By Stephanie Barron
In March 1941, Virginia Woolf stuffed her wallet with stones and drowned herself in England’s River Ouse. Her physique used to be came upon 3 weeks later. What appeared like a sad finishing on the time used to be, actually, just the start of a secret. . . .Six many years after Virginia Woolf’s demise, panorama clothier Jo Bellamy has come to Sissinghurst fort for 2 purposes: to check the prestigious White backyard created via Woolf’s lover Vita Sackville-West and to get over the negative wound of her grandfather’s unexplained suicide. within the shadow of 1 of England’s most famed castles, Jo makes a stunning locate: Woolf’s final diary, its first access dated the day after she allegedly killed herself.If authenticated, Jo’s discovery may well shatter every little thing historians think approximately Woolf’s ultimate hours. but if the Woolf diary is all at once stolen, Jo’s quest to discover the reality will lead her on a dangerous trip into the tumultuous internal lifetime of a literary icon whose connection to the White backyard eventually proved devastating. wealthy with ancient element, The White backyard is a charming novel of literary suspense that explores the various methods the previous haunts the present–and the darkish secrets and techniques that lurk underneath the outside of the main rigorously tended backyard.
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Additional info for The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf (Random House Reader's Circle)
If it’s okay. If I’m not—” “People always do,” Imogen said briskly. “I’ll wager it’s the most admired bit of ground in Europe, and the most copied—although rarely with success. ” It was all coming back, now, as she swung into the Yew Walk—which was heavily shaded, claustrophobic and narrow, like some sort of Gothic tunnel to the Underworld, so that Jo Bellamy fell into step behind her rather than attempting to walk abreast. A. from Longwood—to study Sissinghurst and carry it wholesale back to the potato fields of Long Island.
This was one of their complicities: she and Gray, mutually recognizing the truth about Alicia. Didn’t most betrayals begin with a sharing of some kind? The house the Westlakes were building in the Hamptons was a Shingle-style sprawl covering more than twenty thousand square feet; and the six flat, farmland acres Jo was charged with turning into a corner of England were also expected to incorporate the aforementioned helipad, a four-thousand-square-foot guest cottage, a pool house designed as a rustic Parthenon, the pool itself, and a caretaker’s quarters.
Crave kind words, like a whipped dog. I begin to hear voices. I can’t concentrate. Leonard was at his most brisk during such periods. He would leave his work in the garden or the typeface he laboriously set on the hand printing press and shepherd her towards a chair, offer the bulk of her knitting, employ the hands that no longer held a pen. He would urge endless glasses of milk down her throat and forbid visitors. Keep her from travelling to London—although it was the bombs that had taken London from her now, the house in Tavistock Square cratered to its foundations.