An;epic;saga;about;a French noblewoman deserted on an island where her survival;depends;on the power of her faith and love--from the Heir to a chateau with its own village and lands, Marguerite is destined for a life of prosperity and gentility. Then she is orphaned, and Jean Francois de la Rocque de Roberval--an enigmatic and volatile man Marguerite has never met--becomes her guardian, controlling her future. He sells her property to pay his debts, leaving her destitute, and insists she accompany him on an expedition to New France. Isolated and afraid, Marguerite befriends Roberval’s servant and the two;develop;an intense attraction. But when Roberval discovers Marguerite''s deception, his rage is all consuming. As punishment, he maroons her and her lover on a small island.; Once a child of privilege who dressed in gowns and laced pearls in her hair,;Marguerite finds herself at the mercy of nature.;As the weather turns, blanketing the island in ice, survival becomes nearly impossible.;She despairs; has everyone and everything she once held dear abandoned her? A riveting;portrait inspired by the real life of a sixteenth-century heroine,;and a gorgeous celebration of the power of the natural world, <Isola <is the timeless story of a woman realizing her true strength.

Autorentext

Allegra Goodman

Klappentext

REESE’S BOOK CLUB PICK • NATIONAL BESTSELLER • “A shocking story, made all the more stunning by the fact that it has its roots in true history.”—Jodi Picoult, author of By Any Other Name

“A new generation of survival story . . . an extraordinary book that reads like a thriller, written with the care of the most delicate psychological and historical fiction.”—Vogue (Best of 2025 Preview)

A young woman and her lover are marooned on an island in this “lushly painted” (People) historical epic of love, faith, and defiance from the bestselling author of Sam.

A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: TIME, The New York Times Book Review, The Washington Post, NPR, Slate, The Globe and Mail, Kirkus Reviews, Town & Country, Lit Hub, Christian Science Monitor • FINALIST FOR THE KIRKUS PRIZE • LONGLISTED FOR THE AMERICAN LIBRARY IN PARIS BOOK AWARD

Heir to a fortune, Marguerite is destined for a life of prosperity and gentility. Then she is orphaned, and her guardian—an enigmatic and volatile man—spends her inheritance and insists she accompany him on an expedition to New France. That journey takes a unexpected turn when Marguerite, accused of betrayal, is brutally punished and abandoned on a small island.

Once a child of privilege who dressed in gowns and laced pearls in her hair, Marguerite finds herself at the mercy of nature. As the weather turns, blanketing the island in ice, she discovers a faith she’d never before needed.

Inspired by the real life of a sixteenth-century heroine, Isola is the timeless story of a woman fighting for survival.

Leseprobe
1

I never knew my mother. She died the night that I was born, and so we passed each other in the dark. She left me her name, Marguerite, and her ruby ring, but no memory of her. I did not know my father either. When I was one year old, he was killed fighting for the King at Pavia. Then I was rich, although I did not know it, and poor, although I did not know it. I was heir to a château in Périgord with its own villages, vineyards, and sunny fields, but I had no parents, aunts, or uncles living. Servants surrounded me, but I had no sisters or brothers, and so I was alone.

My nurse, Damienne, was my first teacher. She was an old woman, at least forty, and her hair, once red, was faded like old brick. Her eyes were shrewd but tired, and all around her mouth her skin was creased in little lines like unpressed linen. My nurse was stout, her stomach soft, her bosom pillowy. When we lay down to sleep, she held me close as though I were her own—and if I was not her child, then certainly she belonged to me, for she had served my family since she was a girl.

She said my father had been noble, not just in name but on the battlefield. When his horse was killed under him, he fought on with sword and pike until an archer shot him in the neck. Wounded, my father fell, but his men broke off the arrow’s shaft and bore him away. In his tent, even as a surgeon cut out the arrowhead, my father demanded to return to fight. “Take me back,” he gasped while his blood streamed out in rivulets. I imagined his blood ruby red.

As for my mother, she had been a beauty. My eyes were green, but her eyes had been greener. My hair was amber brown, but hers had been gold like winter wheat. My mother’s hands were elegant, her fingers long. When she played the virginal, her notes were perfect, but her modesty was such that she performed only for her own ladies. As a girl, my mother had been gentle and obedient—but my nurse would do her best with me.

Damienne fussed, but she was kind. When I tested her, she forgave me. Only on great occasions did my nurse lose patience. The first time my guardian visited, Damienne’s sharp words startled me. After a messenger summoned me downstairs, my nurse scolded, “You aren’t fit to be seen! Your slippers are disgraceful.”

“How are they disgraceful?” I asked, as she helped me into silver sleeves.

My nurse sat me down hard and I slumped, offended, but she did not relent. “Sit straight! Do not let your back so much as touch your chair.”

“Why not? What will happen if I touch my chair?”

“No questions.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

My nurse could not read, but she had taught me how to pray. Our Father. Our Mother, Holy Mary, full of Grace. At first, I imagined my own parents as I intoned these words, but Damienne stamped out this childish heresy. You did not pray to your own father and mother but to the Father and Mother of the world, the King and Queen who reigned in heaven. And so, I understood that while I belonged to the Lord and to the Virgin, they did not belong to me. This was true of my inheritance as well. Because I could not govern my own lands, I had a guardian, and he would manage my estate until my marriage. I was already betrothed and would wed at fifteen if I lived.

If I didn’t, I might go to heaven. My soul would float above the tallest towers. I would not know hunger or suffer from the cold, and I would hear the angels singing. This was what I learned, but when I wondered, Why not die and fly to heaven now? Damienne said for shame. It was wicked to ask, and what made me think a wicked child could go? One with needlework so poor and lice crawling in her hair? Even now when I must look a lady, Damienne found nits.

“Terrible.” She pulled them off like tiny burrs. My mother hardly had lice in comparison—but she was herself an angel. I imagined her lice were little angels too.

I was wicked, just as Damienne said. My hems were ragged because I climbed rough tower stairs to see the view. Fearsome, ancient, pierced with arrow slits, our north and western towers were built upon a cliff to command and to defend the country. From there, I could see my villages, orchards, vineyards, and the green river winding, spanned by a stone bridge. As for my slippers, I had ruined them at the stables where I ran to see the horses. Damienne would hurry after me, although she wasn’t fast, and stand calling to the grooms for help. Then, thoughtless as I was, I hid. I slipped behind the water troughs and stable doors—but in the end, I followed her inside.

“God’s will,” Damienne murmured now, because I was her constant care. She combed through a drop of oil and bo…