Praise for the novels of Kate Furnivall
Shadows on the Nile
“An enjoyable, page-turning blend of history, mystery, and love that will intrigue readers.”
—Booklist
“Furnivall laces this fast-paced historical adventure with surprisingly poignant interludes that ultimately connect to the family mystery at its heart.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A dazzling and energetic story with historical mystery [and] huge twists . . . The author demonstrates an incredible understanding of the period.”
—BestChickLit.com
The White Pearl
“Furnivall weaves the dramas of her characters into the threads of history, creating an engrossing read on many levels.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Furnivall’s] ability to strike the perfect mood and evoke a time and place is wonderful.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A wonderfully evocative tale.”
—The Sun
The Jewel of St. Petersburg
“Furnivall skillfully intertwines historical fact with a heartfelt love story . . . A delight for [her] fans, and equally a joy for those new to her work.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Gripping, elegant, and fierce, this is a classic war-torn love story, and Furnivall’s best yet.”
—Library Journal
“[Furnivall’s] vivid descriptions and the shimmering beauty and treachery of the era combine with a memorable love story that will speak to readers’ hearts and minds.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Furnivall portrays a country in dreadful conflict, with the grinding poverty of the masses fueling rebellion against the privileged classes. A must for readers of The Russian Concubine and Furnivall’s The Red Scarf.”
—Booklist
The Girl from Junchow
“An engrossing adventure that sweeps readers in lush waves of drama and romance.”
—Library Journal
“Furnivall deftly evokes the details of a bygone era.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Red Scarf
“This romantic confection can make a reader shiver with dread for the horrors visited on the two heroines imprisoned in a labor camp, and quiver with anticipation for their happy endings. Furnivall shows she has the narrative skills to deliver a sweeping historical epic.”
—Library Journal
“Furnivall again pinpoints a little-known historical setting and brings it vividly to life through the emotions and insights of her characters. Beautifully detailed descriptions of the land and the compelling characters who move through a surprisingly upbeat plot make this one of the year’s best reads.”
—Booklist
The Russian Concubine
“I read it in one sitting! Not only a gripping love story, but a novel that captures the sights, smells, hopes, and desires of Russia at the dawn of the twentieth century, and pre-Revolutionary China, so skillfully that readers will feel they are there.”
—Kate Mosse
“The wonderfully drawn and all-too-human characters struggle to survive in a world of danger and bewildering change . . . caught between cultures, ideologies—and the growing realization that only the frail reed of love is strong enough to withstand the destroying winds of time.”
—Diana Gabaldon
“This stunning debut brings the atmosphere of 1920s China vividly to life . . . Furnivall draws an excellent portrait of this distant time and place.”
—Historical Novels Review
“The kaleidoscopic intensity of British writer Kate Furnivall’s debut novel, The Russian Concubine, compellingly transports us back to 1928 and across the globe to the city of Junchow in northern China . . . Furnivall’s novel is an admirable work of historical fiction.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Furnivall vividly evokes Lydia’s character and personal struggles against a backdrop of depravity and corruption.”
—Publishers Weekly
BOOKS BY KATE FURNIVALL
The Russian Concubine
The Red Scarf
The Girl from Junchow
The Jewel of St. Petersburg
The White Pearl
Shadows on the Nile
The Far Side of the Sun
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright ©2014 by Kate Furnivall.
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60988-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Furnivall, Kate.
The far side of the sun / Kate Furnivall. —Berkley Trade paperback edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-425-26509-3 (paperback)
1. Women—Fiction. 2. Diplomats’ spouses—Fiction. 3. Bahamas—Nassau—Social life and customs—20th century Fiction. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Bahamas—Nassau—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6116.U76F37 2014
823'.92—dc23
2014009050
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / October 2014
Cover design by Erika Fusari
Cover photos: Back Beads © Todd Holbrook, Dream Theory Studios/Getty Images;
Tropical island surrounded by lagoon © Sakis Papadopoulos/Getty Images
Back cover image courtesy of Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entire coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Version_1
To April
with all my love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am enormously grateful to my wonderful editor, Jackie Cantor, to the fabulous Pam Barricklow, and the whole team at Berkley. They are superb. And thank you to Martin Karlow for his expert attention to my manuscript.
To my brilliant US and UK agents, Patty Moosebrugger and Teresa Chris, thank you for always being whirlwinds of skill and energy and kindness.
Very special thanks to my twin sister, Carole Furnivall, for coming with me to explore the Bahamas. It was like being ten years old again and on a thrilling adventure together. Unforgettable.
Huge thanks to the gang at Brixham Writers for listening to my woes and making me laugh at them.
Thank you again
to Marian Churchward for turning my scrawl into a beautifully typed manuscript and for leaving me some biscuits.
As always, mega thanks to Norman for a constant supply of inspiration and coffee, as well as for his passion for each book I write.
CONTENTS
Praise for the novels of Kate Furnivall
Books by Kate Furnivall
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
Chapter 1
NASSAU, THE BAHAMAS, 1943
“Help me . . .”
The words slipped out of the darkness, thin and weightless, barely denting the sultry warmth of the night air. In the unlit street at the wrong end of Nassau, Dodie Wyatt halted, nerves tight.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
A soft groan. A stifled curse. A rustle of movement. Then stillness settled down in the shadows once more.
“Who’s there?” she called again, sharper this time.
Silence. It was the stark kind of silence that only exists after midnight. The smell of the ocean was rolling in over the Bahamas, leaving its salty breath to linger on the beaches and in the humid corners of the city. Dodie knew that if she had a scrap of sense she would march straight to the far end of the street without stopping, but his words—that fragile “Help me”—had snared her. She moved toward the spot from which the groan had risen.
“Say something,” Dodie urged, as her eyes scoured the ink-black spaces. Her voice sounded ridiculously calm. “It’s too dark for me to see you. Where are you?”
There was no response. Her pulse kicked uneasily.
She was on her way home from her late shift at the Arcadia Hotel, where she worked as a waitress. Her feet ached, the kind of ache that she couldn’t ignore anymore because she had been standing for twelve hours straight and the only thing she wanted was to climb into bed and sleep. But now a stranger was asking for her help.
“I’ll help you,” she said, not sounding quite as calm as before as she moved closer to the wall. “Just show me where you are.”
A hand seized her ankle.
* * *
The wind drifted up the street in fits and starts, making a shutter rattle and a dog bark in a nearby yard, and even at this hour of the night the gust of air was warm and scented with tropical flowers. It was just enough to persuade the clouds to shift, so that moonlight spilled into the narrow space between the houses, and for the first time Dodie could make out the figure at her feet.
A big man was slumped against the wall like a rag doll, his chin sunk on his chest, his legs stretched out in front of him in the dirt. Dodie could see a head of bushy brown hair and a pale gray suit that was crumpled and stained. One of his hands scrabbled jerkily on the ground, trying to reconnect with the ankle she had snatched away, but his other hand lay clamped to the front of his white shirt. It didn’t look so white anymore because a black stain was spreading rapidly from under his palm. For a moment Dodie hesitated. She knew that if she knelt down beside this man, trouble would enter her life. She had grown up with trouble and could smell it at fifty paces, which was why she had avoided it ever since she first came to the Bahamas six years ago, when she was only sixteen and had no more sense than a hummingbird.
“Please . . . ?” he whispered.
She dropped to her knees. “You’re hurt.”
“Help me . . . to stand up.”
Dodie’s hand wrapped itself around his free hand and his fingers clung to hers.
“You’re hurt, you must stay still. Don’t move. You need an ambulance.”
He lifted his chin and looked up at her, his skin silvery and bloodless in the moonlight. His eyes were deep sunken holes in his head and made her uneasy, and though he moved his mouth, no sound was coming out. She couldn’t tell how old he was—in his forties perhaps, although there were too many shadows to be sure.
“Don’t try to speak,” she said gently. “There is a telephone box back up on the main road, so I’ll just—”
“Don’t.”
“But you need a doctor.”
“No ambulance.” The word came out in bits. “No doctors.”
“But you need help.”
They both stared down at the hand clamped to his white shirt, just above his waistband, at the black stain that had grown to the size of a dinner plate, feathery streaks reaching out like tentacles across his chest. He raised his eyes to her face and his mouth dragged in a labored breath. Silently he shook his head.
Dodie didn’t delay further, she rose quickly. “Don’t move. You need to be in hospital, so I’m going to call a—”
His hand seized her ankle again. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
The word stopped her. She crouched down beside him once more and lifted his hand into hers. It was as cold and clammy as one of the toads that burrowed under her shack at night. “I’m Dodie,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”
“Morrell.”
“Well, Mr. Morrell, we both know you need to be in hospital. You’re bleeding badly. Why shouldn’t I call an ambulance or at least a doctor?”
He sighed, the life seeming to ebb from him with each of his slow measured breaths. “They will kill me,” he murmured.
“What?”
His voice sounded dry and exhausted and she noticed it had an American drawl from the deep south, perhaps from Alabama or Tennessee. “The person who stuck a knife in me”—she saw his eyes roll in his head so that their whites caught the moonlight—“will be at the hospital. Looking for me.”
“Why will they be doing that?”
“To finish what they started.” He exhaled heavily and she smelled rum on his breath.
“Were you in a fight?”
“Of sorts.”
“We have to get you bandaged quickly.”
He grunted agreement, but slowly his chin started to descend toward his chest. It was at that point that Dodie thought about walking
away. Back to her quiet routine where nothing disturbed the monotony of her work at the hotel and her walks on the smooth white beach. She knew she should leave this Mr. Morrell to rest here on his own. They will kill me, he’d said. And her? Would they kill her too? A lone young female would be nothing to them. Her hand unconsciously sought out the tender section on her own body, the soft spot just below her ribs, and sat here, fingers splayed in protection. But the wounded man started to slip sideways down the wall and Dodie quickly pushed her hands under his armpits to hold him upright, but the weight was more than she’d anticipated.
“Come on now, Mr. Morrell. Time to stand up.”
His head lifted.
“I’ll help you,” she promised.
The empty shadows of his eyes fixed on hers for an age and she could feel his distrust crawl onto her skin, but he nodded. “Yes.”
It was going to hurt, they both knew that. She leaned over him, easing his feet toward him, so that his knees were bent. She fixed her arms around his chest, clenching her fingers together behind his back, and inch by inch she dragged him to his feet. He didn’t cry out. Didn’t moan. But his breathing grew loud, almost a growl, and when he was standing upright, swaying on his feet despite her support, she thought it was the end of him.
* * *
Progress was agonizingly slow. Sometimes the pauses were so long that Dodie feared the man’s heart had paused too, but no, just when she thought he was giving up, he would start up again—left foot, right foot. His arm across her shoulders was muscular, an arm that did things, unaccustomed to lying helpless, and the grip of his fingers was tight, snarled up in her cardigan.
Neither spoke. Their steps were slow and labored. Fears were racing through Dodie’s head and every sound in the darkness, every movement in the shadows, sent a chill through her. She struggled to work out what to do, where to take him, how best to get him away from here. So when they reached the end of the road she steered him left, ducking down a dim and scruffy street. It was flanked by warehouses where the smell of the ocean was so strong it ousted the smell of blood in Dodie’s nostrils, but there would be no one around at this hour.
Why, Mr. Morrell? Why does someone hate you enough to stick a knife in your gut?
She shuddered, her heart racing as she listened for footsteps behind them, but when she glanced nervously over her shoulder, the shadows were empty. As they walked, Morrell muttered sometimes, small incoherent noises that pinned him to her and they drew soothing sounds from her in response, a brief wordless conversation. Her arm tightened its hold around his thick waist and she watched carefully where he put his feet. He was wearing neat white loafers that stood out in the darkness.