The Secret Keeper (ARC). The S ecr et K eeper beijuaganette.gq 1 6/ 22/12 PM beijuaganette.gq 2 6/22/12 PM Also. TEXT FLY WITHIN THE BOOK ONLY CO S]S=OU_1 ^ m OSMANIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Call No. Author 0T* HI o Access. About this book: During a picnic at her family's farm in the English countryside, sixteen-year-old Laurel. Nicolson witnesses a shocking crime.
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hand down to their daughters for years to come. SUE MONK KIDD is the author of the highly The Secret Life of Bee Masonic Secrets Revealed - Secrets of the. The Secret Keeper: beijuaganette.gq back to The Secret Keeper». i. The Secret Keeper. by Kate Morton. book progress: %. Use the link below to share this. On a sweltering summer's day, while her family picnics by the stream on their Suffolk farm, sixteen-year-old Laurel hides out in her childhood tree house.
Mary even went as far as asking her half-sister, Lady Elizabeth, not to interact with Queen Catherine any further. A rivalry developed between Catherine and his wife, her own former lady-in-waiting, Anne Seymour, Duchess of Somerset , which became particularly acute over the matter of Catherine's jewels.
The Secret Keeper by Kate Morton
Instead she, as the wife of the protector, should be the one to wear them. Eventually, the Duchess won the argument, which left her relationship with Catherine permanently damaged; the relationship between the two Seymour brothers also worsened as a result, since Thomas saw the whole dispute as a personal attack by his brother on his social standing.
The book was a success and widely praised. In March , at the age of 35, Catherine became pregnant. This pregnancy was a surprise as Catherine had not conceived during her first three marriages.
During this time, Seymour began to take an interest in Lady Elizabeth. Seymour had reputedly plotted to marry her before marrying Catherine, and it was reported later that Catherine discovered the two in an embrace. On a few occasions before the situation risked getting completely out of hand, according to the deposition of Kat Ashley , Catherine appears not only to have acquiesced in episodes of horseplay , but actually to have assisted her husband.
Elizabeth immediately wrote a letter to the Queen and Seymour after she left Chelsea. The letter demonstrates a sort of remorse. Kat Ashley, whose deposition was given after Catherine had died and Seymour had been arrested for another attempt at marrying Lady Elizabeth, had developed a crush on Seymour during her time at Chelsea and actually encouraged her charge to "play along.
The dowager queen promised to provide education for her. It was there that Catherine would spend the last few months of her pregnancy and the last summer of her life.
Catherine died on 5 September , at Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire , from what is thought to have been "childbed fever". Catherine's funeral was held on 7 September She was buried in St. She is the only royal to be buried in a private residence. Catherine's other jewels were kept in a coffer with five drawers at Sudeley and this was sent to the Tower of London on 20 April , and her clothes and papers followed in May.
The last mention of Mary Seymour on record is on her second birthday, and although stories circulated that she eventually married and had children, most historians believe she died as a child at Grimsthorpe Castle in Lincolnshire.
The coffin was identified by a lead plate with an inscription on the coffin. Reportedly the flesh on one of her arms was still white and moist. After taking a few locks of her hair, he closed the coffin and returned it to the grave. Reading group notes Download reading group notes PDF. Settings Tips on technique 3: Point of view Tips on technique 4: Dialogue Tips on technique 5: Plot Tips on technique 6: Tense Tips on technique 7: The Secret Keeper Kate Morton.
Download cover. On a sweltering summer's day, while her family picnics by the stream on their Suffolk farm, sixteen-year-old Laurel hides out in her childhood tree house dreaming of a boy called Billy, a move to London, and the bright future she can't wait to seize. Laurel frowned and weathered a wave of recriminations that cooled quickly to resolution.
She would make amends: If she completed the task before her wristwatch ticked away ten minutes, she would accrue bonus points on the imagined score sheet she carried inside her always. The breeze blew warm against her bare sun-browned foot as she stepped quickly onto the top rung. Later, Laurel would wonder if things might have turned out differently had she gone a little more slowly. If, perhaps, the whole terrible thing might even have been averted had she taken greater care. She was rushing and thus she would always blame herself in some way for what followed.
It had been happening this way a lot lately. She was like the weather vane on the peak of the Greenacres roof, her emotions swinging suddenly from one direction to the other at the whim of the wind. It was strange, and frightening at times, but also somehow thrilling. Like being on a lurching ride at the seaside. In this instance, it was injurious too.
For in her desperate hurry to join the party by the stream, she caught her knee against the wooden floor of the tree house.
The graze stung and she winced, glancing down to see a rise of fresh blood, surprisingly red. Rather than continue to the ground, she climbed again into the tree house to inspect the damage. She was still sitting there watching her knee weep, cursing her speed and wondering if Billy would notice the ugly big scab, how she might mask it, when she became aware of a noise coming from the direction of the copse.
It was a rustling; natural and yet separate enough from the other afternoon sounds to draw her attention. She glanced through the tree-house window and saw Barnaby lolloping over the long grass, silky ears flapping like velvet wings. Although they remained a way off, through some odd quirk of the wind current Laurel could hear quite clearly the tune her mother was singing.
Their focus on one another was so complete, their appearance together in the sun-drenched meadow so idyllic, that Laurel was torn between joy at having observed the private interaction, and envy at being outside it. She grew sulky and her sulkiness stopped her from calling out or climbing down, rooting her instead to the place she occupied on the tree-house floor. There she sat, stewing darkly in a strangely pleasant manner, as her mother reached and entered the house.
One of the hula hoops fell silently to hit the ground, and Laurel took the action as a show of solidarity. She decided to stay where she was.
In the meantime, she was going to read The Birthday Party again and imagine a future, far away from here, a life where she was beautiful and sophisticated, grownup and scab free. The man, when he first appeared, was little more than a hazy smudge on the horizon; right down at the farthest reach of the driveway.
Laurel was never sure, later, what it was that made her look up then. For one awful second when she first noticed him walking towards the back of the farmhouse, Laurel thought that it was Billy, arrived early and coming to fetch her. Only as his outline clarified and she realised he was dressed all wrong—dark trousers, shirt sleeves, and a hat with an old- fashioned brim—did she let herself exhale. Curiosity arrived hot on the heels of relief. Laurel forgot that she was sulking and with the luxury of concealment surrendered herself to staring.
She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, her chin on her hands. There was always the possibility he was a lost traveller seeking directions, but the farmhouse was an unlikely choice, tucked away as it was so far from the road. Perhaps he was a gypsy or a drifter? One of those men who chanced by occasionally, down on their luck and grateful for whatever work Daddy had to give them. Laurel shivered, scaring herself briefly, and then she yawned.
The man was no fiend; she could see his leather briefcase now. And so she looked away. Laurel scrambled to the window, peering over the sill to see the spaniel standing to attention in the middle of the brick path. He was facing the driveway, watching as the man— much closer now—fiddled with the iron gate that led into the garden. Behind the house, the gate near the hen yard creaked—the hinge that always needed oiling—and the dog growled again.
His hair ridged along his spine. The smile slipped from her face. It was an invitation no one could refuse, and the man tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and stepped closer, raising his hand slightly, as if to anoint the little fellow.
Her mother moved then with startling haste. She wrested the baby away, depositing him roughly on the ground behind her. There was gravel beneath his bare legs and for a child who knew only pleasure and love the shock proved too much. Crestfallen, he began to cry. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck. Fear, she realised, Ma was frightened.
The effect on Laurel was instant. Certainties of a lifetime turned to smoke and blew away. Cold alarm moved in to take their place. The man was no stranger.
He spoke again, too low for Laurel to hear, and her mother nodded slightly. She continued to listen, tilting her head to the side. Her face lifted to the sun and her eyes closed just for one second. The next thing happened quickly. It was the liquid silver flash Laurel would always remember.
The way sunlight caught the metal blade, and the moment was very briefly beautiful. Time slowed; it raced.
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The dog was barking hard, the baby wailing in the gravel, his face red and glistening, his little heart breaking, but for Laurel sounds were fading. She heard them through the watery gallop of her own blood pumping, the rasps of her own ragged breaths. It was the last thing Laurel saw before her vision filled with tiny flickering stars and then everything went black.
In her memories of childhood it was never raining. The hospital was on the other side of town and the car went slowly along the puddle-pitted High Street before turning into the driveway and stopping at the top of the turning circle. Laurel pulled out her compact, opened it to look into the mirror, and pushed the skin of one cheek upwards, watching calmly as the wrinkles gathered and then fell when released. She repeated the action on the other side. People loved her lines.
Her agent told her so, casting directors waxed lyrical, the make-up artists crooned as they brandished their brushes and their startling youth. Her lines, it was said, made people feel safe. Which was all very well for them. They made Laurel feel old.
She was old, she thought, snapping the compact shut. And not in the Mrs Robinson sense. How had that happened? The driver opened the door and ushered her out beneath the cover of a large black umbrella.
The car started and she watched it go, aching suddenly for the warmth and pleasant dullness of a long commute to nowhere special along the wet motorway.
She took out her cigarettes instead and lit one, drawing on it with rather more relish than was dignified. What sort of things? Why, all the things that ever went wrong, of course—she could come with him if she wanted. She did want.
The hospital doors opened with a whoosh and a pair of nurses burst through. One glanced at Laurel and her eyes widened in recognition.
Laurel nodded a vague sort of greeting, dropping what was left of her cigarette as the nurse leaned to whisper to her friend. Rose was waiting on a bank of seats in the foyer and for a split second Laurel saw her as one might a stranger. She was wrapped in a purple crocheted shawl that gathered at the front in a pink bow, and her wild hair, silver now, was roped in a loose plait over one shoulder.
The film starts shooting in a fortnight. We all are. Iris is caught in traffic and Daphne arrives this after-noon. Their brother could construct cosmic-distance calendars to calculate the whereabouts of faraway galaxies, but ask him to estimate his arrival time and he was flummoxed.
Rose reached for the knob but hesitated before turning it. Her voice lowered as she continued. The nurses have tablets they give her then; they settle her down, but they make her terribly groggy. The doctor had said as much when she rang last week to check.
The reward had been sweet but short-lived, lasting only until his answer came. That most treasonous of words. Of the dark, of zombies, of the strange men Grandma Nicolson warned were lurking behind corners to snatch up little girls and do unmentionable things to them. Unmentionable things. Always like that, the threat more frightening for its lack of detail, its hazy suggestion of tobacco and sweat and hair in strange places. So convincing had her grandmother been, that Laurel had known it was only a matter of time before her fate found her and had its wicked way.
Sometimes her greatest fears had balled themselves together so she woke in the night, screaming because the zombie in the dark cupboard was eyeing her through the keyhole, waiting to begin his dreaded deeds. Laurel had thought herself prepared. But this was different.Later that evening, when they were piled in front of the television watching Juke Box Jury, and Iris and Daphne were de-bating the comparative merits of Cliff Richard and Adam Faith and their father was bemoaning their false American accents and the broader wastage of the entire British Empire, Laurel had slipped away.
Again Dolly shook her head. Except that it was she who would be leaving them, and soon. She was impatient to be getting on. In many cases, this common phenomenon is due to what is called "secret-keeping"SM. Charles Laughton played the king, with actress Everley Gregg appearing as Catherine.
Catherine's other jewels were kept in a coffer with five drawers at Sudeley and this was sent to the Tower of London on 20 April , and her clothes and papers followed in May. She tried to sound casual. The smile slipped from her face.
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