***** FIVE STARS
Meticulously researched, historically accurate,
"SONG OF INNOCENCE" throws Mignon San Marcos into the
intrigue and horror of the Napoleonic era. Unaware
that she is a ward of Napoleon who protects her from
Royalists who would have her dead, Mignon finds
herself alone and homeless on the streets of Paris.
She is befriended by a prostitute who endeavors to
teach her 'the profession'.
Mignon's first attempt takes her to the bed chamber of
an Austrian aristocrat, Charles Eugene von Klein, a
member of the Royalists who plot to dethrone the
Emperor Napoleon. Mignon falls in love with Charles
who vows to protect her. Mignon, in turn, proclaims
him her only true love and remains steadfast to this
love through all the trials they face.
This novel is destined to become a classic.
The reader races through page after page of enough
excitement for both male and female. The masculine
taste for battle and intrigue balances the female
penchant for romance. All will enjoy the lyrical
voice of the author as she takes the reader from
start to surprise ending.
Jo Hollier - Journalist, Novelist, Teacher of Creative
Writing, part-time faculty of Eastern Washington
University, Cheney, WA.
~~**~~
*****FIVE STARS
Ms. Casares is truly an artist. She paints a
picture with words to sweep the reader into a world
of intrigue, mystery, danger and passions of the
Napoleonic Era. For her own safety Napoleon places
Mignon, the daughter of a French duke ... into the care
of guardians. She is given a new name. Mignon grows up
unaware of her true identity yet haunted by emotional
uncertainties and tormented by fearful dreams.
She is thrust into a cruel world. Without funds and
lost to all who would protect her, she must learn to
survive on the streets of Paris. It is in this world
she first meets Duke Charles Eugene von Klein, the
man she will love forever, and for whom she will
ultimately risk all.
The love that Mignon and Charles share survives and
grows as they flee to save her from assassination,
Charles's capture and escape, Napoleon's defeat and
return to power. Yet, through all, Mignon never loses
her innocent belief that love can conquer all.
This one is a keeper. If you enjoy a beautiful love
story with a backdrop of historical accuracy, you will
love SONG OF INNOCENCE.
Review: by Mary Adair, Author of 'Passion's
Vision'
Song of Innocence by Margery Harkness Casares
is a beautifully detailed love story set against the
backdrop of the Napoleonic empire. Mignon San Marco,
unaware of her true identity as the daughter of an
assassinated French nobleman, finds herself alone and
unprotected after the murder of her guardian.
Circumstances quickly thrust her into the home of
Austrian duke Charles von Klein, where she discovers
love in the arms of her emperor's sworn enemy.
When Mignon is revealed as a prominent member of the
Napoleonic court and Charles sides firmly with the
Austrian freedom fighters, the lovers discover them-
selves on opposite sides of a bitter war. But neither
the horror of war, 'nor' the machinations of political
intrigue... diminish the love each feels for the other.
Reviewed by:Kelle Z. Riley
HISTORICAL SET IN NAPOLEONIC EUROPE
A man and woman, on opposite sides of Napoleon's
bloody war of conquest raging through Europe, meet and
fall in love. Lost within the confines of tradition
and decorum, she is forced into a marriage with her
emperor's kinsman, and he throws his heart and re-
sources into desperate schemes to thwart Napoleon's
phenomenal rise to power.
This story embraces the determination and cour-
age of two people willing to give up everything for
each other.
PROLOGUE:
FIRST PART OF PROLOGUE
MARSEILLES - JANUARY 1800
Pietro San Marco stretched out in his favorite
chair by the fireplace, clad only in his breeches and
shirt, his stockinged feet in slippers. He rubbed his
tired eyes, yawned, and cast a loving glance at his
wife of twenty years. "Come Gabrielle, sit beside me."
She remained a moment longer looking out the
window of the rooms they occupied above the small
bakery, then turned toward him. "The wind is up,
Pietro. Looks like a storm brewing."
He smiled, hoping to reassure her, and drew a
chair near his. "I hear it howling about out there.
Makes one enjoy the fireside."
Gabrielle sat beside him, smoothed her linen
apron, and settled her needlework in her lap. The fire-
light touched her face with a softness, illuminating
her large dark eyes.
Pietro took her hand in his and caressed her
fingertips. A church bell tolled nearby. When the
plaintive chords ceased, silence closed in around them,
broken only by the faint cries of seagulls out over
the water, the moaning of the wind, and the crackling
of the fire in the grate.
Pietro's dog, warming himself near the hearth,
lifted his head and growled. Pietro leaned forward
and cocked an ear. "Do you hear something, Gabrielle?"
She listened a moment. "Horses. A carriage.
Someone is coming."
Minutes later, footsteps pounded up the wooden
steps that hugged the side of the building. A banging
on the door shattered the tranquility of the room.
Pietro got to his feet and struggled into his coat.
With the dog close at his heels, he opened the door
and stood speechless for a moment.
"General Bonaparte!" he exclaimed, then quickly
corrected himself, stammering, "Forgive me ... you're
first consul now. Do come in." He stepped aside in
confusion to allow Napoleon and two French officers
to enter the room. Closing the door, Pietro turned
to his wife. "Gabrielle, refreshments for our guests."
Napoleon held up a hand to stay her. "No, none
of that; there's no time." He stroked the large mas-
tiff. "We must talk." He removed his black tricorne
and brushed the dust from his wrinkled green coat and
white breeches.
The dog, now quiet, lay at his master's feet.
The two officers stood just inside the door. Napoleon
strode about the room, his arms behind his back, his
black boots loud on the wooden floor. "Please listen,"
he said, "and do not interrupt. The duc du Croy has
left the Royalist Party and has given his full support
to me in the cause of the French people. As a result,
he has made many enemies among the Royalists."
The first consul stopped his pacing. His steel-
eyed gaze settled on Pietro briefly, then flashed
about the room. He reached for a heavy iron poker,
knelt, and worked a glowing log back into the blaze,
releasing a burst of golden sparks that showered the
hearth like diminutive falling stars. Flickering fire-
light caught at the red highlights in his dark brown
hair as if tentacles of flame had leapt onto his head.
He straightened and resumed his pacing. "The
duc's wife died recently, while he was out of the
country, leaving their child in the care of servants
and a nurse. The Royalists failed in an attempt to
kidnap the little girl. We caught those involved and
executed them, but that does not eliminate the danger
to her."
Napoleon halted his restless pacing and faced
Pietro and Gabrielle. "You two have served the Bona-
parte family well in the past, and you are the ones
I most trust with this assignment. You are to take
the child to a cottage already provided for you in
Tournai, and care for her until I deem otherwise. Her
father will provide a generous allowance for her care."
The first consul's arrogant, intelligent eyes
glinted as dark as gun metal. He clasped his hands
behind his back and stood looking into the fire. "The
child must not be allowed to know her identity or the
identity of her parents. I have given this situation
a great deal of thought. You will present her as your
granddaughter, Mignon San Marco."
He turned his impassioned gaze to Pietro.
"When there is no longer any threat to her, she will
be brought back to Paris and informed of everything
done to protect her from her father's enemies. If you
have questions, ask them now."
Pietro sighed, shook his head, and reached for
Gabrielle's hand. She remained silent, her head bowed.
"Get whatever you wish to take with you.
Captain Rodolphe and Lieutenant Baudoin will help you
pack."
Pietro straightened. "Tonight? We must leave
tonight?"
"Yes, Pietro. At once. The child is outside in
the carriage with her nurse, Madame Julienne.
* * *
TOURNAI - JANUARY - FRENCH TERRITORY 1807
Pietro San Marco paused in Mignon's bedroom door-
way and gazed at her sleeping form. Black curls on
the lacy white pillow framed her oval face, and long
dark lashes rested on cheeks the color of damask roses.
Mignon's beauty had become a source of contin-
ual awe and alarm to Pietro. Her innocence and help-
lessness in the power struggle, of which she was un-
aware, touched him deeply. She stirred. Her full lips
parted and she sighed in her sleep. Pietro withdrew
quietly.
The soft click of the door intruded upon Mignon's
slumber and misty images swirled in her subconscious.
In her dream, she was a child, in a room with ceilings
so high she became dizzy when she looked up. People
laughed and talked and danced. Servants in colorful
livery moved among them with trays of food and drink.
Warm fires murmured in painted porcelain stoves.
She slipped away from madame Julienne, ran to a
tall window, and blew her warm moist breath on the frosty
pane until a clear spot appeared. A delightful view of
snowflakes drifting into the frozen fountain in the
garden held her spellbound.
A lady picked her up, kissed her, and sang to
her in soft sweet tones. The lady smelled as nice as
the flowers in the nursery. The vision faded. Another
formed. She sat on a tall chair. Madame Julienne brush
ed her tangled curls, pulling her hair and making her
scalp sting. She covered her head with chubby hands
to ward off the offensive brush.
Soldiers burst into the room, snatched her up
and ran down long corridors amid sounds of pursuing
screams, clashing swords, and hollow footfalls. A
man's strong arms thrust her into a dark and damp and
smelly place. She crouched against a wall, unable to
see in the darkness, and covered her mouth with trembl-
ing hands to muffle her terrified whimpers.
Mignon cried out in her sleep.
Pietro, stood at a window in the parlor, staring
at his reflection, not seeing the blackness of the
night beyond. His own dark thoughts filled him with
guilt and apprehension, tormenting him. He turned at
the sound of Mignon's cry and sighed. "She's having
bad dreams again." Feeling suddenly old, he walked
in shuffled steps to the fire and sat in his rocking
chair.
"Don't look so troubled, Pietro. It saddens me
to see you troubled."
He reached for a candle and relit his pipe. "I
worry about the child, Gabrielle. I don't know how to
comfort her. She suspects we're hiding something from
her."
"Better to suspect. Knowing could endanger her.
We have our orders."
"And I shall obey them, but I'm afraid for her."
He wiped his moist eyes. "We've had her most of her
young life. She's as dear to me as my own flesh, and
I can do nothing to dispel the demons that haunt her."
"You must not torture yourself, mon cher. We've
been through this many times, you and I. Mignon is not
ours. We are blessed to have had her these few years.
We do the best we can."
"Gabrielle, she's too trusting. Her beauty will
make her prey to the most wanton appetites, as well as
bring her favorable attention, but her innocence will
prevent her from knowing the difference. That is our
fault."
"Our fault? How, Pietro? We have done what we
were ordered to do."
"Our orders were to keep her identity hidden,
not to keep her ignorant. We failed to prepare her. She
has no idea how real her fears are--no idea how to sur-
vive. She has spent years in virtual confinement."
"You make it sound as though she's been in a
place of detention and not in a loving home."
"Almost the same thing," he said, swallowing hard
against the emotion closing his throat.
Gabrielle took his hand. "Pietro, Mignon has had
a good education at the convent. She speaks German,
Italian, and enough Latin to get through Mass. She
sews and embroiders beautifully, plays the piano, the
harp, sings like a bird, and moves as gracefully as a
willow in the wind--"
"And knows nothing about life."
"I explained to her... I explained all that to
her, when she first became indisposed."
He rubbed his eyes. "You can explain to a per-
son what happens when a seed sprouts and buds and
blooms. But if the person has never seen a blossom or
inhaled its sweet scent, it has no meaning." He sought
the comfort of his pipe, gazed into the fire and rocked.
"Pietro--"
"Gabrielle, she thinks something is wrong with
her because her developing body sets her apart from
the other girls her age at the convent. We've even
lied to her about her age. She's just celebrated her
fourteenth birthday, and she thinks she's twelve years
of age."
His wife didn't respond. Pietro fell silent and
continued to rock. A sudden loud rapping on the door
brought him out of his chair. He hurried to answer.
Two men in the dark blue uniforms of French
generals, spurs jangling, stepped inside. The younger
man spoke. "Monsieur San Marco, perhaps you remember
us? Baudoin and Rodolphe?"
A sinking feeling hit Pietro. He felt as though
he had been kicked in the chest, and he struggled to
get his breath.
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