Featured Spotlight Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Lost Seigneur" by David Loux

WINNER OF THE 2025 BOOK OF THE YEAR from THE HISTORICAL FICTION COMPANY

BOOK EXCERPT

Chapter One

The afternoon turned the worn hue of an old silver coin as Magdalena began the daily ritual of closing up the lonely château, which sat on a plot of cultivated land in the new-world colony of Penn’s Woods, not far from the western frontier. First, she checked the bolt on the front door as well as the one that led from the mudroom to her husband’s vineyard. Then she pulled the heavy drapes on the long windows, shutting out the meadow views on one side of the house and the distant line of oak forest on the other. The house was now in deep gloom, and she lit the lamps in the great room, where she intended to sit in front of the unlit fireplace and await the further advance of the coming night.

Before settling down with her book, however, she tidied up the kitchen. The iron skillet needed to be scrubbed and her plate and single setting of silverware washed. Her husband, Lawrence, had installed a drain in the sink—it was one of the little improvements he was always coming up with—and she poured the wastewater away while the dishes air-dried on a tea towel. Then, satisfied that all was in order at last, she retired to her waiting chair.

The château had two stories, and the upper level loomed with a presence that was not quite ominous. In the winters, the upstairs became so frigid that water froze in the glass by the bedside. Now, however, the summer heat gathered like a woolen blanket, making her feel hot and itchy. As a distraction from thinking about the upstairs furnace lying in wait, she usually read until fatigue crept over her with enough force that sleep would beckon. Remus had no problem getting comfortable wherever he happened to be, she thought, her gaze stealing to the mastiff at her feet. Magdalena’s father had given her the dog as a puppy on her wedding day, and now, at three years old, it lay with its jowly head on her foot, reassuring her with its company.

A sudden knock on the door startled her. Remus picked up his head and gave a throaty woof. Setting her book aside, Magdalena rose and made her way to the foyer, the dog padding at her side.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s the post, ma’am—from the stage depot,” a youthful voice piped, and Remus issued a low growl. After the death of his first wife, Catharine, who had been Magdalena’s older sister, Lawrence was loath to leave her alone. But he was in the Pennsylvania assembly now, which met in Philadelphia, a two-day ride away. He had wanted Magdalena to accompany him. But while she was glad to be out of her mother’s house, she couldn’t stand the thought of being too far removed, either, which meant that during her husband’s absences, the post was their only means of keeping in touch.

A young man stood on the threshold, his face glowing in the lamplight. Behind him, where his horse patiently waited, the last silvern vestiges of the waning day had given way to the creeping purples of twilight. The cicadas were particularly loud this year, and the coming night seemed to drive them into a frenzy. Their thundering chorus made it hard even to think.

“Thank you,” Magdalena said, accepting the letter the young postman withdrew from the leather pouch that hung around his neck. The lad beamed when she dropped a couple of coins in his palm, and waved cheerfully as he turned away. After climbing up onto his horse, he waved again, and Remus let out another growl.

“Oh, calm down, you,” Magdalena said, glancing affectionately at her companion as she shut the door and rebolted it. The dog looked up at her, his eyes rolling, and she reached down and scratched behind his ear.

Heading into the kitchen, she placed the letter on the oversized wooden table and lit the lamp that sat on the counter. Visitors to the château were not unwelcome, but they created a disturbance like a draft on the neck—or were she more like Remus, hair rubbed the wrong way. It was an agitation that she didn’t want to take into the great room, where her book waited. So, she placed a kettle on the heating plate of the kitchen hearth and added a couple more sticks of kindling underneath. She assumed the letter was from her husband and felt the tingle of suspense.

Once the water in the kettle had warmed, she poured a mug and added an infuser of tea leaves. She opened the letter with a knife from the block on the counter, then sat down rather ceremoniously at the table.

The letter was written in an unfamiliar longhand. It took time to read. Without thinking, she had placed the kettle back on the heating plate and it started to bubble and spit. Her hand began to shake. She read the letter again and yet a third time before lowering it to the table and staring into space.