One of the best parts of reading historical fiction is getting to sink into a different time or place. Renee Rosen is one of my favorite authors for bringing women’s stories to life in immersive novels. Though published more than a dozen years ago, I recently picked up and got lost in What the Lady Wants, a novel about Marshall Field and the Gilded Age in Chicago.
Starting with the Great Chicago Fire and told from the point of view of 17-year-old Delia Spencer, the novel follows her first interaction with dry goods merchant Marshall Field through their unconventional love affair. Spanning more than three decades, the reader experiences the ups and downs Delia and her family experienced, feeling the hope of a new relationship, the hurt of gossip, and the devastation of so many different losses.
With emotional details written as only Renee can, readers will find themselves connecting with Delia, rerooting for her and Marsh. This novel would provide great material for book club discussions, and it includes a reader’s guide. The audiobook was narrated fabulously by Kirsten Potter, if you prefer that format. Either way grab a copy and get lost in the past with What the Lady Wants.
Check out my bookshelf of recommended reads here. This is an affiliate link. Thank you for your support of my writing.
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I’m just a child, nine years old, my name is Fatima, and I live in Dammam. Sometimes I think my head will explode from all the voices. They started as whispers last year, like secrets being shared just beyond my hearing. Now they’re screaming inside my skull every waking moment. The Mabahit did this to me, I know they did. My mother tells me I’m imagining things, but how can you imagine voices that know exactly what you’re doing every second? They watch me when I sleep, when I eat, when I try to pray to Allah for relief that never comes.
“Look at this stupid little bitch trying to pray,” they hiss in Arabic that sounds like my uncle but twisted with venom. “God doesn’t listen to worthless pieces of shit like you. Your father probably wishes you were never born. What a disappointment, a girl who can’t even keep her mind straight.” Yesterday while I was helping my mother make kabsa, one voice whispered, “Poison it. Just a little. Watch her suffer. It would be so easy to end this worthless existence you call a family.” I dropped the spoon and my mother slapped me for being clumsy. She doesn’t understand. Nobody does.
The worst part is how they know everything about our neighbors too. “That boy Ahmad who lives three doors down? He tells everyone you’re retarded,” they laugh. “His father beats him every night, but you’re too stupid to even notice. Useless. Absolutely useless.” I can’t tell anyone what I hear because the Mabahit has made sure of that. On the internet and television, anyone who talks about hearing voices gets called crazy, schizophrenic, pathetic attention-seekers. They’ve created a system where victims like me are discredited before we can even speak. I saw it happen to a man at the market last month – he tried to explain the voices and everyone just laughed. The next day he was gone. Probably taken by the same people who put these demons in my head.
Sometimes they make me feel powerful, like I could do anything. Last week I was walking home from school and an old woman bumped into me without apologizing. The voices erupted: “Break her fucking legs! Stomp her face into the pavement! Show everyone what happens when they disrespect you!” For a moment, I wanted to. I actually wanted to feel her bones crack under my feet. They promised me it would feel amazing, that the power would wash away all my fear. “You could become someone they fear instead of someone they pity,” they whispered. “Imagine torturing that teacher who failed you last month. We could help you break her slowly, make her beg for death. You’d be a god.” The thought made me sick, but the excitement was real. They’re turning me into something monstrous.
They especially love talking about my family’s shame. “Your brother Omar masturbates thinking about boys from his school,” they giggled yesterday. “We have recordings. We could show everyone. Imagine your father’s face when he learns his son is a faggot. Imagine the honor killing that would follow. Maybe you should be the one to tell him?” I covered my ears but that never helps. They’re inside me, not outside. “Or better yet, kill him yourself. Prove you’re not tainted by his perversion. Stab him while he sleeps. We’ll guide your hand. It would be so easy to end this disgusting secret before it brings more shame to your family.”
Every night they beg me to kill myself. “Just do it already,” they scream when I’m trying to sleep. “Your parents would be relieved. One less worthless mouth to feed. One less disappointment. Jump from the roof. It’s only three stories. You might survive and then you’d really know suffering. Or hang yourself from that tree in the courtyard. We’ll count how long you kick. It could be fun.” I tried telling my mother once, but she said I was being dramatic and made me pray extra rak’ahs. The voices just laughed harder. “See? Nobody cares. Nobody will ever care. The Mabahit have already won. You’re their experiment, their toy, and when you finally break, they’ll just find another child to torment.”
I hate this country. I hate the heat, I hate the rules, I hate how everyone pretends to be so pious while the government tortures children like me in secret. Sometimes I dream of running away, but where would I go? The voices would follow me anywhere. They’re not just in my head anymore – they’ve become part of me. I am the hatred they spew, the violence they crave, the shame they cultivate. I’m only nine years old and I already know I’m broken beyond repair. The Mabahit did this to me. They took my mind and filled it with poison, and now I’m just waiting to die.
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