Blog Tour: Enola Holmes & the Black Barouche

Enola Holmes is such a fun character on the page and on screen in the Netflix movie that I jumped at the chance to read the next book in Nancy Springer’s Enola Holmes series. In true form, Enola did not disappoint. I adored this entry into the Enola Holmes series. It works well as a stand alone, too.

Enola may be the much younger sister of the famed Sherlock Holmes, but she is a savvy sleuth and detective in her own right. This book in the series follows Enola as she tries to uncover what happened to a young woman’s twin sister, Felicity Glover. Felicity married the Early of Dunhench who claims she has suddenly died of a fever. Her twin Letitia and Enola are unconvinced. When they discover that Felicity’s death certificate is signed by John H. Watson, who denies ever signing the certificate, they infiltrate Dunhench manor to learn more.

Enola’s wit, humor, and brave spirit shine throughout this book. The plot is fast-paced and engaging. I really appreciated Springer’s attention to fashion and keen detail in the world-building of 19th century England.

This book explores fun with fashion, disguises, friendships, sibling relationships, subjugation of women, and injustices. I highly recommend it to fans of historical mysteries and YA.

Thank you so much to Wednesday Books for having me on the tour for this wonderful book.

Read the excerpt below!

“Is she fainted?” 

Indignant, I wanted to sit up and say I was not so easily killed and I never fainted, but to my surprise my body would not obey me. I merely stirred and murmured. 

“She’s moving.” 

I saw the clodhopper boots of common men surrounding me and smelled alcohol on the breath of those leaning over me. 

“Let’s get ’er inside.” 

“Somebody go fer the doctor.” 

Strong hands, not ungentle, seized me by the feet and shoulders. I could have kicked and yelled—I felt strong enough now—but my mind had started to function, realizing that I was about to be carried into a pub, for only in a public house, or pub, would workmen be drinking in the daytime. And normally no woman of good repute would enter a pub, or if she did, she would be jeered at until she retreated. But, my avid brain realized, fate in the form of Jezebel had given me opportunity to spend some time inside a pub—no, in the pub, most likely the only pub in Threefinches! So I closed my eyes and pretended to be rather more helpless than I was as the men hauled me inside and laid me down on a high-backed bench by the hearth. 

Someone brought something pungent in lieu of smelling salts, but I shook my head, pushed the malodourous hand away, opened my eyes, and sat up, acting as if it were a great effort for me to do so. A burly, bearded man in an apron, undoubtedly the publican who kept the place, came running with a pillow for my back, and I thanked him with a gracious smile. 

“Will ye have a nip of brandy, lydy?” 

“No, thank you. Water, please.” 

“Jack! Water for the lydy!” he bellowed to some underling, and he remained nearby as I managed, with hands that genuinely trembled, to remove my gloves. Their thin kidskin leather was ruined by the mauling it had taken from Jezebel’s reins, and my hands were red and sore; doubtless they would bruise. Grateful for the cool glass, I held it in both hands and sipped, looking around me. Half of the denizens of the place, like the owner, stood in a semicircle staring at me not unpleasantly, while the rest did the same from seats at the rustic tables—all but one. A tall man with beard stubble on his chin and quite a shock of coarse brownish-grey hair hiding his forehead had withdrawn to a table by the wall, where he devoted his attention to his mug of ale, or stout, or whatever noxious brew he might fancy. I said brightly to the tavern-keeper, “I believe I would like to stand up.” 

“Now, why not wait for the doctor, lydy—” 

But taking hold of his arm, as he stood within my reach, I got to my feet with reasonable steadiness. There were muted cheers from the onlookers. Nodding and simpering at the men all around me, I lilted, “Thank you so much. Do you suppose anyone could go out and fetch my bag, and my hat and parasol? I believe they fell along the—” 

Already half a dozen would-be heroes were stampeding towards the door. Yet, if I had walked in here under my own power, any request for help would have been met with deepest suspicion. Such is life: odd.

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