Devon Maid

Today, I’m delighted to host The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes. The book is on a blog tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club: https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2026/06/blog-tour-the-making-of-marigold-mcgrath-by-carrie-hayes.html

About the Book

New York City, 1937. Seventeen-year-old Marigold McGrath is coming undone.

Her mother is dead. Her father is drawn to dangerous politics. The only place she feels joy is behind a camera — where she can frame the world on her own terms.

Praise for The Making of Marigold McGrath

I read a lot of historical novels … this one was one of my favorites. From the characters to the setting to the actions depicted I thoroughly enjoyed the journey—I really didn’t want it to end!
~ Netgalley Review, 5*

“The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes is the tale of a well to do American seventeen year old sent to Europe just prior to World War II. The book is exquisitely written with a well paced dialogue. The characters are well formed and interesting. Sprinkled throughout the book are bits from news outlets that help set the larger context for the reader – they are well timed and helpful. Great read, well worth it!“
~ Goodreads Review, 5*

“The Making of Marigold McGrath explores a rarely examined aspect of WWII: the complex journeys to maturity of young adults in war-torn Europe as they seek human connection and meaning. Marigold finds both, using her skills as a photographer to document the stories of refugee children. With gobs of historical references and vivid imagery, interlaced with intrigue and romance, The Making of Marigold McGrath is a great read!“
~ Goodreads Review, 5*

Buy Links

https://books2read.com/u/388dyw

This title is available to read on #KindleUnlimited.

The Book Details

Excerpt

Woburn House was located in Bloomsbury and had once been a mansion for an earl. Inside a front office, a woman at a desk bent over a typewriter. On the wall behind her was a large photograph of the new king, with his wife and daughters. The woman looked up and squinted at Marigold.

“It’s going to be a wait I’m afraid.” The woman pointed at a line of women sitting on a bench along the wall.

“Oh no, I— I’m here to help. Zosia Dagger sent me.”

“Ah, well in that case . . .”

She directed Marigold to an office on the second floor. Two women worked at small desks; the third desk along the back wall was empty. Adjacent to the wall facing the windows was another office, whose door was kept closed.

“That belongs to Colonel Mayhew,” the older woman, Mrs. Krumbull, explained. “We report to him.” She continued, “This team places domestics. Most of the people who write to us are theatrical artists who, for whatever reason, need to leave Germany.”

“Why do they need to leave Germany?”

The younger one, Miss Breen, gave her a funny look. “You don’t know?”

Marigold shook her head. She wondered if it was too soon to find the restroom.

Mrs. Krumbull squinted. “How did you come here?”

“Zosia Dagger sent me.” Marigold’s face began to redden.

“Did she?” The women were silent for a few moments. Mrs. Krumbull then cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“I’m eighteen.”                                                 

“I see. Well, all of these people”—She gestured to the piles upon piles of applications— “need to leave because they’re Jews. Or, if they’re not Jewish, they probably have a life that their government does not approve of.”

She brought Marigold to a desk covered in stacks of papers with photographs attached. “At the moment, we only have housemaid positions. So, we can place the women, but to find the men, a chauffeuring position or something, has proven to be far more challenging. Do you speak German?”

Several hours later, Marigold thought her bladder might explode. The other two women had taken a break but not invited her to do so. When they returned, they continued working in silence, and she’d sorted through two boxes of applications, those with domestic experience and those without. Those who spoke English and those who did not. Those who were married and those who were single.

She looked at her wristwatch. It was just after four. “Uh, excuse me. Mrs. Krumbull?” Marigold stood up. “Where is the powder room?”

The older woman’s face was blank like stone. Then after a few seconds, her eyes lit up. “Oh, you mean the cloakroom, is that right?”

Each day continued much like the one before. But the quantity of boxes began to increase exponentially. Applications of women were sorted into “For review” piles. Men making application without wives or families were placed into a discard pile. Marigold wondered what they were fleeing, why they would leave their occupations (some of them she was sure she recognized) to work as somebody’s servant. What Mr. Ganz described, what Alan had alluded to— none of it had interested her before. But now, sorting through their letters, placing single men into the “no” pile, reports on the radio and in the papers took on a new urgency.

Marek Dagger’s studio was in a mews just behind Lots Road, a short walk from Falaise. The pavement at Lark Mews was cobbled, and yellow daffodils were on the corner of the stoop. Marigold timidly knocked.

“Come!” 

His studio was bright, bright and a fire roared in its small fireplace. Her eyes adjusted to the white painted walls and white painted floors. Marek and another man stood on either side of the mantel, an orange cat sleeping on a patch of kilim rug between them.

“This is Stefan, Marigold. If you’re going to take pictures, his magazines are where you’ll publish.”

“That’s right,” Stefan said, and shook her hand. “Not just Vogue.”

“Well, uh— Marvelous!” Her cheeks were scarlet. She wished she knew what to say when meeting people. She felt such a dummy.

Marek said, “Take a look around and I’ll get us some tea.”

On one wall there were photographs and prints of every shape and description. She heard Marek and Stefan hold forth in German, then in English, then in another language she didn’t recognize. On the other wall, hung four large photographs, each of a figure moving, caught in a dance, a scarf floating around the body. Marek came and stood beside her, looking up at the wall with a hundred pictures. Several formal portraits, the sitters dressed in finery from before the turn of the century.

“Is that you and Zosia?” Marigold pointed to the boy and girl in the pictures.

“Yes. That was in Hungary.” He smiled. “Before we became Austrian.”

“When did you come here?”

“The spring of ’14. Almost twenty-five years ago.” Evangeline arrived in 1916.

“Did your parents come, too?”

“No. They moved to the South of France.” He cleared his throat. “They died in the flu epidemic. Just after the war.”

“Oh. I— Um.”

Marek said, “Marigold”—He held her gaze for a moment— “we were broken up to learn about Evangeline.”

Marigold looked away first. Her eyes moved along the wall and there it was. Her mother laughing, just as a girl, with long hair in a long dress. Bangles on her wrists and a fringed scarf upon her shoulders. A young Zosia was beside her. There was a willow tree to the right of them. “You took this?”

“Yes, at the Chelsea Arts Club. We’ll sit by this very tree when it warms up.”

Marigold could hear the memory’s smile in his voice.

“Here’s another one.” He pointed up and across the other end of the wall. The photo, somewhat larger than the other snapshots, was of Evangeline. She was radiant and holding a camera. She looked out at the viewer, the same age as Marigold was now, seeing her mother across time. “I truly loved your mother, Marigold.” But when Marigold turned to face Marek, his back was to her, and he was pouring the tea.

About the Author

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