Publication Date: June 25, 2019
The Cameo Press Ltd
eBook & Paperback; 496 Pages
Genre: Historical Fiction/Time Travel
Outlander meets Birdsong is this haunting debut timeslip novel, where a strange twist of fate connects a British soldier fighting in the First World War and a young woman living in modern-day England a century later.
*Shortlisted for the Eharmony/Orion Write Your Own Love Story Prize 2018/19
In 1916 1st Lieutenant Robert Lovett is a patient at Coldbrook Hall military hospital in Sussex, England. A gifted artist, he’s been wounded fighting in the Great War. Shell shocked and suffering from hysterical blindness he can no longer see his own face, let alone paint, and life seems increasingly hopeless.
A century later in 2017, medical student Louisa Casson has just lost her beloved grandmother – her only family. Heartbroken, she drowns her sorrows in alcohol on the South Downs cliffs – only to fall accidentally part-way down. Doctors fear she may have attempted suicide, and Louisa finds herself involuntarily admitted to Coldbrook Hall – now a psychiatric hospital, an unfriendly and chaotic place.
Then one day, while secretly exploring the old Victorian hospital’s ruined, abandoned wing, Louisa hears a voice calling for help, and stumbles across a dark, old-fashioned hospital room. Inside, lying on the floor, is a mysterious, sightless young man, who tells her he was hurt at the Battle of the Somme, a WW1 battle a century ago. And that his name is Lieutenant Robert Lovett…
Two people, two battles: one against the invading Germans on the battlefields of 1916 France, the other against a substandard, uncaring mental health facility in modern-day England. Two journeys begun a century apart, but somehow destined to coincide – and become one desperate struggle to be together.
Part WW1 historical fiction, part timeslip love story – and at the same time a meditation on the themes of war, mental illness, identity and art – Beyond The Moon sweeps the reader on an unforgettable journey through time. An intelligent read, perfect for book clubs.
For fans of Diana Gabaldon, Amy Harmon, Beatriz Williams, Kate Quinn, Kristin Hannah, Kate Morton, Susanna Kearsley and Paullina Simons.
AMAZON | INDIEBOUND
Praise:
“A poignant and stirring love story… Taylor’s accomplished, genre-bending book succeeds as a WW1 historical novel and a beguiling, time travel romance… The sharply written narrative deftly moves back and forth between the past and present.” — Kirkus Reviews
“A time travel romance, yet so much more than that. It is also an unflinching portrait of the horrors of war, and a look at the torturous extremes a human soul can endure. It is a sonnet to the transformative power of love, even as it is also a criticism of the futility and pointless destructiveness of war.” — Shaylin Gandhi, author of By The Light of Embers
Excerpt:
Coldbrook Hall Military Hospital, Sussex,
England, August 1916
Footsteps,
then a rap at the door. Lying in bed, Robert jumped. Was there really someone
there or was he dreaming? He could barely tell any more if he was asleep or
awake.
There was a painful swell of yellow-grey
light, and he felt his pupils contract. Ah, so he was definitely awake then.
The light receded as the door closed behind whoever had come in. A doctor, by
the sound of the brisk footfall and confident knock.
‘Good evening, Lieutenant,’ a man said.
‘How are we this evening?’
‘Much the same, sir. I’m sorry, who is
this? I’m not awfully good at telling voices apart.’
‘It’s Major Hughes, the neurologist.
You’ll find it remarkable how your other senses learn to compensate over time.
Some sightless people even come to know when an object is close by, through
some extraordinary sixth sense they develop. But of course, we hope things will
improve for you before it comes to anything like that.’
More footsteps – and another stab of pain
as light spilled into his head again. He screwed his eyes shut. A nurse bade
him good evening. He could hear the hiss of the gas lamp on the landing
outside. He said, ‘Could you push the door to, please? I find the light
painful.’
‘Come now, Mr Lovett, you must get used to
the light again eventually,’ the doctor said. ‘How do you expect to regain your
sight lying here in the dark? Don’t you want to recover?’
‘More than anything,’ Robert responded
fiercely. ‘It’s the only thing I want, to get better and return to France, to
my men.’
‘Yes of course, of course,’ the doctor
said quickly. ‘You are an officer recommended for the Military Cross. I didn’t
mean to imply . . . I beg your pardon; that was tactless of me. Push the door
to, please, Sister. Leave it just a little ajar so I can see well enough to
examine the lieutenant.’
Robert heard the stethoscope slip from the
doctor’s neck. That sound, at least, was familiar.
‘Breathe in . . . and out. Again, please.
Good. And hold out your hands in front of you. Still rather unsteady. Sister,
would you please undo the lieutenant’s dressing, so I may examine his leg? And
how are the headaches at night? Any improvement?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘And you’re still troubled by nightmares?’
‘Yes. When I finally manage to fall
asleep. Or at least I think I’ve been asleep. I can’t always tell.’
‘It’s important that you try to sleep only
at night, to help maintain the distinction between night and day – apart from a
good hour’s nap after luncheon. I’m glad to say your wound is looking better,
Lieutenant. Very well, I think it best we continue with the same regimen:
isolation, rest, a light invalid diet – beef tea, milk, calves foot jelly – and
daily massage to your injured leg.’
‘Please, no more jelly. I can’t bear it.
And I’m so terribly bored. If I were to be allowed the occasional visitor . . .
’
‘It really is quite the best thing for
you. You mustn’t be overtaxed in any way. We may try bromides to help you
sleep. And if your sight doesn’t improve in the next few weeks, we may consider
faradism to the orbital ridge.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The application of an electrical current.
It’s proven successful in some cases of hysterical blindness like yours, where
there’s no organic cause for the sight loss.’
‘Then I should like it as soon as
possible, sir.’
‘Patience, Mr Lovett; one step at a time.
You’ve been through a harrowing experience. One must respect Mother Nature.’
‘Even when her processes are inscrutable?
I simply want to be better.’
‘I know. I understand. But I’m afraid it
doesn’t work quite like that. We’re not even sure of the mechanism of your
sight loss. And as I’ve warned you before, there may be permanent damage; it
may be that you won’t ever be able to paint again. You must try to be
optimistic, but at the same time prepare yourself for any eventuality. Now I’ll
let you get back to your rest. Good evening.’
They left, and the room brimmed with
silence and anguish once more. Oh God, would he ever see again – well enough
even to wash or feed himself, let alone paint landscapes and still-life
pictures? Or would he be shut up forever in this crypt of shadows, wretched, a
prisoner in his own body, shirking his duty while the Somme campaign went from
bad to worse, neglecting his men, seeping away from the world bit by bit? He
couldn’t even see his own face in the mirror. He felt he was turning into a
ghost or a spirit – a figment of his own imagination.
He would sacrifice his art, he promised
now to whatever gods might be listening, if in return it meant he might see
well enough to lead his men once more. That, alone, mattered. Painting belonged
to another life – a higher, more rarefied existence, which no longer concerned
him. He had fallen a long way from grace; he was a base, primitive creature
now.
It began to rain. He liked rain. The
patter on the stone terrace outside his room gave a sort of shape back to the
world and made it familiar once more.
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Thank you so much for hosting Beyond the Moon, Jenny! Happy Holidays!
ReplyDeleteAmy
HF Virtual Book Tours
My pleasure!
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