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Honeyville
Daisy Waugh
A hooker. A mistress. A murder. This town was built on sin.The town of Trinidad, Colorado was a tough place to be a woman in 1913. But it was the best place in the West to find one, if you had the cash.Honeyville, they used to call it.A murder throws Inez and Dora together – two women from opposite sides of town, in a town built for men. Against all odds, the well born girl and the high class hooker are drawn together in friendship…But this is a town that is rotten to the core, and beyond the rustling of silk skirts, the dancing and laughter, deadly unrest is building…Welcome to Honeyville – a town living by its own rules, where nothing is quite as it seemsA STORY INSPIRED BY A LOST CHAPTER IN AMERICAN HISTORY
HONEYVILLE
DAISY WAUGH
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers
Copyright © Daisy Waugh 2014
The following are copyright lines to be used as applicable
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover design by Becky Glibbery. Cover photographs © Sarah Ann Wright / Trevillion Images (woman); Ilina Simeonova / Trevillion Images (clothing); akg-images (street scene); Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) (railing, pillar)
Daisy Waugh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
The Nice People of Trinidad © Max Eastman published in The Masses July 1914 reprinted with permission of the Estate of Yvette Eastman.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007431779
Ebook Edition © November 2014 ISBN: 9780007500406
Version 2014-09-24
PRAISE FOR DAISY WAUGH (#uf0dd83b0-f101-590f-aa7e-a8a3236d793b)
‘The delicately constructed plot keeps you guessing until the end’
TLS
‘Unputdownable’
Daily Mail
‘Dazzlingly evoked’
Sunday Times
‘Gripping … powerful, evocative’
The Lady
‘A gripping, bittersweet love story’
Sunday Times
‘Impeccably researched and beautifully written’
Daily Mail
‘Daisy Waugh delivers her engaging tale with wit and a real lightness of touch’
Literary Review
‘Written in deft, engrossing prose, this story is dizzy with glamour and heartbreak’
Easy Living
Wilson, Jenny Wilson
This book is for you.
Contents
Title Page (#ub6ede4f5-590b-57bd-a4fc-2669b17b4b87)
Copyright (#u86e39629-15f4-515e-bdf2-6d0f9eaff6d4)
Praise for Daisy Waugh
Dedication (#u328041e8-9146-570e-b6ba-d71f94c29833)
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Acknowledgements
Read on for more from Daisy Waugh (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep reading… Last Dance With Valentino
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About the Author
Also by Daisy Waugh
About the Publisher
1 (#uf0dd83b0-f101-590f-aa7e-a8a3236d793b)
April 1933 Hollywood, California
I saw Max Eastman last night. He turned up at dinner very late, apologizing to us all as if the evening had been on hold for his arrival, and it occurred to me how lonesome it must be to shine the way Max does, to feel that you can never simply slide into a room and sit down. I don’t think he knows any other way to behave, except as the star of the show.
He arrived with a little writer friend – one of these East Coast novelists, trying to recoup a living from the studios. I don’t remember his name. There were twenty-five or so places laid at the table and I had no idea Max was joining us. Our hostess never mentioned it – I imagine because she wasn’t aware of it herself, until he walked through the restaurant door. Max Eastman is quite a celebrity, after all. And we do love a celebrity in this town.
When he loped into the room last night, I’ll be honest: my heart stopped. And this morning, when I opened my eyes, my face was covered with tears. I’ve never experienced it before – to wake, from crying. Had I been dreaming? I can’t remember. But I woke with a hundred images swimming through my head. Of Trinidad, Colorado, as it was almost twenty years ago. Of Xavier, as he was then. Of myself. Of Max and Inez as they were together; and the blood drying on the old brick pavements.
I still have the letter she wrote to him, its envelope spattered in Trinidad’s blood. When he loped into the room I felt many things: shock, delight, anger, affection, regret … and an image of the damn letter came to mind, yellow with age, brown with blood, nestling at the bottom of my jewel box. I felt ashamed. I should never have read it. I should have sent it on to him twenty years ago.
There was an empty place beside me at the long res- taurant table, and Max flopped himself into it with the same long-limbed, bashful elegance that was ever his.
‘Is it taken?’ he asked, though he’d already pulled back the chair.
