"The ghost of Emily Bronte helps an American girl find love"
Reviewed by Clare O'Beara
Posted May 31, 2014
Romance Contemporary
We meet Eleanor reading in a coffee shop in New York on a
day of thunder and downpours in SOLSBURY HILL. She's
waiting for her boyfriend, and she's quite a self-
possessed, modern young woman. Before long however she has
learned that her aunt Alice is dying in England and would
love to see her; also that her boyfriend Miles is in a fact
a jerk who deserves no more of her time.
Eleanor makes the journey alone. The big country house
Trent Hall in Yorkshire is atmospheric and the wind blows
unceasingly, just like in 'Wuthering Heights'. Maybe this
is why she dreams of a girl sitting on her bed. Alice tells
her that the women of this family have a tendency to choose
between two men, not always correctly. Her heirloom ring of
Whitby jet is supposed to help them choose. Then Eleanor
finds that the house will pass down to her. The income from
crops and rentals supports the place, so it needn't be
sold. Local man Mead shows her around the countryside,
dodging snowstorms in a rural pub. Somehow Eleanor can't
bring herself to mention the girl she keeps seeing in the
hand-sewn dress....
With a visit to Haworth Parsonage, home of the Brontes, and
the moorland air making walkers and riders constantly
hungry, there is a fine sense of place through this tale of
love, generations and finding one's identity. Miles
hastily repents and phones Eleanor to say he wants to come
and join her; was I too suspicious that he had heard she
would inherit? Mead has been the steward of the land,
buildings and rare old books; Eleanor who was last in
Britain as a child, feels she doesn't deserve any of these.
She makes specialty wool clothing and she's finally
achieving success with her line. As the modern age catches
up and a phone is a guidebook to the old city of York, it
is clear that something will need to change.
A mix of ghost story and the history of Emily Bronte, adds
another dimension to this modern romance and keeps the
reader interested. I enjoyed all the distinct characters
and the way that the fast-paced New York life gives way to
a slower rhythm in which tensed-up Eleanor gradually comes
to relax. Written in a literary style which manages to be
extremely readable, Susan M Wyler's book SOLSBURY HILL is
enthralling and will please anyone interested in travelling
to Yorkshire as well as lovers of old-fashioned romance.
SUMMARY
"Susan Wyler's contemporary take on a classic love story
is utterly beguiling. Solsbury Hill is a gorgeously
well-written tale of a fraught love affair that takes you
from New York to the wild gothic setting of the Yorkshire
moors."—Fiona Neill, author of Slummy Mummy and
What the Nanny Saw The windswept moors of England, a grand rustic estate, and a
love story of one woman caught between two men who love her
powerfully—all inspired by Emily Bronte’s beloved classic,
Wuthering Heights. Solsbury Hill brings the
legend of Catherine and Heathcliff, and that of their
mysterious creator herself, into a contemporary love story
that unlocks the past. When a surprise call from a dying aunt brings
twenty-something New Yorker Eleanor Abbott to the Yorkshire
moors, and the family estate she is about to inherit, she
finds a world beyond anything she might have expected.
Having left behind an American fiance, here Eleanor meets
Meadowscarp MacLeod—a young man who challenges and changes
her. Here too she encounters the presence of Bronte herself
and discovers a family legacy they may share. With winds powerful enough to carve stone and bend trees,
the moors are another world where time and space work
differently. Remanants of the past are just around a craggy,
windswept corner. For Eleanor, this means ancestors and a
devastating romantic history that bears on her own life, on
the history of the novel Wuthering Heights, and on
the destinies of all who live in its shadow
ExcerptAlone in the courtyard she was seized by fear: a choked
feeling in her throat and a chill, as if she’d been brushed
up against. One hand squeezed the soft leather of her
suitcase handle and the other hand held tight to the strap
over her shoulder, as if these would anchor her, so she
startled when she heard a crunch behind her and turned to
see a man. “I’m Granley,” he said and reached to take the burden of her
suitcase. “Don’t be concerned, you’re in the right place.
You’re Alice’s niece, Miss Eleanor Sutton, eh?” “I am. I’m Eleanor Abbott. Eleanor Sutton Abbott.” She
smiled. She rarely used her full name. Reluctantly, she let
go of the suitcase, then shifted her bag and reached to
shake his hand, but he didn’t take it. “You were worried,” he said. She wrapped a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was a bit.”
He picked up her suitcase and reached for her satchel. She
followed him. “Is it always this windy?” “’Tis more or less this way always. ’Tis wutherin’
weather.” There were leaves hanging in midair. “The dull
roarin’ sound of the wind, that’s it.” He threw his head in
the direction of the moor where the land rolled away from
the house. An echoed crunch of gravel as they walked across the drive,
Granley led her inside the shadow of an arch into a well-lit
entrance hall whose walls were paneled in aged darkwood.
With the bags set down, he reached to take her coat. Again,
she startled. “Steady,” he said. She felt his gaze unwavering on her face.
“Are ye timid?” A girl in lace leggings and a short skirt. “I’m not. I’m
really not.” She laughed at herself. Took a deep breath to
calm down. Tucked her hair behind her ear again. “I help Alice with most everything needs doing ’round here.
Well, not everything . . .” He cocked his head for her to
follow and led her into the kitchen. She smelled fresh-baked
bread. “The women take care of some things,” he said. He
stooped as he stepped through the doorway because he was too
tall for the passage. Inside the spacious kitchen, with
well-worn yellow-stone floors and ancient fixtures, were two
women busy as if it were the middle of the day. The older of the two, handsome and somehow elegant despite
the white apron tied around her middle, turned and gasped,
“Eleanor, you’re here!” She wiped her hands and took off her
apron, then opened her arms and gave Eleanor a warm hug. “I’m sorry it’s so late.” “No, we were expecting you.” The kind stranger stepped back and looked into Eleanor’s
face. “You’re much like your mother, do you know that? Alice
is going to be so pleased.” She held Eleanor’s face in her
hands and saw her confusion. “I’m Gwen Angle, dear. We spoke
on the telephone.” Eleanor nodded and smiled. She noticed that under the apron
was a well-cut wool dress. Ms. Angle’s face was long, lean,
with a broad jaw and high cheekbones. Her eyes were
intelligent and deep blue. Her cheeks were flushed from the
heat of the oven. “This is Tilda,” she said briskly, introducing the woman
who’d just pulled fresh loaves from the wood-burning stove.
Tilda nodded her head with a confident smile. “Will you sit down and have a bite? There’s dinner warm in
the stove and it’s good.” “It smells incredible, but I’m not at all hungry right now.
Later maybe?” While Ms. Angle kicked off her slippers and stepped into a
pair of heels, Eleanor had a chance to take in the room,
pristine and intact from another century: the refectory
table and a mismatched collection of tatty Windsor chairs,
dishes draining on a rack, stone walls, and a brick
fireplace deep and almost tall enough to stand inside. “The kitchen could use an update,” Ms. Angle said as she led
Eleanor out, under the front stairs, into a large sitting
room with high, coffered ceilings. It was gracious, with
deep upholstered furniture and a lush Oriental rug that was
pretty, feminine, with an abstract design in ivory, pale
apricot, and celadon.
“Alice is sleeping, of course,” she said. “I’m sure you’re
eager to see her. You must be exhausted. Will you have a
glass of sherry?” Granley interrupted, “Ms. Angle, she’s all set. In the best
room.” “Thank you, Granley, good night.” Ms. Angle rolled her eyes.
“Alice’s idea of the best room is an odd, small room at the
corner of the house with a lovely view. If it’s not all
right . . .” “She’ll like it,” Granley broke in abruptly and left the
room. “I’m sure I will,” said Eleanor. “There’s another one across the hall from it, if you don’t.
Sit down, darling,” Ms. Angle said. There was a log fire blazing in the fireplace and Eleanor
picked a large chair close to the warmth of it. She was out
of sorts, felt a buzz at the edge of her skin, was confused
by the stately home and by Ms. Angle’s warm and familiar
welcome at such a late hour. “It’s such a pleasure to see you,” Ms. Angle said. She
seemed in good spirits. “It’s good to meet you, too.” “I hope you don’t mind not seeing Alice tonight, but I’m
worried she won’t sleep again if we wake her now. Do you
mind terribly? Waiting till the morning?” “Not at all, it’s fine. Of course. Is she any better?” “She will be when she sees you, dear. It means the world to
her, your coming. Since she fell ill, it’s been a steep
slope down, and she’s been working so hard since then. It
seems like her soul is urgently taking care of things,
packing for a very long journey, you’d think.” She poured
dark sherry into a small, tulip-shaped crystal glass and
handed it to Eleanor.
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