The Stockwell Letters, page 1
Praise for The Stockwell Letters
“In 1854, Boston’s most prominent men fought to make positive change, but it was the women standing quietly behind them who came together across lines of race and class to achieve the goals their husbands could not. In this powerful story of hope, dedication, and perseverance, Jackie Friedland takes an unflinching look at the devastating era of American history prior to the Civil War. This is a novel that you won’t want to miss.”
—KATHLEEN GRISSOM, New York Times best-selling author of The Kitchen House and Glory Over Everything
“Jacqueline Friedland is a gifted writer with an incredible ability to tell a gripping, page-turning story in any genre . . . Friedland’s impeccable research and compelling characters immersed me in the period . . . Even if you don’t usually gravitate towards historical fiction, this one will have you hooked from the outset. It’s just that good!”
—SAMANTHA GREENE WOODRUFF, best-selling author of The Lobotomist’s Wife
“Evocative period detail abounds in Friedland’s work; characters are pulled directly from history.”
—KIRKUS REVIEWS
“A riveting portrait of the women who risked everything to help usher slaves to freedom, Jacqueline Friedland’s latest is told with a tender heart. Thanks to a cast of captivating characters, colorful period details and an ending that will have you cheering, the book will stay with you long after you finish. The Stockwell Letters is book club fiction at its best.”
—BROOKE FOSTER, award-winning journalist and author of On Gin Lane
“The Stockwell Letters is an immersive work of fiction that plunges readers into one of the most fraught and urgent decades of American history. With assiduous research and a cast of complex and finely rendered characters, Friedland delivers a powerful literary punch. Showing both the best and the worst of human nature, Friedland’s writing prompts every reader to ask: How can I stand up for what is right?”
—ALLISON PATAKI, author of The Magnificent Lives of Marjorie Post
“Impressively researched, seamlessly written and deeply felt, The Stockwell Letters brings the abolitionist movement fully and completely to life. Friedland is an expert at showing us the motivations behind the actions; this is historical fiction at its very best.”
—KITTY ZELDIS, author of The Dressmakers of Prospect Heights
For He Gets That From Me
≠ 2022 USA Today Best Seller
≠ A 2021 Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Book of the Year
≠ 2021 Reader’s Favorite: Gold Medal, Fiction
≠ SheReads 2021 Book Awards: Best Book Club Pick
“It is hard to imagine a better novel for a book club discussion . . . A thoughtful and gripping family tale that will haunt readers long after finishing it.”
—KIRKUS REVIEWS, STARRED
“. . . a touching and provocative novel about the collisions of the emotional and legal meanings of family.”
—FOREWORD REVIEWS
“Friedland spins a web of intrigue, questioning the truest expression of parenthood. Fans of Nicola Marsh, Tana French, and Hannah Mary McKinnon will race through this thrilling exploration of nature versus nurture and the sacrifices needed to keep loved ones together.”
—BOOKLIST
“A heartfelt exploration of what it means to be a family, He Gets That From Me is a fascinating story of strength, humanity, love, and perseverance. This is one you won’t stop thinking about.”
—ALLISON WINN SCOTCH, best-selling author of Cleo McDougal Regrets Nothing
“Jacqueline Friedland creates a host of complex characters in this nuanced, compelling exploration of what it really means to be a family, and why we should maybe think twice before heading to ancestry.com.
—LAURA HANKIN, New York Times best-selling author of The DayDreams, Happy & You Know It and A Special Place for Women
“A piercing, mesmerizing look into the fragility and resiliency of the human experience . . . a bold page-turner that will leave you breathless with anticipation. With He Gets That From Me, Friedland invites you to ask yourself the questions you didn’t even know you needed to answer—about family, forgiveness, sacrifice, and love. An absolute home run.”
—AMY IMPELLIZZERI, award-winning author of Lemongrass Hope and I Know How This Ends
“Compulsively readable and ferociously insightful . . . He Gets That From Me cuts to the core of what it means to be family. An unforgettable book of our times.”
—JAMIE BRENNER, author of The Forever Summer and Blush
“He Gets That from Me is a potent reminder that we can’t always choose what life hands us—but we can decide whether to rise to the occasion when faced with seemingly impossible choices. With expert plotting and unwavering empathy toward her characters, Jacqueline Friedland has written a novel as unexpected as it is riveting. I read it in a single sitting.”
—CAMILLE PAGÁN, best-selling author of This Won’t End Well
“He Gets That from Me takes on timeless questions about parenthood and our presumptions about birth, biology, and family. Describing a modern-day arrangement between two dads and a surrogate, the story opens our eyes to the many ways a family can be created while also telling a suspenseful narrative full of unexpected thrills that keep the reader wanting more. A moving story throughout, it ends with a twist that will leave you thinking about the book long after you’ve finished reading it.”
—MELISSA BRISMAN, ESQ., reproductive attorney
“Friedland has written characters who are so compelling and so lovable, and then she put them in the middle of such a suspenseful, entirely believable story of what can happen when modern-day technology complicates the most basic relationships between parents and a child. My heart was pounding as I read, far into the night. It’s a must-read.”
—MADDIE DAWSON, best-selling author of Matchmaking for Beginners
For That’s Not a Thing
≠ 2020 Readers’ Favorite Book Awards: Gold Medal in Fiction—New Adult
≠ 2020 Readers’ Favorite Book Awards: Wind Dancer Films Winner
≠ 2020 Next Generation Indie Book Awards Winner in Romance (Fiction)
“Exploring the messy concept of closure, this is a charmingly witty novel that fans of Emily Belden’s Hot Mess (2019) and J. Ryan Stradal’s The Lager Queen of Minnesota (2019) will eat up.”
—BOOKLIST
“In That’s Not a Thing, Friedland has created a delightful and generous novel about the type of love that never leaves us and the people we hope to become in the aftermath.”
—LAURA DAVE, New York Times and international best-selling author of The Last Thing He Told Me, Eight Hundred Grapes and more
“An open-hearted lawyer is forced to choose between her fiance and her dying ex in Friedland’s novel about love and forgiveness . . . A complex and compelling romance . . .”
—KIRKUS REVIEWS
“This tender, introspective romance from Friedland hangs on the difficult choice between new and old lovers . . . Fans of sensitively handled love triangles should snap this one up.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Fun, flirty and fabulous . . . I devoured this read!”
—STEPHANIE EVANOVICH, New York Times best-selling author of Big Girl Panties and The Sweet Spot
“In life’s journey, there are many types of love we encounter along the way—first love, rebound love, the one-who-got-away love, ‘B’sherit’ (soulmate) love, and conflict love (the one in your bed, the one in your head) . . . Friedland, with her fabulous descriptions and compelling characters, presents a little bit of everything in this emotionally-gripping tale that examines love, loss, loyalty, what ifs, what is, and ultimately, forgiveness. Protagonist Meredith Altman is my kinda girl—complicated, inspiring, and richly-drawn. That’s Not a Thing has the unputdownable Jojo Moyes ‘It Factor’ that keeps those pages turning and burning bright . . . long after lights-out.”
—LISA BARR, award-winning author of The Unbreakables
“Friedland’s That’s Not a Thing is an unputdownable tale of old love meets new. Heartrending and evocative, this beautifully woven story captures the deep-seated emotions we carry—those of guilt, forgiveness, and what it means to be there for those we love. Friedland›s sharp writing and emotional depth will leave you turning the pages, ending with a satisfying, albeit bittersweet conclusion.”
—ROCHELLE WEINSTEIN, USA Today best-selling author of This Is Not How It Ends
“Jacqueline Friedland is at the top of her game with this wholly engrossing page-turner about the complexities of love, loss, and loyalty. With richly drawn characters and a gripping plot, That’s Not a Thing is undoubtedly THE thing to pack in your beach bag or pick for your book club. Friedland has done it again—another must-read!”
—AMY BLUMENFELD, award-winning author of The Cast
“Fans of Jojo Moyes and Karma Brown will simply love Jacqueline Friedland’s romantic, poignant novel, That’s Not A Thing. In this dramatic and insightful story, Friedland explores tragedy, true love, and life’s many ‘what ifs’.”
—AMY POEPPEL, author of Limelight and Small Admissions
Copyright © 2023, Jacqueline Friedland
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address SparkPress.
Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,
A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC
Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007
www.gosparkpress.com
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-68463-214-5
E-ISBN: 978-1-68463-215-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023909022
Interior Design by Tabitha Lahr
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
For Abe, Asher, Shep, and Nava
ANN
Boston, 1836
Six months after I met Wendell, I began to feel ill. At first there were only small signs. My appetite was less robust, and my limbs sometimes ached. I hardly paid mind to the symptoms, as I suffered no cough, no fever, no signs suggestive of a virus. But as the weeks wore on, the ailments progressed, refusing to be ignored.
There were days that spring when I couldn’t leave my bed, the headaches throbbing so ferociously that even a sliver of sunshine caused pain behind my eyes. I felt myself a fool, knowing I exhibited no outward signs of illness. Yet, I was so overwhelmingly fatigued that I was forced to cancel many dates with Wendell, as well as several engagements with the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society.
One Tuesday morning, Aunt Maria came to my chamber. As I opened my eyes and beheld the tray full of breakfast items in her hand, my vision began to blur. Maria’s blonde hair seemed suddenly foggy, impossible to separate from the fair skin of her face. I was hit with a wave of nausea so acute that my eyes began to tear.
“I cannot,” I managed to utter, as a force inside my forehead continued pushing outward, causing indescribable pain.
My aunt placed the tray on the bedside table, and then her soft hand was upon my forehead to take my measure. “Still cool to the touch. Perhaps a compress anyway,” she said and then scurried from the room.
I must have fallen asleep then because when I awoke next, I found our family physician, the balding Doctor Henwick, speaking to Aunt Maria at my bedside.
“If she’s not improved in two days’ time,” he was saying, “we will try leeching.”
The mention of leeches caused my stomach to turn again, but I could hardly find the energy to say so.
“Try and get her to take some broth,” he directed, and I managed to emit a moan in protest.
“Oh, darling,” Maria said, rushing to my side. She took my hand in her own, but the contact was not a comfort. Her skin, which I knew to be smooth, felt like sand rubbing a wound. I prayed the doctor might find a way to help me, but I couldn’t summon the words to tell him as much.
Shortly after Dr. Henwick left, I drifted off again and next awoke to the sound of Uncle Henry’s voice floating up from the entryway.
“She’s not been out from her bed in days, so a visitor would surely be unwise. The doctor has advised that she must rest as much as possible.”
The voice that answered sent a small jolt through me.
“You’ll let her know I called?”
It was Wendell, back from his travels. I longed to call out to him, but I could not so much as lift my head.
They exchanged additional words, too quiet for me to make out. I hoped I might feel well enough later to at least send him a note. I began to consider what I might say, but my thoughts were too muddy, the heat inside my head too thick.
OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, there were moments when I awoke and felt perhaps I had improved only to discover, a short while later, that there were new ways to feel wretched. I could hear Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry arguing with increasing frequency outside my bedchamber, debating various aspects of my treatment, which doctor to call, whether I should try eating peaches again, or only grains.
“She cannot continue like this,” Aunt Maria said late one evening after I had been abed nearly two months. “I’m beginning to fear the worst.”
“You mustn’t give up hope,” Uncle Henry answered. “Think of Mary and Benjamin,” he said, mentioning my deceased parents. “We cannot fail them. We cannot fail Ann.”
I wanted to tell my uncle not to fret, that I knew the efforts to which they had already gone. Aunt Maria spoke the words that were in my thoughts.
“We’ve tried everything already, and nothing is having an ameliorative effect.”
I heard a sob escape her then, and I was sorry to have caused my aunt such sadness. Perhaps it would be best if I sought to hasten my exit from this world instead, to join my parents wherever their souls had gone years earlier. Sadly, I had not the energy even for that.
And so the days passed, until I opened my eyes one afternoon to find Wendell beside me. He had clearly been sitting in the wooden chair for some time, as his head was in his hands, and he was thoroughly absorbed in sobbing.
I tried to push his name from my lips, but I could force out only an unintelligible sound. “Gra,” was what I said instead.
“Ann!” Wendell looked up, his blue eyes pink and swollen.
Though it was wildly inappropriate for him to behold me in my dressing gown, I had neither the stamina nor the desire to protest, as I was delighted to lay eyes on him for the first time in so many weeks. I would have liked to smooth a hand over my hair, the brown tresses surely a tangled mess, but I reminded myself that with my dismal prognosis, it was beyond relevance in any case.
“My dear sweet Ann,” he said in a near whisper as he reached for my hand.
Even in his sadness, he seemed to be brimming with energy and life. With his broad shoulders and vibrant complexion, he hardly belonged in my dark and musty sick room. As if he, too, understood that his usual vigor was unsuited for this visit, he seemed to make efforts to contain himself.
Inhaling a deep breath, he looked down at our joined hands, running one finger gently across the spot where our fingers met.
The tender gesture caused me a new pain, a shattering of my anguished heart. I’d come so close to having my own family again—and what a life I could have had with this man. To have lost it before it even began, it was almost too much to bear.
“Marry me, Ann,” he said. He leaned closer, his light eyes focused on my own darker ones as he gently squeezed my fingers.
To my surprise, I found the strength to answer in cogent words, and I refused. “I’m dying.”
“No!” Wendell argued, outraged. “You must get better. You will! And you will marry me!”
Oh, Wendell, I thought then. Such an idealist. The sign of a true aristocrat, ever an optimist and so sure that any problem could be solved if only one found the will. When I didn’t answer, he persisted.
“Just say yes, and I will take care of the rest.”
Even as my head pounded and my chest ached, I was utterly besotted by the golden-haired man beside me. I thought of all the reasons I should send him away and all the ways in which I did not deserve him.
“I will not yield,” he whispered, as though he had heard my thoughts. “Please, just ‘yes.’”
What could I do but nod?
I managed to keep awake for the remainder of Wendell’s visit, though my eyelids grew heavier by the minute. After he departed, Aunt Maria’s older sister, Caroline, appeared at my bedroom door. She entered and took a cloth from a stack on my bedside table, moving with it toward the basin.
“He nearly forced his way in,” she told me as I closed my eyes. “Your uncle Henry turned him away so many times, but he’d not be deterred any longer. His love for you seems to grow only stronger.”
She placed the cloth on my forehead, and I tried not to weep for what I would not have, sure as I was that death was coming to rob me of the life I dreamed.
