{"product_id":"woolsey-ferridayisbn-9781524796402","title":"Woolsey-Ferriday","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • Martha Hall Kelly’s million-copy bestseller\u003ci\u003e Lilac Girls\u003c\/i\u003e introduced readers to Caroline Ferriday. Now, in \u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e, Kelly tells the story of Ferriday’s ancestor Georgeanna Woolsey, a Union nurse during the Civil War whose calling leads her to cross paths with Jemma, a young enslaved girl who is sold off and conscripted into the army, and Anne-May Wilson, a Southern plantation mistress whose husband enlists.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“An exquisite tapestry of women determined to defy the molds the world has for them.”—Lisa Wingate, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBefore We Were Yours\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGeorgeanna “Georgey” Woolsey isn’t meant for the world of lavish parties and the demure attitudes of women of her stature. So when war ignites the nation, Georgey follows her passion for nursing during a time when doctors considered women on the battlefront a bother. In proving them wrong, she and her sister Eliza venture from New York to Washington, D.C., to Gettysburg and witness the unparalleled horrors of slavery as they become involved in the war effort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the South, Jemma is enslaved on the Peeler Plantation in Maryland, where she lives with her mother and father. Her sister, Patience, is enslaved on the plantation next door, and both live in fear of LeBaron, an abusive overseer who tracks their every move. When Jemma is sold by the cruel plantation mistress Anne-May at the same time the Union army comes through, she sees a chance to finally escape—but only by abandoning the family she loves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnne-May is left behind to run Peeler Plantation when her husband joins the Union army and her cherished brother enlists with the Confederates. In charge of the household, she uses the opportunity to follow her own ambitions and is drawn into a secret Southern network of spies, finally exposing herself to the fate she deserves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInspired by true accounts, \u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e provides a vivid, detailed look at the Civil War experience, from the barbaric and inhumane plantations, to a war-torn New York City, to the horrors of the battlefield. It’s a sweeping story of women caught in a country on the brink of collapse, in a society grappling with nationalism and unthinkable racial cruelty, a story still so relevant today.“A beautifully written, intricately researched window into the lives of women in a world we can scarcely imagine today . . . \u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e took me on a journey that swept me up in its pages and left me pondering deeper truths in the end. It’s a read filled with sisterhood, risk, reward, and plenty of fodder for book clubs.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kelly’s prose flows beautifully across every page, bringing to life the women impacted by the horrific war that tore apart the country and countless families. . . . Much of \u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e is heartbreaking . . . but there is also much hope and joy in the courage, fortitude and victories of those courageous and determined to succeed and survive.”\u003cb\u003e—Fredericksburg \u003ci\u003eFree Lance-Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A well-researched, realistic narrative . . . It’s the women and their activism that tell the story of the struggle to end slavery. They become the real heroes of the war. Kelly tells this story without either romanticizing or sweeping over the horrors that split the nation in the nineteenth century and continues to do so today.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Spokesman-Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“From Southern spies to nurses on the northern battlefields, \u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e weaves an exquisite tapestry of women determined to defy the molds the world has for them. The journeys of Jemma and the Woolsey sisters will have readers celebrating those who came before us, who fought for what they knew was right, and became timeless women ahead of their times.”\u003cb\u003e—Lisa Wingate, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBefore We Were Yours\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Lost Friends\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eSunflower Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e marks the third installment of Martha Hall Kelly’s tales of the formidable Woolsey Women, with this chapter unfolding across the plantations, battlefields, and parlor rooms of one of history’s most dramatic moments. The Civil War roils as a sweeping backdrop and an era of both heartbreaking and inspiring humanity. Kelly’s vivid prose, stunning historical research, and heartfelt, compelling characters make this a gripping, page-turning read.”\u003cb\u003e—Allison Pataki, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Queen’s Fortune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vibrant . . . The vivid, impeccably researched saga briskly sweeps across war-torn battlefields, New York City, and Southern plantations, highlighting the struggles endured by her women characters. This page-turning work is sure to please Kelly’s fans.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kelly weaves a far-ranging tale of interlocking destinies and moving displays of kindness and bravery. . . . This emotionally satisfying novel will please Kelly’s many fans and will be a strong addition to historical fiction collections.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As well researched and engaging as \u003ci\u003eLost Roses\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLilac Girls\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Drawing on real events and primary sources, Kelly illuminates parts of history infrequently told. Offer it to fans of Marie Benedict, the Civil War era, and readers who enjoy historical fiction starring real people.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eMartha Hall Kelly\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eLilac Girls\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLost Roses\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Connecticut, where she spends her days filling legal pads with stories and reading World War II books.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMary Woolsey\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharleston, South Carolina\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1859 \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one suspected the blond boy’s cargo as he drove his crude pony cart through the streets of Charleston. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother, my younger sister Georgy, and I had come to South Carolina by the invitation of Pastor Cox at the African Free Church for a two-day stay. We’d stepped out the previous morning past the mansion houses and palmetto trees, the atmosphere so gentle and refined, to make our daily calls and leave Mother’s ecru cards on the silver trays. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Charles Woolsey, 8 Brevoort Place, New York City. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCertainly nothing forced itself unpleasantly on our attention, but every black face in the street or greeting us so kindly at a front door reminded us of the system of slavery so robust there and strengthened our resolve to continue the fight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon our walk home from Sunday services, the scent of crape myrtle in the air, a boy driving a pony cart drew up beside us dressed in a clean white shirt and homespun trousers. His rear wheel in disrepair, it bumped with every rotation, keeping his rate of speed not much greater than ours. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We find ourselves a bit lost,” Mother called to the boy. “Can you guide us to the Charleston Hotel?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m going that way, ma’am. Will point you there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI warmed to his southern accent, a good-natured boy, milk-skinned, twelve years old or so, yellow hair shining in the sun. That brought to mind my own towheaded daughters, left back at the hotel with our friend Mrs. Wolcott, who no doubt stood near the door waiting for my return. Though we’d been gone less than two hours I missed them terribly as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where do you live?” Mother asked the boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Here and there.” He set his face toward the sun. “You? Sound like a Virginian.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother smiled happy when someone recognized her accent from her former home. “Indeed I am. Left there when I was a girl but suppose I still speak with a trace of it. Live in New York City now. We are here as the guests of Pastor Cox at the African church. Do you know him?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, ma’am.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe walked along, the only sound the thump of the broken wheel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It was a lovely celebration of the Eucharist,” Mother said. “Over three hundred celebrants.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned and smiled. “Bet you was the only white folks there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes. But we were welcomed quite enthusiastically.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Once, my ma had me in church every Sunday. She’s dead now.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy pulled a piece of bread from a tin lunch bucket at his feet, took one bite, turned and slipped the rest under the tarp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you attend school?” Mother asked. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, ma’am. No school’d take the likes of me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I doubt that very much,” Georgy said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy attention was drawn to the back bed of the cart and the slightest movement beneath the tarp there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where are you headed?” I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pointed to a white building up ahead. “The mart. Go every Sunday. Make my rounds on Saturday, come here the next day, so my stock’s fresh.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rounds where?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All over, ma’am. Pa’s regulars. Hardly ever come empty-handed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy rode toward a white building with high black gates at the entrance and we followed. It was a hulking place, the word mart shining in gilt above the entrance, a crimson flag flapping in the breeze. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy pointed at a roof off in the distance. “Your hotel’s up the road a piece and hang a right.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ve been terribly helpful,” Mother said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy rode to the iron gates and a stout, red-bearded man, bamboo cane in hand, swung open the gate door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hey, boy,” he said, rapping his cane on the wood of the cart. “You’re supposed to come round back with these, not to the front door, for pity’s sake.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Pa needs me home.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy turned in his seat up front and flung back the tarp. There within lay three colored children of varying ages, each dressed only in the crudest cloth diaper. The oldest, perhaps nine months old, held on to the cart edge and pulled herself up to standing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My God,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe child reached her arms up to me in the universal baby language of love and goodness and I lifted her from the cart. I held her close and breathed in her heavenly baby scent, of milk and soap and innocence. Someone had taken loving care of her. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon the cart floor two infants lay upon the crude boards, one not more than a few days old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy handed the gatekeeper a folded paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where are their mothers?” I asked, shaken through. “They’ve not a blanket among them. When did they last eat?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gatekeeper read the paper and then stepped to the cart. “All girls? Supposed to be one boy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Take it up with Pa,” the boy said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gatekeeper bent over the cart and lifted out both infants. “One of ’em’s runty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boy shrugged. “Just pick up what I’m told. That big one cried most the way here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI held the girl closer and she settled her head upon my shoulder in a most tender way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gatekeeper handed the boy a folded stack of bills, which he tucked in his hip pocket, shook the reins, and started off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gatekeeper charged at me. “Don’t have time to coddle the likes of you. Hand it over.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stepped back. “I will not, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You northern women? What a pain in my ass. You got one hundred dollars to buy her?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reached for the purse at my wrist. “I can write you an IOU this minute.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I reached aside, the man took his opportunity to wrench the child from my arms. She cried most piteously, reaching back, arms outstretched as the gatekeeper handed her to another filthy accomplice who carried her away at arm’s length. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe tried to follow, but the gatekeeper clanged the gate shut, and through the bars said, “No ladies allowed at the sale. This is rough trade here, not for delicate sensibilities,” and walked away into the crowd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wrapped one hand around an iron bar as I watched the children spirited back to a room beyond our view, one palm across my mouth to contain the horror of it all. What feeling human could hear those cries and not feel compassion to the quick? Three mothers sat somewhere in fresh agony without their precious girls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned to Mother. “We spent all of yesterday calling on Charleston’s best. We must appeal to someone.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother kept her gaze on the gathering crowd. “To whom? This is about money, Mary. These planters will never give up slavery willingly. We can only elect a president who will cut it off at its head.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll too familiar with the concept of slavery, we’d attended Dr. Cheever’s lectures at the Cooper Institute, read Uncle Tom’s Cabin many times over, and seen advertisements announcing slave sales in The Charleston Courier that morning. But nothing could have prepared us for seeing such a horrific spectacle in the flesh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe examined the crowded market area with growing dread as the sale began, a low-ceilinged room, open to a rear yard where a brick building rose up, its barred windows crowded with dark faces. In the long room an auctioneer took his place upon a crude wooden platform, slapping his leather crop against his boot, the tense spirit of moneymaking in the air. He seemed a ruffian, in his check trousers and shabby Panama hat, pulling at his tuft of yellow chin beard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gentlemen, are you ready?” His voice echoed off the stone walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGroups of bidders clustered around the platform, gentlemanly looking men just such as we met every day at the hotel table, wearing their beaver top hats and beards of formal cut. Most held a cigar in one hand, the catalog printed with that day’s human stock in the other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe objects of the sale stood, in every shade of complexion, backs against the walls, being roughly examined. Groups of mothers and children stood near us, the women in good calico dresses and clean white pinafores and headscarves, children bareheaded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe craned our necks to see into an anteroom off the main chamber, where men questioned the women, prying open their mouths, lifting their skirts, and exposing their most private parts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I saw such a sale in Richmond as a girl. Many masters sell their own colored children, and their own children begot of those daughters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And this is the nineteenth century,” Georgy said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tonight, not a steamer or row of train cars will leave this cruel city without its own sad burden of these unhappy ones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGeorgy linked arms with Mother. “We mustn’t get complacent and accept it simply because it’s the norm. Mrs. Wolcott knows the mayor. We must speak to him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother moved her gaze to the auctioneer. “The mayor most likely buys and sells his slaves from here. It’s all perfectly legal. Our urgings for freedom will fall on deaf ears and they will certainly have us carted off.”","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304019775717,"sku":"NP9781524796402","price":28.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524796402.jpg?v=1730756088","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/woolsey-ferridayisbn-9781524796402","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}