9780440240617

Tennyson

by
  • ISBN13:

    9780440240617

  • ISBN10:

    0440240611

  • Format: Trade Paper
  • Copyright: 2009-08-25
  • Publisher: Yearling
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Summary

It's 1932, the Depression. Things are evening out among people everywhere. Tennyson Fontaine and her sister Hattie live in a rickety shack of a house with their mother and father and their wild dog, Jos. There is no school, only a rope swing in the living room and endless games of hide-and-seek in the woods on the banks of the Mississippi. But when their mother disappears and their father sets off to find her, the girls find themselves whisked away to Aigredoux, once one of the grandest houses in Louisiana, and now a vine-covered ruin. Under the care of their austere Aunt Henrietta, who is convinced the girls will save the family's failing fortunes, Tennyson discovers the truth about Aigredoux, the secrets that have remained locked deep within its decaying walls. Caught in a strange web of time and history, Tennyson comes up with a plan to bring Aigreoux's past to light. But will it bring her mother home? From the Hardcover edition.

Author Biography

Lesley M. M. Blume is the critically acclaimed author of Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters and The Rising Star of Rusty Nail. She lives in New York City.

Excerpts

Innisfree Strange things had happened at Innisfree before. In fact, strange was usually normal at Innisfree. But what had happened the night before was a new sort of strange. A frightening, unsettling sort of strange, the sort of strange that nags at you when you try not to think about it and flickers behind your eyelids when you try to go to bed at night and won’t let the sleep come.

Sadie hadn’t come home.

The game of hide-and-seek had ended hours before, at dusk, as usual. At Innisfree, games of hide-and-seek took place in the tangled woods surrounding the shack on all sides, and they lasted all day. You could hide anywhere, practically. Up in a tree; behind a thorny bush; in a hollowed, burnt-out stump. You could even bury yourself in the dirt and leaves and wait there for hours, breathing in the musty smell.

But there were rules too. Rule number one: you couldn’t hide in the river. The river might look cool and inviting, but it was filled with tricks and temptations and secret dark swirls that would grab a little girl around her ankles and pull her down to the bottom.

“Look down, but don’t lean over too far,” Emery had warned his girls one day as he paddled them along the river currents in the rowboat. “Just far enough to catch a glimpse.”

A glimpse of what, Tennyson and Hattie had asked their father.

“The little girls at the bottom of the river,” he answered. “That’s what the Mississippi does. It tempts you in, and then it catches you. It loves you and doesn’t want to let you go. So it pulls you down to the bottom and keeps you there. If you look down, you’ll see the faces of the little girls who didn’t listen.”

“I see one,” cried Hattie, who was only five at the time, pointing down at the water. “She’s staring up at me! Oh, can’t we reach in and save her?”

Emery laughed. “That’s just your reflection,” he told her.

And how was Hattie to know? There were no mirrors at Innisfree. No pictures, no paintings, no way to see what you looked like, except when others described you back to yourself. The only reflections at Innisfree were words.

So, that was one of the rules. That the Mississippi was hungry, and would resort to all sorts of intrigues to trap you in the dark, silty stillness at the bottom for eternity. That’s why no one was allowed to hide in the river.

Another rule: the game was over at dusk. Always. Because you never know what could happen to you in the woods after dark. So when the sun began to sink down low over the river and the air around you started to turn purple-gray and the lightning bugs hung like fairy lights in the haze, it was time to go home. You would come out of hiding. You would pad barefoot through the trees, slapping mosquitoes away from your ankles, until you saw the damp yellow light of the oil lamp on the porch of Innisfree.

Everyone knew these rules. Which is why Tennyson and Hattie grew worried when their mother Sadie hadn’t come home at sunset.

“What if the river caught her,” Hattie whimpered. “What if she’s stuck down there at the bottom, with all of the little girls who didn’t listen?”

Emery sat on the stairs of the front porch and stared out into the black woods. The right side of his sweaty face glistened in the light of the lamp. He didn’t say anything.

“How will we get her out of the river?” pressed Hattie, who was eight years old now.

“I don’t know, baby,” Emery said.

Tennyson, who was eleven, sat cross-legged on the far end of the porch, just outside the ring of yellow light, in the sticky black shadows. She watched her father, who was rocking ever so slightly, as though lulling an invisible baby to sleep. His lips moved and he was sayi

Excerpted from Tennyson by Lesley M. M. Blume
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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