Our 2021 Hook, Line & Sinker Winning Entry:
Secrets and Smoke by Esme Cooper!
Secrets and Smoke by Esme Cooper!
Esme Cooper is a new voice in historical fiction, specializing in Victorian-era stories with gothic overtones. She loves to fill spooky houses with passionate characters who have to face their fears in order to find love. After abandoning her first manuscript in kindergarten, Cooper grew up dabbling in fanfiction before getting serious about writing romance. After many years of RWA chapter conferences, online classes, writing groups, and research trips, Cooper finished her first full manuscript in the 2020 lockdown. Secrets and Smoke is the culmination of a 25-year addiction to historical romance for Cooper, who at a young age discovered by accident the upstairs closet where her mother hid her romance novels. Cooper secretly read every single book that ended up in that closet, carefully putting each book back exactly where she had found it. (Her mom still doesn't know!) A lifelong reader, she's especially loved gothics by Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart and has a soft spot for classics, specifically anything by the Bronte Sisters, Jane Austen, and Thomas Hardy. When not writing, Cooper loves to travel, linger at book clubs, and put ice in her white wine. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and a small gang of cats.
You can find out more about Esme here!
And here is her winning entry!
Stella Alton’s coin purse made little noise anymore. Long gone were the days of coins clinking and clanking together, the purse’s heavy weight hitting her side as she walked. Now, here at the empty bar of Baytown’s only pub, so far from home she couldn’t go back, she opened her purse to choose the coin she needed. As there were only three choices, it wasn’t hard to find.
The innkeeper tried his pitch again. “Won’t you let the missus make up a room for you? You’ve likely been traveling for a day or more. You’ll be wanting your rest.”
Distressingly, no one from Hawkehaven Hall met her arrival on the afternoon mail coach an hour ago and she had just been informed the only mode of transportation to the estate was her own boots. “Can I pay you a penny to store my trunk and for directions?”
The innkeeper lifted a bushy grey eyebrow. “City mouse like you is going to walk four miles cross country in that?” He jabbed a finger towards a window framing a rectangle of darkening sky, its clouds swift and menacing.
Stella nodded, missing her native London and its crowded, twisty lanes. Yorkshire was so open, so empty. The innkeeper probably knew she didn’t belong here the moment she opened her mouth to ask about transportation. She had traveled so far that her accent was now foreign.
“Strange how they didn’t send someone to meet you,” he said, not unkindly.
“Strange indeed.” Had Lord Radcliffe forgotten the commission he promised? Had he changed his mind? At the possibility of the latter, her stomach lurched like it was still being bounced around by the daredevil coach driver who seemed to aim at each pothole in the road from Scarborough to Whitby. Her whole future depended on this commission. In her whole twenty-five years, she’d never needed anything more. “I have to get to Hawkehaven tonight. Do we have a deal?”
Shrugging, the innkeeper held out his hand. She dipped into her purse for her third to last coin and dropped it onto his palm, watching carefully until his plump fingers closed around it.
“Are you a relation? You look like Miss Radcliffe, you know.” He waved a hand in the general direction of her drooping black bonnet. “Curly yellow hair and all that.”
Stella stiffened. She was no relation to the Radcliffes. No relation to anyone now that her father was dead. In her experience, family was a harrowing, heartbreaking burden. No relations suited her just fine. “No, I don’t have a family. The directions, please?”
He motioned her to follow him and they stepped outside. The wind had picked up. Its salty-smelling fingers tugged at her bonnet strings.
“Take this lane until the bridge past the church,” the innkeeper began, pointing over the tidy Baytown village square.
She listened carefully as the directions went on and on, forcing her travel-weary brain to memorize the long list of strange landmarks he listed. When he finished, he sighed deeply, looking like he might bow and accept applause for such a great performance. “Catch all that?”
Stella popped open the small portmanteau with her supplies and produced a paintbrush. Crouching, she used the pointy end to draw the rough shape of the village square in the dirt, a long line leading away from it. Four quick scratches made a box for the church and two more added a cross on top. Two half-moon shapes formed a bridge. Several more lines and shapes later, she had a map.
“Lastly,” she said, tapping the final squiggle, “I follow this stone wall to the Hawkehaven gates.”
That bushy grey eyebrow rose again. “You’re a determined one, aren’t you?
”
Standing, she wiped the paintbrush on skirts already dusty from travel. She tucked the brush back in with its friends and snapped the portmanteau shut with decisive force. “Lately, yes.”
“Just send one of the house staff to fetch the trunk in the morning.” He pointed to a lone trunk sleeping at the side of the square. “It’s that one here then?”
She nodded and gripped her portmanteau tighter, hoping its precious contents would give her the strength to endure the sinister-looking clouds ahead, and whatever welcome awaited her. She was so close to the end of her long journey. So close.
“Good luck to you, Miss. If you reach the sea, you’ve gone too far.”
She managed a worried smile for his attempt at a joke. “Thank you.”
“And be very careful at Hawkehaven.”
Stella didn’t need reminding that she was young and alone and on her way to an unfamiliar house full of strangers. She had thought of little else in the last few days. Something about the innkeeper’s tone though made her pause. He sounded as uneasy as she was.
“Why? Why should I be careful at Hawkehaven Hall?”
“It’s haunted,” he said, backing away. “From end to end.”
The innkeeper tried his pitch again. “Won’t you let the missus make up a room for you? You’ve likely been traveling for a day or more. You’ll be wanting your rest.”
Distressingly, no one from Hawkehaven Hall met her arrival on the afternoon mail coach an hour ago and she had just been informed the only mode of transportation to the estate was her own boots. “Can I pay you a penny to store my trunk and for directions?”
The innkeeper lifted a bushy grey eyebrow. “City mouse like you is going to walk four miles cross country in that?” He jabbed a finger towards a window framing a rectangle of darkening sky, its clouds swift and menacing.
Stella nodded, missing her native London and its crowded, twisty lanes. Yorkshire was so open, so empty. The innkeeper probably knew she didn’t belong here the moment she opened her mouth to ask about transportation. She had traveled so far that her accent was now foreign.
“Strange how they didn’t send someone to meet you,” he said, not unkindly.
“Strange indeed.” Had Lord Radcliffe forgotten the commission he promised? Had he changed his mind? At the possibility of the latter, her stomach lurched like it was still being bounced around by the daredevil coach driver who seemed to aim at each pothole in the road from Scarborough to Whitby. Her whole future depended on this commission. In her whole twenty-five years, she’d never needed anything more. “I have to get to Hawkehaven tonight. Do we have a deal?”
Shrugging, the innkeeper held out his hand. She dipped into her purse for her third to last coin and dropped it onto his palm, watching carefully until his plump fingers closed around it.
“Are you a relation? You look like Miss Radcliffe, you know.” He waved a hand in the general direction of her drooping black bonnet. “Curly yellow hair and all that.”
Stella stiffened. She was no relation to the Radcliffes. No relation to anyone now that her father was dead. In her experience, family was a harrowing, heartbreaking burden. No relations suited her just fine. “No, I don’t have a family. The directions, please?”
He motioned her to follow him and they stepped outside. The wind had picked up. Its salty-smelling fingers tugged at her bonnet strings.
“Take this lane until the bridge past the church,” the innkeeper began, pointing over the tidy Baytown village square.
She listened carefully as the directions went on and on, forcing her travel-weary brain to memorize the long list of strange landmarks he listed. When he finished, he sighed deeply, looking like he might bow and accept applause for such a great performance. “Catch all that?”
Stella popped open the small portmanteau with her supplies and produced a paintbrush. Crouching, she used the pointy end to draw the rough shape of the village square in the dirt, a long line leading away from it. Four quick scratches made a box for the church and two more added a cross on top. Two half-moon shapes formed a bridge. Several more lines and shapes later, she had a map.
“Lastly,” she said, tapping the final squiggle, “I follow this stone wall to the Hawkehaven gates.”
That bushy grey eyebrow rose again. “You’re a determined one, aren’t you?
”
Standing, she wiped the paintbrush on skirts already dusty from travel. She tucked the brush back in with its friends and snapped the portmanteau shut with decisive force. “Lately, yes.”
“Just send one of the house staff to fetch the trunk in the morning.” He pointed to a lone trunk sleeping at the side of the square. “It’s that one here then?”
She nodded and gripped her portmanteau tighter, hoping its precious contents would give her the strength to endure the sinister-looking clouds ahead, and whatever welcome awaited her. She was so close to the end of her long journey. So close.
“Good luck to you, Miss. If you reach the sea, you’ve gone too far.”
She managed a worried smile for his attempt at a joke. “Thank you.”
“And be very careful at Hawkehaven.”
Stella didn’t need reminding that she was young and alone and on her way to an unfamiliar house full of strangers. She had thought of little else in the last few days. Something about the innkeeper’s tone though made her pause. He sounded as uneasy as she was.
“Why? Why should I be careful at Hawkehaven Hall?”
“It’s haunted,” he said, backing away. “From end to end.”
Congratulations to our other 2021 Hook, Line and Sinker Finalists!
Renee Wildes, Rekindled Hearts
Deborah DeHaemer, 2033: Ancestor Resurrection
Patricia Simpson, The Spell
Rachel Osborn, Judge, Jury and Two Exes
Renee Wildes, Rekindled Hearts
Deborah DeHaemer, 2033: Ancestor Resurrection
Patricia Simpson, The Spell
Rachel Osborn, Judge, Jury and Two Exes
Two notes:
Many thanks to HVRWA member author Jessica Gorman for our Winner and Finalist Graphics!
The Hook, LIne and Sinker Contest is going on hiatus for 2021 (with winners announced in 2022). We hope to return in 2022. Thank you for your understanding.
