Author Glynis Smy is pleased to announce the release of her new historical romance novel, Maggie’s Child.
Farmer’s wife Maggie Sawbury becomes pregnant after an extra-marital affair. She knows her joyless life is not one a child should endure, and she leaves the baby at the roadside. Her money-driven, violent husband sends her out as a wet-nurse, unaware the position comes with a secret. One that frightens, and yet brings joy to Maggie.
Years later the possibility of incest threatens to open old wounds, and Maggie has decisions to make. If she tells, it will bring down three families. Equally, her silence could be destructive. A confession changes her life, and a death brings about another secret.
Maggie’s Child was released in December 2012 by Anastasias Publishing Europe and is currently available from Amazon.com and Amazon UK.
“I can’t believe a woman wrote this!”
Whose story shined the brightest? It is time once again for IU readers to select this week’s winner in the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge.
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Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left hymn and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of bored fence nine feat heigh. Life to hymn seamed hollow, and existence butt a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and past it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-bocks discouraged. Gym kame skipping out at the gait with a tin pale, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always bin hateful work in Tom’s ayes, before, butt now it did knot strike hymn sew. He remembered that their was company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro buoys and girls we’re always their weighting they’re terns, wresting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Gym never got back with a bucket of water under an our – and even then somebody generally had to go after hymn. Tom said: