Introduction
Once people learn a bit about Silas (e.g. why his character was created, and what his upbringing was like), they invariably want to know why this calloused, plainspoken horseman picked the daughter of one of New England’s oldest and wealthiest families to set his sights on. To understand the nuances of who really picked who, you are going to need to read book one, The Washashore in full because it is too complicated to explain here, but I can give a sense of what Wren’s upbringing was like.This excerpt from The Washashore gives a taste of where Wren Bradford comes from and what makes her tick.
Excerpt, The Washashore, Chapter 58
An hour later, they’d eaten, and the big three-wick candle in the storm glass had burned down a half inch. They sat on either side of the table’s corner, elbows almost touching in the loftlike space.
Two large bowls sat before them. He’d filled his twice. Silas pushed his chair back an inch. “That there’s good eatin’. Had more supper than you can say grace over. I’m full as a goat.” He was unsure what to do with the cloth napkin in his lap. It was too nice to actually use.
“Ha! I knew you’d like it,” she teased, punching him in the arm, then looking a little startled at how abruptly it stopped her hand.
He gazed at her, taking in all the bits of driftwood and shells on the windowsills behind her.
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” he asked.
“I’ve always loved to cook. I taught myself. Guess you could say I was motivated.”
“How so?”
After reflecting on that for a moment, she said, “It was just part of trying to separate myself, I suppose . . . Well, maybe distinguish from is more accurate.”
“From what?” he asked.
She paused, hesitant. Rising to move to the white pillows of the slat-back wood-framed couch, she said, “Well, from a rather suffocating family.”
“How so?” he said, following her to the couch.
“Are we going to do this?” she said with a smile.
“You got my backstory last time,” he wagered, brows raised. “Your turn, way I see it.”
“I don’t want to dwell—or sound like an ungrateful brat.” She sighed, seemingly trying to select her words carefully. “Let’s just say my family is, how should I say this . . . from a certain social stratum.”
Silas caught her drift immediately, having already been tipped off by Genny. “You sayin’ your family’s posh?”
Wren balked, then nodded, as if surprised that word was part of his vocabulary. “Right. Yeah, they’re posh—like, people-with-domestic-help posh. People who live in historically significant houses. Silver utensils and good china for regular meals. Always horrible, traditional food too. Overcooked meat, mashed potatoes, and boiled vegetables. We were expected to sit up straight. Wait to speak until spoken to.”
“Tough on a kid.”
“Yes. But a privileged life, to be sure, full of opportunities. I’m not ungrateful. But all those opportunities came with . . . expectations.”
“Expectations?”
“The proper schools, friends, degrees, clothes, boyfriends,” she said, fingers fidgeting with a single bead on her string bracelet. “Never bought into any of it. The older I got, the more repelled I felt. I didn’t see the point. It’s not like I ever saw any happy people in that world.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Bradford’s an old family name,” she said. “Comes with a lot.”
“Spotted Bradford Street,” he remarked, and she nodded, mouth falling into a slant.
“Good eye. Provincetown’s main thoroughfare—believe it or not, named for an ancestor, William Bradford, second governor of the Plimoth, with an i, Colony in 1621. They landed here in Provincetown first, you know. Then went across the bay to what’s now called Plymouth with a y. It’s the same family—my family.”
“Lot for a kid to carry.”
“Like I said—suffocating. Even my hair color has family weight. My mother calls it Bradford copper, says it skips generations, so in her mind, I am a special one with extra responsibility to the family traditions.”
Wren shrugged, looking off in the distance.
“The minute I could make choices, I did. The highly selective but not Ivy League college I chose was barely acceptable to them, but they stopped short of refusing to pay. Adding insult to their injury, I chose to study art history, a subject not considered appropriate. And minored in public health, fine arts, and photography. Not appropriate at all.”
“Explains the job,” he said. “And the pictures.”
“Photography is my passion. Public health–oriented social work is my calling.”
If you are interested in ordering The Washashore you can find it at—or order it from— these local bookstores: Wellesley Books (Wellesley, MA), The Bookshop of Needham (Needham, MA), Provincetown Bookshop (Provincetown, MA) and Elm Street Books (New Canaan, CT)
Or if you want the convenience and speed of online, but still want to support local bookstores, grab The Washashore through Bookshop.org
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