Below is the original prologue from RUBY'S LETTERS. It's long--nine manuscript pages--and many didn't think it would work in the beginning of the story, so it was cut.
And that broke my heart.
The prologue gives you a chance to see what Hilary and Ruby were like in life. It starts on the day they met--a day neither woman could possibly forget. Hilary and Ruby are, of course, fictional characters, but the events that happen in the prologue are not.
I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed researching it!
May 17, 1884
No, this cannot be!
Hilary
Smith ran down the narrow stairway of her Brooklyn Heights brownstone, unable
to contemplate what she had just seen from her master bedroom window. Though
strong and agile despite her age, she grew winded by the time she made it out
onto the street. She hurried along with the crowd until she came to the guardrail
that spanned the East River.
This sight
always took her breath away.
The East
River Bridge. So magnificent. Barely a year old, it had captured Hilary’s heart
from the moment the first iron probe had been imbedded into the bedrock below.
In a way, she felt the bridge was hers. She’d watched it from birth, marveled
at its growth into the grand Gothic structure that connected Brooklyn to lower
Manhattan.
“Mother, did you see?”
Hilary spun around. All three of her
daughters rushed toward her. Similar only in looks, all were lovely in their
spring dresses and golden hair styled in long swirls. Their blue eyes danced as
they watched the spectacle before them.
“Sara! Rebecca! Mary!” she scolded, in
order of birth. “Why are you out here instead of getting ready for this evening’s
dinner party?”
“Mother, how can you even ask such a silly
question?” Sara asked.
Instead of berating her and reminding her
daughter of her manners, Hilary turned back toward the bridge. Sara was right.
It was indeed a silly question.
Everyone watched in awe as dozens of large
gray elephants, bejeweled and draped with banners, marched across the bridge. The
leader’s banner read Jumbo. The bright
flashes and snaps of the press taking pictures mixed in with the oo’s and ahh’s
of the crowd.
“What on earth?” Hilary whispered.
“P.T. Barnum.”
Turning toward the soft, cheerful voice,
she faced a woman only slightly younger than her own fifty-six years. She was
no one really, a mere lower class woman wearing a dingy white blouse, half hidden
under her crocheted, pastel-pink shawl. Her light brown hair, streaked with
gray, appeared hastily twisted into a bun atop her head. Yet her maple-brown
eyes sparkled with knowledge and life. The woman’s scent perfumed the gentle breeze with the soft bouquet of
lilacs. She was tiny and slight, looking as if a stronger breeze might take her
away.
Hilary sneered, her brow raised. “P.T.
Barnum is marching elephants across the East River Bridge?”
Her tone did not ward off the tiny woman.
“Yes. Twenty-one to be exact.”
“And how do you know this, Miss...?”
“Ruby Van Leer.” Her smile brightened as
she nodded her greeting to Sara, Rebecca and Mary before turning her eyes once
again to Hilary. “I know many things, Mrs. Smith.”
Her brow furrowed. She didn’t remember ever
meeting this woman. “How do you know my name?”
The tiny woman simply shrugged. “I know of
you and your lovely daughters. I’m so sorry about your husband’s passing.”
Hilary waved away the woman’s condolences.
“Spare me your sympathies. Answer me about the elephants.”
“Mr.
Barnum is marching the elephants across the bridge to prove it is safe after
that dreadful tragedy barely a week after its opening.”
Hilary
would always remember the day the bridge opened. She was one of the first to
pay a penny to walk across into Manhattan. It had been like finally meeting an
old friend.
But six
says later, the bridge’s name would be blemished out of sheer stupidity.
“What tragedy? The twelve people trampled
to death because some fool shouted the bridge was in danger of collapse?” Hilary
sniffed in derision. Ignorant peasants. “If any of them had bothered to watch
and learn about the bridge, they’d know it is bound to stand for hundreds of
years.”
“But mother, that was so sad!” Rebecca
cried. Sarah and Mary stood beside her, tears filling their eyes.
With a snort, Hilary turned her attention back
to the marching elephants. “This is nothing but a publicity stunt
to show the circus is in town. Barnum is famous for them.”
“Perhaps," the woman interjected. "But what’s the harm if it gives
people peace of mind?”
Hilary did not tolerate contradiction,
especially by those with less class, less breeding. “Perhaps people shouldn’t
be such imbeciles. It’s obvious the bridge is sound. There are those who will
believe anything.”
The dreamy look in this woman’s eyes turned
Hilary’s stomach. She hated dreamers. Dreams were meant for gullible idiots.
“Some
things are worth believing, even if there is nothing scientific to back them
up. Don’t you think?” Ruby said.
“You mean like God?” Rebecca asked, her
eyes rounded in awe of this woman.
“Yes.” The woman’s persistent smile brightened.
“That’s a wonderful example. Another is love.”
All three of Hilary’s daughters joined the
conversation now. “I wish I could fall in love,” said Mary.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Sara replied.
With another disgusted snort, Hilary spun
away.
Ruby turned to the three young women hoping
her smile reassured them. All three were of age, but had yet to find any
suitors. She wondered if they knew it was because of their parents, especially
their mother that no man had come to call. Perhaps she could help them with
that.
Just looking
at Hilary Smith made one think of steel. Gray hair, pulled back into a tight
chignon, cold gray eyes that made a shiver run up the spine of even the
strongest of men. Her tall, able frame stood ramrod straight. In contrast to
her austerity, she smelled of the finest musk oil. Intelligent and well-read,
she considered herself more astute than most.
And she
probably was.
Hilary
was, sadly, a lost cause, but her daughters needn’t continue to suffer for her.
As the women watched the last of the
elephants march across the bridge to a whirlwind of applause, Hilary returned her attention to
her daughters. “Away! Back to the house with all of you.” She placed a hand on
Ruby’s shoulder and pushed her aside.
At the
older woman’s touch, Ruby’s blood ran cold.
March 13, 1888
Hilary stared at the frozen world outside
her window. Snow drifts lined her street. People tried to steady themselves on
the icy sidewalks, hoping to make it to work.
The days leading up to the unexpected blizzard
were mild and many had looked forward to an early spring. But on Monday the steady rain had turned into a heavy snow. By Tuesday
the city was paralyzed. Telephone and telegraph lines snapped, not that Hilary
cared. No one called her anymore.
The
seven-foot drifts did not mesmerize Hilary or the sounds of carriages that had
been eerily silent the last few days. No, it was memories that held her
attention. Staring out her bedroom window at the East River Bridge—commonly known as the Brooklyn Bridge now--its cables looking like strings of ice, she
remembered the day almost
Turning away from her gloomy thoughts, she
headed down to the garden floor. With hesitation, she opened the door. Someone had
shoveled a path. It annoyed her no one shoveled out her parlor floor entrance.
She stepped out onto her newly shoveled porch, surprised to see her carrier had
delivered the New York
Sun.
Blizzard Was King the paper read.
Hundreds dead, a near famine for those who didn’t have proper stores of food,
and coal was scarce. Even though Hilary was never in any real danger from the
unexpected storm, she was still glad to be rid of it.
Some
coffee and a bit of food might quiet her foul mood. Her maid refused to
live-in, as did the other servants. Hilary had argued and threatened to fire
them all, but of course they knew it was an empty threat. No one else would
work for her. So, Hilary had been stuck in the brownstone all alone during the
horrendous storm because none of them could make it to work.
She found
her way to the kitchen only to have her anger return full force at the sight of
the large fireplace that occupied the room. It was old and ugly, obsolete now
that she had a gas stove.
She had
hired a mason to brick it up, complaining about the draft it created. The job
should have taken only a day (she certainly hovered over him enough to make
sure he didn’t dawdle) but because of the blizzard, here it was three days
later and the work was still not complete. Brick, two rows deep, started from
the floor to halfway up the opening of the fireplace. Mason tools and supplies
still littered her kitchen floor.
Slapping
the morning post onto the counter, she pulled out her cast-iron frying pan and began
to prepare breakfast. Anger simmered like a well-cooked stew when she realized
she couldn’t have milk in her coffee. The milkman hadn’t been able to deliver,
nor had the baker. No hot buttered roll this morning either.
Heavy
knocking at her door had her banging the frying pan onto the counter. Her teeth
set on edge, she moved stiffly toward the entranceway.
The white
she saw when she opened the door had nothing to do with the snow-covered
street, but the white-hot rage that fogged her vision caused by the woman on
her doorstep.
“Hello,
Mrs. Smith. May I come in?” Ruby Van Leer asked. Her long wool cape and hat had
seen better days. Her ever-present smile was gone, replaced with a serious
stare. The sweet smell of lilacs, something Hilary learned to hate over the
last four years, engulfed her like a determined glove.
“You have
some nerve coming to my home,” Hilary spat out.
“I have
been in contact with your daughter. Please, I need to speak with you.”
A vein in
her temple threatened to burst as the woman pushed past her, without
invitation, removed her cloak and hung it on the hook by the door, then walked
toward the kitchen.
Overwhelming
fury had her slamming the door before following the woman down the hall to the back
of the house.
Hilary had
no idea they’d both be dead by lunchtime.
****
I hope you enjoyed this "little something extra" to RUBY'S LETTERS. If you have any questions or comments, please leave them in the comments section below. I'd love to hear from you!
Until next time, eat healthy and happy writing!
~Maggie
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