Threaded with hope, love, and loss, At Summer’s End delivers a portrait of a noble family–and a world–changed forever by the war to end all wars. Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from At Summer’s End by Courtney Ellis, which releases on August 10th from Berkley Books.
SYNOPSIS
When an ambitious female artist accepts an unexpected commission at a powerful earl’s country estate in 1920s England, she finds his war-torn family crumbling under the weight of long-kept secrets. From debut author Courtney Ellis comes a captivating novel about finding the courage to heal after the ravages of war.
Alberta Preston accepts the commission of a lifetime when she receives an invitation from the Earl of Wakeford to spend a summer painting at His Lordship’s country home, Castle Braemore. Bertie imagines her residence at the prodigious estate will finally enable her to embark on a professional career and prove her worth as an artist, regardless of her gender.
Upon her arrival, however, Bertie finds the opulent Braemore and its inhabitants diminished by the Great War. The earl has been living in isolation since returning from the trenches, locked away in his rooms and hiding battle scars behind a prosthetic mask. While his younger siblings eagerly welcome Bertie into their world, she soon sees chips in that world’s gilded facade. As she and the earl develop an unexpected bond, Bertie becomes deeply entangled in the pain and secrets she discovers hidden within Castle Braemore and the hearts of its residents.
EXCERPT
It was not a medieval castle with battlements and towers, but a Baroque palace, stretched lazily across the immaculate emerald lawn. The center structure was crowned with an opulent dome and flanked by symmetrical wings, moody aged sandstone broken up by arched windows and carved pilasters, with urns and cyphers and a dozen chimneys adorning the roof.
To our right, a two-tiered fountain spewed a narrow surge high into the sky. At the center, a god draped in flowing fabric carried a marble globe upon his back—steady, but bent beneath the effort. Four angels lounged about him, holding high their ethereal trumpets as water rolled down bare chests and into the basins they guarded. Lilies floated in the wide charcoal pool, where the perfect mirrored image of Castle Braemore was reflected back.
Further still was a steep hill, climbing up to a plateau. It was far off, but from where we approached, I could just see a platoon of statuary guarding a limestone folly with a dome to match the main house.
I was speechless. A real rarity for me.
My expression must’ve given me away, for Roland laughed and asked, “Do you reckon it will do?”
“I reckon the King mustn’t be aware this is here. Otherwise he wouldn’t be wasting his time at scrubby old Windsor.”
Roland stopped the motor and hopped out, coming round to open my door. “So you won’t have any trouble painting it, then?”
With all of my excitement over seeing Braemore, I’d yet to consider how so much detail would affect my work. I had a real challenge ahead of me. Though I wasn’t going to admit as much to him.
I stepped down into the raked gravel. “No trouble at all. Though I must say, I’m a trifle disappointed there isn’t a moat.”
“Braemore isn’t a real castle, I’m afraid.” Roland removed his spectacles, eyes trailing up. “Only built near the site of one.”
“Well, she’s earned the title, I’d say.”
Roland looked at me and I noticed the sharp edge of his chin, shaved clean. “I like you, Miss Preston. Shall we go in?”
I replaced my hat. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As we climbed the stairs, I relished the luxurious way my heels clicked on the sandstone, heightened by a warm breeze and the distant fizz of fountain mist. All I needed was a mink stole to look as fabulous as I felt.
A butler opened the front door, towering over both Roland and I with perfectly parted grey hair and the face of a basset hound. We stepped indoors and as my eyes adjusted to the change of light, my jaw hinged open. The hall was tiled in black and white marble, lined with Roman columns and statuary, baroque portraits and the dome—I craned my neck to see it better—hosted an ethereal scene suitable for the Vatican City, vibrant pastels lit perfectly by a ring of arched windows. Beneath it, a gilded balcony with the promise of more wonder beyond.
“Huxley, this is Mizz Preston,” Roland said. My attention was momentarily drawn away from the decor. “See her cases are brought upstairs.”
“Certainly, sir.” Huxley bowed at the neck as a footman took Roland’s hat and then mine. “Shall I inform His Lordship of Miss Preston’s arrival, sir?”
“No need. Do you require refreshment, darling? Tea is served at half four.”
Roland was looking at me. I shook myself from a daze. “I can wait. Will you tell me who did the artwork in this room? It’s exquisite.”
Before he had the chance to answer, my eyes caught a flourish of muslin as a young woman looked down over the balcony. She darted and disappeared, the sound of her heels echoing from a marble stairwell flanking the hall, then materialized again. Her tubular dress was simple but for brightly colored embroidered wildflowers—daisies and poppies and marigolds—with a modern scalloped hem. Dark curls were bobbed slightly shorter than mine, with a light, wavy fringe.
“Roland, you didn’t say you were going yourself. Hello, there.” She eyed me curiously, then looked again to her brother. The siblings truly resembled one another in brows and nose and full lips, though where Roland was sharp in jaw and chin, Celia was perfectly soft and cherubic. “Where’s the artist? Did he miss his train?”
“The artist is here.” Roland swept his hand in my direction. “May I introduce Miss Bertie Preston. Miss Preston, my sister, Lady Celia Napier.”
The girl spoke before I could, a little choke in her voice. “Miss! I say!” She blinked rapidly at Roland. They seemed to converse silently then, Roland shaking his head ever so slightly.
I was nervous again. “This is a pleasure, my lady.”
Celia’s chin turned to me. “How sweet. She’s incredibly sweet, Roland. Does Julian know?”
“That Miss Preston is incredibly sweet?”
“That Miss Preston is a Miss.”
“I should think not.”
