. In my spare time, I bicycle, golf, do yoga, devour books, and live the dream on Cape Cod.

Visit me at www.dianarubino.com, www.DianaRubinoAuthor.blogspot.com, 
https://www.facebook.com/DianaRubinoAuthor or on Twitter @DianaLRubino.

Now that school has completely ruined reading, let's continue on to Math, shall we?

Mrs. Marshall was my Math teacher. I think she was somewhere around 60 years old. I felt bad she hadn't been granted that glorious age of "39-And-Holding" as Grandmother had been. However, I think I know why that gift hadn't been bestowed upon Mrs. Marshall. I mean, why lengthen the life of someone who taught Math?

And this was the year of multiplication.

​
Ah, yes. It was time to memorize numbers. Not the rules for Four Square or Chicken. Isn't that fantabulous?

I didn't understand the concept. How did 7 x 7 equal 49? I had no idea, which only served to prove there was nothing logical about Math. It seemed people just tossed numbers around and thought, "Hmmm.....why don't we make 4 x 8 equal 32?"

It was a nightmare. And I was awake for it. And Mrs. Marshall loved it. And the kids around me understood it. But I didn't.

Once, I actually raised my hand and told Mrs. Marshall I didn't understand. She huffed and puffed at me, but explained. I didn't have the guts to tell her I still didn't get it.

Oh, well. Thankfully, I had a good memory. It took some time, but I memorized my times tables. I filed them away in the part of my brain that is titled, "Just Learn It So I Can Get On With The Good Stuff".

As an adult, I use that section a lot more than I should.

HAUNTING MISS FENWICK: AN EXCERPT

“I would never hurt you or Sir Newton.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Her answering tremble passed through her arm and into him.

Outside, the lightning and thunder had died, but the rain slapped the window sharply. Like as not it had had turned to sleet.

He slipped the edge of the blanket over her shoulder and pulled her closer. “You’re cold as well.”

She angled her head and studied him. “Is there truly treasure here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Never confess. Money would be sweet, but it wasn’t what he was looking for.

“You would steal it from us?”

It wasn’t stealing. If he found money, he would merely be taking back from Sir Richard what was owed, what was needed to save his brother’s life.

Digging deep, steeling himself, he gave her the look he’d honed as a young officer, a look he’d used on his most ill-disciplined men, the one he could hold observing a lashing…and for the worst cases, a hanging.

She glared back at him, as fiercely defiant as the worst denizens of the rookeries.

He shook his head and sighed.

“Does anything frighten you?” His hand slipped lower, down her arm and under it, over a slim waist to a generous curve that made his breath—and other parts of him—stir.

“Mr. Greggson’s attempt on my person was alarming. I thank you for saving me.” A shudder went through her. “Would he have attempted more than a kiss, do you think?”

His fingers moved of their own will, softly stroking. “He’s not a man you should be alone with.”

“Yes, I do know that. You and my father have both said so. But what about you, Freddy? Ought I to be alone with you?”

He’d never forced a woman, not ever. Not even after the madness of battle had he succumbed to that primitive drive. He’d done his duty to restore order within his men as well.

He’d understood their mad impulses though.

“I am a gentleman, Tilly.”

She stirred. “Papa…has not been feeling well, I think. I was ever so happy to see him out in the fresh air, but I’ve worried so about him. Mr. Greggson doesn’t know that, but he does know I’m my father’s only child. He seeks to coerce me into marriage because he’s after the estate and its income, and whatever valuables may be found here, which when Papa dies, he believes will be mine.” She let out a minty breath. “But you, Captain Sanderford, you I believe would prefer just money and not my person along with it.”

“Tilly—”

“And so, it would probably be wise for you to unhand me.”

His hand tightened, bunching the cloth of her robe. “Unhand you?”

She tilted her head and gazed at him, almost an equal in height now that they were sitting. Her lips had parted a fraction and locks of hair draped the deep blue of eyes that glistened in the light from the candles.

“Oh, Tilly.” He dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

Softness. The scents of mint and soap and lilac.

His chest pounded and every nerve in his body roared. She hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t pushed, hadn’t slapped him.

Proceed with caution, he reminded himself. He pressed closer and slanted his lips, coaxing until her mouth opened.

His hand strayed up, under her breast, and he drew her against him.

​What, besides parchment, was under the high-necked gowns and the heavy robe?

ALINA K. FIELD

Award winning and USA Today bestselling author Alina K. Field earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English and German literature, but she prefers the much happier world of romance. Though her roots are in the Midwestern U.S., after six very, very, very cold years in Chicago, she moved to Southern California and hasn’t looked back. She shares a midcentury home with her husband and her spunky, blonde, rescued terrier.
 
She is the author of several Regency romances, including the 2014 Book Buyer’s Best winner, Rosalyn’s Ring. She is hard at work on her next series of Regency romances, but loves to hear from readers!
 
Visit her at:
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Bill, my brother, was an observant kid. He was quiet and paid strict attention, especially to those things he found most interesting. Like driving.

Remember when cars had bench seats in front? Well, Bill sat up there in between Mom and Dad. The three girls sat in back. (Usually talking and singing and trying to beat Dad at the ABC game.)


​
Little did we know while we were horsing around, Bill was soaking up all the steps for driving a car. We didn't think he'd been watching. Or could even pick it up. He was two.

So....here we go. Buckle your seat belt.

We would go to the meat market on Saturday morning. Holy heck, I hated the way that place smelled. It did help Maria determine her future job. She wanted to be a butcher. (She likes bacon.)

But, if you stayed outside, in the car, with the windows down, the smell was quite delightful. There was a gentleman, Rudy, who had a tamale cart in front of the meat market. And boy howdy were they good. He was a good cooker. I would lean my head out the window and breathe in the tamales. Mom always bought some from him, and we would go home and have lunch.

One particular Saturday, Mom took pity on our noses and let us stay in the car while she went in to get meat. The three girls sat in the back. Bill sat in front in the middle seat. Mom came out to buy our tamales. And while I'm praying she buys each one he's got, Bill puts the car in drive. Our big, white, 1980s Buick shoots forward over the guard and slams right into Rudy's tamale cart.

My mom and Rudy, of course, are shocked and going crazy over human injury. (There weren't any. Rudy's cart stopped the Buick. And we were quite safe in that boat of a car.)

Meanwhile, I'm devastated. The tamales! Their foiled bodies are everywhere. On the hood. The gritty pavement. The dirty sidewalk. I jump out and start picking them up, but the adults aren't helping and Rudy's cart is crushed and there's no place to put the food, except in the car and that might be stealing. And you know we aren't buying any today because Mom doesn't believe in the 5 Second Rule.

As I mourn the loss of spicy goodness, my brother has become famous. And my Mom has become flustered.

Of course, we paid to fix Rudy's cart, and all was back to normal by the following Saturday.