The Whispering Women, Book #1, A Delafield & Malloy Investigation by Trish MacEnulty released last year in the Historical Mystery, Women’s Fiction genre.

Can two women get the lowdown on high society?

Louisa Delafield and Ellen Malloy didn’t ask to be thrown together to bring the truth to light. But after Ellen witnesses the death of a fellow servant during an illegal abortion, Louisa, a society columnist, vows to help her find the truth and turn her journalistic talent to a greater purpose.

Together, these unlikely allies battle to get the truth out, and to avenge the wrongful death of a friend.

What will our heroes do when their closest allies and those they trust turn out to be the very forces working to keep their story in the dark? They’ll face an abortionist, a sex trafficking ring, and a corrupt system determined to keep the truth at bay.

Universal Link:  https://books2read.com/u/47Vrla

Grand Central Terminal was as stunning a marvel as had ever been built in New York City. Marble floors gleamed asthe crowds pushed through the long sloping hallway. The loud, excited chatter around her dimmed as soon as they entered the Grand Concourse, thousands of milling people awed and humbled by the enormity of the place.

Louisa’s head swiveled: the Botticino marble, the opal faces on the clock — heaven only knew how much that was worth! — the enormous arching ceiling, encompassing the entire zodiac with 2,500 stars. And the electric lights! It wasa secular cathedral to progress and capitalism.

“You mustn’t gawk, Louisa,” Dorothy said, her expensive perfume wafting across Louisa’s cheeks in a sweet andsmoky composition of frankincense, almond, and vanilla.

“But it’s spectacular,” Louisa said. “Look at all the lights!”

“I’m told there are four thousand electric light bulbs,” Hugh said, gazing up at the twinkling ceiling. His arm brushed against Louisa’s as he turned in a circle. For a moment, they stayed there in each other’s orbit, and Louisa admitted to herself, she didn’t mind. Then the spell was broken.

“The train!” someone shouted. They followed the crowd out of the concourse to the platforms and heard, rather than saw, the Boston Express pulling out of the station.

“Let’s find the party,” Dorothy said, unimpressed by the departing train. “I’m desperate for champagne.”

Louisa glanced once more at the arched doorways down into the bowels of the building where trains waited likesubterranean beasts, then followed her friends back to the main concourse, knowing that her readers would be eager to learn how the elite celebrated the momentous event.

Dorothy’s mother, Natasha, stood guard at the entrance of the Oyster Room, wearing a towering hat of feathers shapedlike a mohawk. A filthy young woman in rags slouched near the doorway. Natasha appeared to be saying something to the ragged woman, but as they got closer, Louisa saw she was handing her a sandwich before shooing her away.

That was so like Natasha, Louisa thought, to take the time to alleviate someone else’s hunger. She was the epitome of class.

“If it isn’t my winsome daughter and her beautiful friends,” Natasha said with a bright smile. Dorothy breezed past hermother, but Louisa stopped and accepted a peck on the cheek before following the others into the restaurant.

Once inside, Hugh wandered off in search of something stronger than the ubiquitous champagne. Louisa gazed around the room. Diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires dangled from women’s necks, earlobes, and wrists. Glasses clinked on silver trays. The grand dames, Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, claimed one corner of the room. The youngerset claimed another corner. Louisa would need to include all their names in her column, a rather tedious part of the job.

“Notice the Guastavino tiles,” William Vanderbilt declaimed in his sonorous voice as he pointed to the terra-cotta tiles covering the great arched ceiling. A tall, slightly stooped man, he was surrounded by his cronies along with thebuilding’s architects and engineers.

“Those men. So boring and old,” Dorothy said with distaste. “You’d think architects would be dashing. They’re like a bunch of toads in the bog.”

Hattie turned to Louisa and asked, “Do you know I have a lady’s maid now that I’m a debutante?” Hattie had just turned eighteen. She was round and soft with a slight double chin like a baby’s, a distinct contrast to the elegant, angular Dorothy.

“Of course you do,” Louisa said, thinking how much simpler life would be if she had a lady’s maid to help with her thick hair, which roamed over her head like an animal with a mind of its own.

“She’s Irish,” Hattie prattled on. “Mother says that foreigners make the best servants.

American girls are too impertinent. And, of course, no one has colored servants.” “Really? Suzie has been indispensable,” Louisa said.

Louisa turned to see Hugh’s mother, Amelia, bearing down on them. Amelia saw Louisa and displayed a brittle smile that went no further than the lips.

“Louisa, how nice to see you, and what a lovely dress,” Amelia said with a slight sneer as if she remembered the same dress three decades ago on Louisa’s mother.

Hattie looked eagerly at Louisa. “We will see you at Mama’s party for the Portuguese princess, won’t we?”

“Hattie!” Amelia said sharply. “The soirée is a private affair.”

Hattie looked chagrined, and Louisa felt the color rise to her face. Hattie had been a little girl when Louisa’s family fell from grace, but as a girl she’d idolized Louisa who’d always included the younger kids in the summer games. Hattiehadn’t yet absorbed her mother’s worldview that money meant everything.

“I don’t mean to offend, Louisa, I know your family is quite distinguished, but you are a member of the press,” Amelia said, as if she were noting that Louisa had leprosy.

“That I am, Mrs. Garrett,” Louisa said. “And I should get to work.”

She turned away abruptly, determined to put Amelia’s Garrett snobbery out of her mind. A few of the old guard, it wastrue, only tolerated Louisa’s presence at their affairs because of her family name, but the younger women and the ones who were newer to society — the climbing roses — fawned on her in the hopes of seeing their names in her column and their dresses described in glittering detail. Still, Mrs. Garrett’s snide comment had fanned the flame of fear in her chest, and she remembered that her livelihood was in peril.

Tonight presented Louisa with the opportunity to write about something other than whether hats would be smaller this year, or whether Miss Rothschild carried orange blossoms or tea roses at her debutante party, or what kind of china cups were used for coffee at the charity luncheon for orphans. She would prove to the obnoxious new editor that her column could be substantial — even if she didn’t come up with any “dirt.”

Author Bio:

Trish MacEnulty is a bestselling novelist. In addition to her historical fiction, she has published novels, a short story collection, and a memoir. A former Professor of English, she currently lives in Florida with her husband, two dogs, and one cat. She writes book reviews and feature articles for the Historical Novel Review. She loves reading, writing, walking with her dogs, streaming historical series, cooking, and dancing. 

Website: https://trishmacenulty.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/pmacenulty

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100055362621397

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/trishmac_historicalfiction/

Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/trish-macenulty

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Trish-MacEnulty/author/B01G4A797G

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15085884.Trish_MacEnulty

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This post is part of a tour. Tour Schedule Page:  https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2023/01/blog-tour-delafield-and-malloy-investigations.html