The bestselling classic about a mixed-race child in the Civil War-era South that “chronicles the triumph of a free spirit over many kinds of bondage” (TheNew York Times Book Review).  Jubilee tells the true story of Vyry, the child of a white plantation owner and his black mistress. Vyry bears witness to the antebellum South in both its opulence and its brutality, its wartime ruin, and the promises of Reconstruction.   Weaving her own family’s oral history with thirty years of research, Margaret Walker brings the everyday experiences of slaves to light in a novel that churns with the hunger, the hymns, the struggles, and the very breath of American history.   “A revelation.”—Milwaukee Journal  Includes a foreword by Nikki Giovanni

From the Publisher This stunningly different Civil War novel boasts a heroine to rival Scarlett O'Hara. Daughter of the white plantation owner and his beloved black mistress, Vyry was conceived, born and reared to womanhood behind the House. Stepped in knowledge of and feeling for the times and the people, Jubilee is a magnificent tale told with devastating truth."A revelation." -- Milwaukee Journal"If you are fed up right to the hairline with Civil War books--'even good ones'--you'll still do yourself a favor by picking up Jubilee." -- Chicago Tribune Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. I: Sis Hetta's ChildThe Ante-Bellum Years    1Death is a mystery that only the squinch owl knows    'may Liza, how come you so restless and uneasy? You must be restless in your mind."     'I is. I is. That old screech owl is making me nervous.' 'Wellum, 'tain't no use in your gitting so upsot bout that bird hollering. It ain't the sign of no woman nohow. It always means a man."     'It's the sign of death."     Grandpa Tom, the stable boy, and May Liza, Marster's upstairs house girl, were sitting on the steps of their cabins in the slave Quarters. It was not yet dusk-dark. An early twilight hung over the valley, and along the creek bank fog rose. The hot Spring day was ending with the promise of a long and miserable night. A hushed quiet hung over the Quarters. There were no children playing ring games before the cabins. The hardened dirt-clay road, more like a narrow path before their doors, was full of people smoking corncob pipes and chewing tobacco in silence. Out on the horizon a full moon was rising. All eyes were on the cabin of Sis Hetta, where she lay on her deathbed sinking fast.     Inside Sis Hetta's cabin the night was sticky hot. A cloying, sweetish, almost sickening smell of Cape jessamine, honeysuckle, and magnolias clung heavily to the humid night air. Caline, a middle-aged brown-skin woman with a head of crinkly brown hair tied in a knot on her neck, imposing eyes, and the unruffled air of importance and dignity that one associated with house servants, stood beside the sickbed and fanned Sis Hetta with a large palmetto fan. Caline knew Hetta was dying. As soon as supper was over in the Big House, Caline came to see what she could do. Aunt Sally, cook in the Big House, couldn't get away with Caline but she sent word, 'tell em I'll be along terreckly.' Fanning Sis Hetta in the hot night seemed all there was left to do for her, and so Caline kept fanning and thinking: Sis Hetta was a right young woman, younger than Caline, and she got with all those younguns fast as she could breed them. Caline had no children. She had never known why. Maybe it was something Old Marster made them do to her when she was a young girl and first started working in the Big House. Maybe it was the saltpeter. Anyway, Caline was glad. Slaves were better off, like herself, when they had no children to be sold away, to die, and to keep on having till they killed you, like Hetta was dying now.     Out on the Big Road, May Liza and Grandpa Tom could barely discern a man in the distance. As he drew nearer they could see he was riding a small child on his shoulders.     'Brother Zeke," breathed May Liza.     'Yeah," and Grandpa Tom took his pipe out of his mouth and spat.     'that's Sis Hetta's last child she had for Marster, Zeke's riding on his shoulder."     'How you know?"     'I hear tell they done sent clean over to Marster's other plantation cause Hetta wants to look at her youngun."     'Be her last look, I reckon."     'Yeah, I reckon so."     Now in the tricky light of the half-night they saw a figure wearing long trailing skirts of a woman. She was walking slowly at a short distance behind Brother Ezekiel.     'mammy Sukey's coming too."     'You know she ain't leaving that gal out of her sight. That's Marster's youngun they give her to raise."     'marster don't care nothing bout that youngun. Mammy Sukey's got her cause Jake won't leave her be in peace with him and Hetta. They say he pinch that gal when she wasn't nothing but a suckling baby."     'Wellum 'twarn't no use in that. Jake knowed Hetta been having Marster's younguns long as they can remember."     'reckon how he knowed?"     Hetta was twenty-nine years old, although this was a fact she could not verify. After having given birth to fifteen children, all single births, she was waiting for death in childbed. Her thin bony fingers clutched nervously at the ragged quilt that covered her. Evidently her mind wandered back over happier and earlier days, for her quick beady eyes, glittering with fever, sometimes lighted up, and although she was nearly speechless, Caline fancied she heard the sick woman muttering words. Hetta was a woman who had never talked much.     Another black woman, small, and birdlike in her movements, moved in and out the cabin carrying china washbowls and pitchers of hot water; moving blood-soaked rags and clothing, watching the face of the sick woman to whom she had fed laudanum to ease the pain of these last three days. Granny Ticey was deeply dejected. She moved to keep her hands busy and occupy her mind. She had always been proud of her reputation of rarely losing her patients. Babies she lost, but mothers seldom. She had been uneasy all week about Hetta. It wasn't the first time this heavy breeding woman, whose babies came too fast, tearing her flesh in shreds, had had a hard and complicated time. She did not like either the looks or the actions of Hetta and she told Jake and Marster, or at least tried to communicate her fears to them. Of course it was true there wasn't anything too much she had to base her fear on. Hetta was sick every day this last time. Toward the end she rarely left her bed. She was bloated and swollen beyond recognition. But Jake said nothing, as usual, and Marster only laughed. Eight days ago when Granny Ticey saw the quarter moon dripping blood she knew it was an evil omen. When Jake came for her and said Hetta's time had come she did not want to go, because she knew nothing was right. But she went and she stayed, and now grim and wordless she watched the night lengthen its shadows outside Sis Hetta's door.     One thing Granny Ticey had done. When the baby was born dead, and Hetta started having terrible fits and hemorrhaging, she made Marster send for a doctor, but two days went by before the doctor came. Meanwhile Granny Ticey made tansy tea and bathed Hetta in hazel root, and used red shank. All these did no good. On the third day when the white doctor came, he barely stayed ten minutes, and he did not touch Hetta. Instead he spoke angrily to Granny Ticey.     'What you want me to do, now that it's plain she's dying? You didn't get all that afterbirth. How many times do I have to tell you to get it all? Don't know why you had John to get me way out here for this unless it was just to make him waste money over your carelessness."     Granny Ticey said nothing. Her lips were tight and her eyes were hard and angry in an otherwise set face. But she was thinking all she dared not say: How was he expecting me to get all the rotten pieces after a dead baby? That's exactly why I sent for him, so's he could get what I couldn't get. If he had come on when I sent for him, instead of waiting till now, Hetta might not be dead. No, I'll take that back. She was going to die anyway. She had to die one of these times. The last two times were nothing but the goodness of God. I guess it's just her time.     When the doctor went away he must have told Marster that Hetta was dying. Early in the afternoon when dinner in the Big House was over, Marster came down to Hetta's cabin. Granny Ticey was there alone with Hetta. Jake was in the fields. Marster was a tall blond man barely thirty-five years old. John Morris Dutton scarcely looked like the Marster. He still looked like a boy to Granny Ticey, but a big husky boy, whose sandy hair fell in his face and whose gray-blue eyes always twinkled in fun. He liked to hunt and fish, and he was always slapping a friend on the back in good fellowship and fun. He never seemed to take anything too seriously, and his every other word was a swearing, cursing song. He was a rich man with two plantations and sixty slaves on this one. He was a young man with hot blood in his veins. He could eat and drink as much as he liked, sleep it off quickly, rise early ready to ride far and enjoy living. Now he came down the path whistling, and only when his rangy form stooped to enter Hetta's cabin, and he saw the disapproving gravity in Granny Ticey's solemn eyes, did he hush, and ask, unnecessarily, 'Where is she?' --This text refers to the paperback edition. From the Inside Flap This stunningly different Civil War novel boasts  a heroine to rival Scarlett O'Hara. Daughter of  the white plantation owner and his beloved black  mistress, Vyry was conceived, born and reared to  womanhood behind the House. Stepped in knowledge of  and feeling for the times and the people,  Jubilee is a magnificent tale told with  devastating truth. From the Back Cover The first truly historical black American novel. Joyce Ann Joyce"Jubilee "tells the true story of Vyry, the child of a white plantation owner and his black mistress.Vyry bears witness to the South s antebellum opulence and to its brutality, its wartime ruin, and the promises of Reconstruction.Weaving her own family s oral history with thirty years of research, Margaret Walker s novel brings the everyday experiences of slaves to light."Jubilee "churns with the hunger, the hymns, the struggles, and the very breath of American history. This 50th anniversary edition includes a new foreword by poet Nikki Giovanni. In Vyry, Miss Walker has found a remarkable woman who suffered one outrage after the other and yet emerged with a humility and a mortal fortitude that reflected a spiritual wholeness. "Christian Science Monitor" A revelation. "Milwaukee Journal" MARGARET WALKER (1915 1998) was one of America s most popular and respected AfricanAmerican writers and scholars.Among the most formidable literary voices to emerge in the twentieth century, she will be remembered as one of the foremost transcribers of African American heritage. " Review "Do yourself a favor by picking up Jubilee." The Chicago Tribune"Chronicles the triumph of a free spirit over many kinds of bondage." The New York Times --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author MARGARET WALKER (1915?1998) was one of America's most popular and respected African American writers and scholars. She first gained national recognition with the 1942 poetry collection For My People, a winner of the Yale Younger Poets Award. She was awarded the Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship for her novel Jubilee, which became a national bestseller. Among the most formidable literary voices to emerge in the twentieth century, she will be remembered as one of the foremost transcribers of African American heritage.  --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Winner of the Clara Johnson AwardHurston Wright Legacy Award NomineeFinalist for the Library of Virginia's Literary AwardsFinalist for the 2023 Southern Book PrizeA Black mother bumps up against the limits of everything she thought she believed—about science and medicine, about motherhood, and about her faith—in search of the truth about her son.One morning, Tophs, Taylor Harris’s round-cheeked, lively twenty-two-month-old, wakes up listless, only lifting his head to gulp down water. She rushes Tophs to the doctor, ignoring the part of herself, trained by years of therapy for generalized anxiety disorder, that tries to whisper that she’s overreacting. But at the hospital, her maternal instincts are confirmed: something is wrong with her boy, and Taylor’s life will never be the same.With every question the doctors answer about Tophs’s increasingly troubling symptoms, more arise, and Taylor dives into the search for a diagnosis. She spends countless hours trying to navigate health and education systems that can be hostile to Black mothers and children; at night she googles, prays, and interrogates her every action.Some days, her sweet, charismatic boy seems just fine; others, he struggles to answer simple questions. A long-awaited appointment with a geneticist ultimately reveals nothing about what’s causing Tophs’s drops in blood sugar, his processing delays—but it does reveal something unexpected about Taylor’s own health. What if her son’s challenges have saved her life?This Boy We Made is a stirring and radiantly written examination of the bond between mother and child, full of hard-won insights about fighting for and finding meaning when nothing goes as expected.

Named a Must Read by Ebony ? Boston Herald  ? Book Riot  ?  Bookish  ? Minneapolis Star-Tribune and more!A body falls from a town house window in Harlem, and it looks just like the newest singer at the Apollo...in this evocative, twisting new novel from the authorof Miss Aldridge Regrets.Harlem, 1936: Lena Aldridge grew up in a cramped corner of London, hearing stories of the bright lights of Broadway. She always imagined that when she finally went to New York City, she’d be there with her father. But now he’s dead, and she’s newly arrived and alone, chasing a dream that has quickly dried up. When Will Goodman—the handsome musician she met on the crossing from England—offers for her to stay with his friends in Harlem, she agrees. She has nowhere else to go, and this will give her a chance to get to know Will better and see if she can find any trace of the family she might have remaining.Will’s friends welcome her with open arms, but just as Lena discovers the stories her father once told her were missing giant pieces of information, she also starts to realize the man she’s falling too fast and too hard for has secrets of his own. And they might just place a target on her back. Especially when she is drawn to the brightest stage in town.

Review “This gem follows last year’s equally suspenseful Miss Aldridge Regrets, featuring Lena Aldridge, a mixed-race jazz singer. Strong enough to stand on its own, Harlem After Midnight begins just days after “Regrets” ends. … Hare brings the era into brilliant focus and intrigues us from Page 1 with a woman falling from a third-story window. She relentlessly tantalizes us by withholding the victim’s identity, keeping us enthralled until the very end.”—The Washington Post"I was glued to the pages of this sophisticated historical crime drama. It was wonderful to be plunged back into Lena’s complicated life and onto the streets of Harlem in this evocative Jazz age novel. Lena's developing relationship with the somewhat mysterious Will Goodman and his friends, weaved with the story of Lena unravelling her own enigmatic family history, was utterly compelling. Mystery, drama, murder, all wrapped up in a story sublimely told. I am desperate to know what will happen next!"—Louise Fein, author of People Like Us "An elegant, clever murder mystery. This is evocative historical crime fiction at its best with an intelligent, classy voice. Utterly fabulous!"—Victoria Dowd, author of A Smart Woman’s Guide to Murder "Danger and glamour in equal measure, Harlem After Midnight is a wonderful mystery packed with secrets and surprises. An absolute page turner, it’s hugely entertaining. I loved it!"—Eleni Kyriacou, author of She Came To Stay "Once again Louise Hare brilliantly evokes times past, in this case, the periods bookending Harlem's famous 'Jazz Age' Renaissance. Moving between New York at the turn of the 20th Century and the mid-1930s, she expertly crafts a gripping, character-led mystery. Ms Hare, like Miss Aldridge, is a keen observer of human nature, and brings a lost world to life, as well as one, highly suspicious, death. Superb."—Tom Benjamin, author of A Quiet Death in Italy“Hare conveys the glory of the Harlem Renaissance, shines a light on New York’s painful history of segregation and empha­sizes the value of learning about—and from—those who came before us. The res­onance of family history and the danger­ous potency of long-held secrets collide as Lena reckons with her past and strives to create a new path forward.”—BookPage Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 Tuesday, 8 September 1936 I'd been in the apartment for only fifteen minutes but already it felt like home. The bedroom that would be mine for the next fortnight was perfect; I might never want to leave. The bed was immaculately made with blue cotton sheets and a pristine white comforter tucked into the foot, the floor made of the same sturdy varnished wood that ran through the entirety of Claudette and Louis Linfield's home. Clean towels had been folded and placed on a cozy navy blue velvet armchair that sat in the ideal position, in a corner close to the window, where I could sit and catch the last rays of sunshine at the end of the day. Claud had even laid out a selection of her favorite books on the bedside table to ensure I had something to read before going to sleep. She was a librarian by trade, so I supposed the habit ran deep. "You about settled in?" Claud Linfield had a constant easy smile. Even though she and her husband had been complete strangers only a couple of hours earlier, I already felt that there was no place safer in the whole of New York than in this cozy apartment. "Yes. Thank you." I moved to let her join me at the window, looking down into the street that was so different from the narrow London streets that I was used to. Wider, the buildings far taller, everything just that little bit bigger and brighter than back at home. "It's so kind of you to let me stay. I know that I could have stayed on at the hotel, but-" "Hotels are for those without their own people," she told me. "Far as I'm concerned, you're with Will and that makes you family. He's as good as a brother to me and Louis." Will Goodman. The reason I was in Harlem and no longer a resident of the luxurious but impersonal Sherry-Netherland hotel. We'd met on the voyage over from England. A cliché of a story: I had been a passenger; he was the bandleader, playing to the rich and famous every night in the Starlight Lounge on the HMS Queen Mary. It had been quite the voyage, and the addition of a whirlwind romance had left my head spinning. Perhaps it was foolish to throw my lot in with a man I'd only just met, but I trusted Will. There were so many others whom I couldn't, so when he'd offered to arrange for me to stay with friends of his, I'd agreed without a second thought. "You all grew up around here, you and Louis and Will?" I could see a group of young boys playing down in the road, shrieking and laughing loudly, until a woman stuck her head out of a window across the street and called out a warning for them to keep it down. Some things weren't so different from home. Claud nodded. "Went to the same school, and Will and Louis went to college together." "Really? I didn't know that." Louis was a pediatrician at the local hospital. Had Will studied medicine as well? Doctor to musician was an odd career change. "Come through, Lena. I know you English love your tea, but I hope coffee will do." Claud left the room before I could quiz her about Will. Will and Louis were already in the lounge, and they had both chosen to drink beer. The Linfield lounge induced further envy. High ceilings and tall windows, the sashes lifted to let in a breeze and offset the warmth of the early September evening, the fading light bathing the room in a natural glow. An unlit fireplace sat center stage with a sofa and two armchairs arranged around it. We were three stories up, at the top of what had once been home to a single family. Now the Linfields lived above two other couples. An older doctor friend of Louis's, a mentor from his medical school days, owned the building and occupied the ground floor as well as running a private practice from the basement. Above him lived his son, a dentist who shared the basement business with his father, and his wife, along with their small son. I was yet to meet them, but it struck me that yet again I was among people whose lives were very different from my own. I had left school with the bare minimum of qualifications; in my world they had never seemed that important. I was never going to be a doctor or a dentist or a teacher. Those occupations just weren't for people like me. Or so I had thought. Claud and I took the sofa, with the men already settled in the armchairs. They might have been brothers, Louis and Will. They sat in the same way, one leg straight out, the other bent with their beer bottle resting on the thigh. On the ship, Will had always been dressed in a formal suit, his bandleader persona permanently on display. Now he had dressed down in looser, wide-legged trousers, his shirtsleeves rolled up and no tie in sight. He looked right at home, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as he looked up at me and smiled. "So, you two met at sea, huh?" Louis was speaking to me but grinning at Will. I could guess what he was thinking. I'd been worried about what they'd think of me, a woman of loose virtue, but it seemed as though Claud and Louis weren't the sanctimonious type. Will took a swig of his beer. "I already told you, didn't I? Lena and I got to talking since she's a singer. Same line of work. Just a shame the job she had lined up fell through." "All this way for nothing?" Louis shook his head. "A real shame. At least now you get to have a vacation. Do the tourist thing and see the sights." "That's true." I took the cup of steaming coffee that Claud handed me and I wondered when it would be acceptable, if ever, to ask for a beer like the men. "I managed to get a ticket back to England in a fortnight, but until then this city is my oyster. Thank you again for putting me up. It's really very nice of you." "I, for one, am just thrilled to meet a friend of Will's," Claud told me. "We hardly see him these days, and when he does show up, it's just a flying visit, no news to report." She aimed this dig directly at Will, who shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "Will doesn't bring many friends home, then?" I avoided his gaze as it shifted to me. Of course I wanted to know. If he made a habit of bringing women back to Harlem, better I found out now. "Lord no! You're the first in the whole time he's been working on the ships. How long is it now-five years? Six?" "Too long." Will's tone made it clear he wasn't in the mood for Claud's teasing. "Too long," Claud agreed. "It really is nice to know that he's not been as lonely away at sea as I've been imagining." Louis's laugh was wheezing. "Oh, come on, now!" he said as Will began to protest. "We're only teasing. It's what friends do, isn't it? No need to take it so serious." Will looked almost shy as he glanced at me. "I don't want Lena to get the wrong impression, is all." "That you're a man who doesn't share his affections with every girl who crosses his path? I'd think that'd be a good impression to make." Claud eased the barely-sipped-from coffee cup from my hand. "You want something a bit stronger than that, don't you, Lena? I can tell." She got up to go to the kitchen, barely more than an alcove that had been sectioned off from the lounge. I looked guilty enough to cheer Will up. "Lena, Claudette Linfield is my best friend, as good as a sister and a mother too, plus a mind reader to boot. You're in safe hands with her." "But you do have a sister as well?" I was trying to remember what he'd told me in a rush as we'd temporarily parted at the port the day before. A reminder that I really didn't know very much about him, nor he me. What I did know was that Will usually stayed with the Linfields when the ship was docked in Manhattan. However, on this occasion, in order to preserve my reputation (though it was far too late for that) he would stay with his sister overnight before returning to the port in time to sail the next day. Stepsister, I reminded myself-he'd been very clear on that for some reason. As much as it was disappointing that our last night together would be spent sleeping in separate beds, I knew how lucky I was to have these last few hours with him. My love affairs tended to end with a lot less civility than this one would. "You know, I've been telling Will to come home and settle down instead of wasting the best years of his life away at sea," Claud told me, returning with a glass full of beer, ignoring the fact that the man himself was sitting right there. "Life doesn't seem so bad on the ship," I told her, trying to stick up for him. "You don't have to worry about rent, for one thing, or how to afford food. Things run like clockwork, and the people are nice." "But isn't it dull? Living the same day, over and over again. Same people. Same sights. Anyone of interest only hanging around long enough to get from A to B." She gave me a sharp look, and I knew that I was the "anyone of interest," but I had to disagree on one point. At least on the Queen Mary's last crossing, life had been far from dull. I only wished it hadn't been. We'd decided, Will and I-had agreed between us-that the events of the previous few days were best left alone. I had brought up the subject tentatively and been glad when Will agreed readily. When I told him that I wanted to put it all behind me, he had thought he understood. There was no easy way to explain to new acquaintances that I'd been at the center of a murder investigation. That three people had boarded the ship in Southampton alive and been carried off from the New York docks in a coroner's van. It felt like a dream-a nightmare-now that I was sitting with these very normal people. How could they understand? Besides, as far as almost everyone was concerned, the culprit had been found out and appropriate action taken. Apart from me, only the murderer knew the truth, and no one would believe me if I told them what had really happened. Even Will was more in the dark than he knew. Still, I knew that it was in his best interest to be ignorant. When I'd felt scared and lost on the ship, he had been the one person I trusted, the only person I could find shelter with. It was another reason I'd decided to risk following him to Harlem rather than staying in my fancy hotel. Some of my fellow passengers knew where I was booked to stay. I didn't think they would come looking for me, but sometimes it was better to be safe than sorry. "You'd be surprised at what goes on at sea" was all I said to Claud. "Well, I just think you're so incredibly brave to have traveled all that way alone, Lena." Claud pressed her lips together and shook her head. "See, that's why I'm glad I've got Louis. I'm far too chicken to do things like that. I'm not intrepid in the least." "You never know-you could surprise yourself one day." I managed to smile, a lump forming in my throat as I tried to push down the memories of what had actually happened. I took a sip of my beer and struggled to swallow it down. What I wouldn't give for a martini, or anything stronger. Something to take the edge off . . . "But do you have to go back to England right away?" Claud pressed, and for the first time I began to feel uncomfortable. So many questions. "What if you were able to find another job in New York?" "I suppose-well, I haven't given it much thought." I didn't even know if I was allowed to stay much longer. I'd never traveled before. My passport was brand-new, and I'd literally never left England before, so I didn't know how things worked in America. I had no ties to New York, no bank account or home address, none of the usual mundane things that made life tick along easily. Yes, both my parents had been American, but how to prove that when one was dead and the other would likely rather die than confess to being my parent? "Well, I think-" "Claud?" Louis interrupted his wife. "Didn't you say you needed a hand in the kitchen? To carve the meat?" She stared at him blankly, blinking as she realized she was being told to shut up and leave me and Will alone. "Oh, yes. Come on, then. Dinner won't serve itself." Will came and took her place beside me on the sofa as she and Louis disappeared into the tiny kitchen. I'd never seen him look nervous before. Usually, it had been me standing before him and trying not to make a fool of myself. "Is everything all right?" "All right?" He paused. "Why wouldn't it be?" "You don't seem yourself." He seemed tense, but I couldn't understand why when he was the one on familiar territory. "Oh." He looked down at his hands. "I guess . . . There's something I wanted to tell you." I groaned. "Oh God! How bad is it?" "Huh?" "Are you going to tell me that you're married? Or that you have a secret child stashed away somewhere?" I gave him a gentle nudge with my elbow. "Come on, then, out with it." Will grinned as he realized I was teasing, though he looked a little too relieved. Not a wife or a child, then. "No. This is . . . It's a good thing. I hope." He looked worried. "I just don't want you to think that-" "Oh please, just spit it out." The suspense was doing nothing for my nerves. "It's just that I got someone to take my place on the ship for this next trip coming up. I'm not leaving tomorrow. I'm staying in New York and then I'll travel with you when you sail back to England. If that's all right. With you." --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author Louise Hare is the London-based author of Miss Aldridge Regrets. Her debut novel, This Lovely City, was published in the UK to wide acclaim, and was a Between the Covers Book Club Pick on BBC Two. She has an MA in creative writing from the University of London. --This text refers to the hardcover edition.