16 Feb Eleanor Birney The Green Baize Door #HistoricalFiction #HistoricalMystery #UpmarketFiction #LiteraryMystery #GildedAge #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @EleanorBirney @cathiedunn

FEATURED AUTHOR: ELEANOR BIRNEY

I’m delighted to welcome Eleanor Birney as the featured author in The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour being held between February 17th – March 10th, 2026. Eleanor Birney is the author of the Historical Mystery, The Green Baize Door, published by Parlor & Dock Press on January 27, 2026 (295 pages).

Below are highlights of The Green Baize Door, Eleanor Birney’s author bio, and an excerpt from the book. 

Tour Schedule Page: https://thecoffeepotbookclub.blogspot.com/2026/01/blog-tour-the-green-baize-door-by-eleanor-birney.html

HIGHLIGHTS: THE GREEN BAIZE DOOR

The Green Baize Door

By Eleanor Birney

Blurb:

An atmospheric historical mystery where every character has their own agenda, and their own truth.

In the fashionable mansions on Chestnut Hill, a simple green baize door separates the masters’ world from the servants’. That door is thrown wide when an elderly housekeeper is found brutally murdered on the first day of the new century. Marie Chevalier, the housekeeper’s poor but ambitious granddaughter, and James Lett, the mansion owner’s kind but indolent son, suspect the killer is connected to one of their families—but which one?

From drawing rooms to alleyways, their separate investigations lead them through the sometimes lavish, sometimes brutal, landscape of turn-of-the-century New England. When long-buried secrets begin to unravel the fragile threads that hold both households together, Marie and James must find a way to bridge the gulf between them—if only to prove that the murderer belongs not to their own world, but to that strange and foreign land on the other side of the green baize door.

Inspired by real-life events, The Green Baize Door is a richly layered historical mystery that explores themes of class identity, family loyalty, and the sometimes blurry line between virtue and vice.

Buy Links:

Universal Buy Link incl. Amazon: https://books2read.com/u/mBWALv

Universal Buy Link incl. other outlets: https://books2read.com/u/mqRkOd

AUTHOR BIO: ELEANOR BIRNEY

Eleanor Birney writes historical mysteries about class, moral ambiguity, and people who aren’t satisfied with life on their side of the green baize door.

She received a BA in History from UC Berkeley, and works as a legal research attorney, a day job that feeds her love of precision, research, and puzzles.

Growing up in foster care gave her a lifelong fascination with the way society steers people into assigned places—and how some of those people refuse to stay in them.

She lives in Northern California with her family. The Green Baize Door is her debut novel.

Author Links:

Website    Twitter / X     Facebook     Instagram     Bluesky

Book Bub     Amazon Author Page     Goodreads

EXCERPT: THE GREEN BAIZE DOOR

She Had to Get Out

Chapter 2 — Christmas Day, 1899

“It’s too bad Grandpapa didn’t live longer,” Eliza contributed. “Perhaps Papa would have turned out better.”

Mémé stiffened, and Marie broke in, “Isn’t this stuffing delicious, Lizzy? What’s in it?”

There were many details Marie didn’t know, but she’d overheard enough arguments between Mémé and Papa to understand that Eliza’s words had struck a nerve. Grand-père had died when her father was still an infant. Mr. Tompkins, Mémé’s second husband, had never taken to his stepson. Worse still, he had indulged his taste for gambling and squandered the bulk of the generous inheritance left by his predecessor. Mémé’s family, embarrassed by the connection, had severed communication and left Mémé to her own devices.

Papa received a fair education and a small annuity, as that had been set aside for him when he was still in the cradle, but that was all. He grew into a wild youth, becoming, in many respects, evermore like the stepfather he loathed. Tompkins died when Papa was sixteen, but the damage had been done.

With the family’s small fortune all but spent, Mémé had been grateful to find a respectable post as a housekeeper, a position she’d held all the years Marie had been alive. Papa, however, had never adjusted to his family’s change in station. He spoke—and spent—as though their poverty was a temporary inconvenience.

Mémé Alozia explained the intricacies of stuffing made in the Creole style, after which the conversation stayed more-or-less on track. After dessert, they sat around the fire and chatted until the clock on the mantel chimed four. When the girls rose to take their leave, Mémé Alozia followed them into the hall and withdrew two neatly wrapped packages from the cupboard, pressing one into each of the girl’s hands.

“Best open these here,” she said.

Eliza’s package held a leather-bound book of verse, Marie’s a lovely tortoise comb.

“It’s beautiful,” Marie gasped, throwing her arms around her grandmother’s neck. “Thank you, Mémé.”

“Don’t let your father know about these,” Mémé said as Eliza hugged her too. “He’ll pawn them, sure as you’re born.”

Both girls promised, more Merry-Christmases were exchanged, and they started for home. The day had been warm, and the half-melted snow shone brilliantly, reflecting the last rosy-gold rays of sunlight. Marie always liked this time of day. The fading light obscured much of what was unattractive in the world, reducing it to interestingly shaped shadows on a painted sky. A breath of fog appeared in the street. It suspended in the air just above the ground, fingering the bottoms of the shop windows and blushing pink in the gloaming. It reminded Marie of fairy stories she had heard as a girl, of magical kingdoms, ogres, and princesses.

By the time they reached the front door of the Griggs’s house, the fairytale had evaporated. Even in winter, the smell of urine and old garbage hung in the air. In the foyer, they shrugged out of their coats and were halfway up the stairs when a hoot of coarse laughter reverberated through the corridor. It came from the Griggs’s. When she strained her ears, Marie could just distinguish the rumble of her father’s voice.

Eliza nudged her. “It sounds like Papa made peace with Mr. Griggs.”

“That’s a blessing, at any rate.”

The windows had been closed all day, and the acrid smell of stale tobacco mingled unpleasantly with the sharp scent of detergent. Marie fumbled on the table for the matches and lit a small lamp. Eliza lit a candle from it, gave Marie a quick hug, then retreated to bed to read.

Listless, Marie put on the kettle and looked around the dreary room. She had hung some old stockings over the fire, and tonight she would slip a few small gifts into each one: a new thimble and two yards of yellow ribbon for Eliza, some tobacco for Charlie, and a new clay pipe for Papa. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do. The cheerless sight of the cramped room and the bedraggled stockings in front of the hearth filled her with despair. It was a far cry from the tasteful simplicity of even the servants’ hall in the house on Chestnut Hill.

Marie took her mother’s old wedding ring quilt from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before settling into the window-seat. Her lamp threw a golden reflection on the windowpane, obscuring her view, so she blew it out. The sun had almost set, and the world outside was turning an inky blue.

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, allowing her mind to wander. The walls were thin, and muffled barks of laughter reached her from the Griggs’s rooms below. They must be quite drunk by now. She wondered if Charlie was down there. She listened but couldn’t detect his voice. Maybe he was out—with William. She stared into the night, trying to imagine them in it.

The fog was thick in the street now, but she could still make out figures huddled around a gas street lamp. Its flame cast an unnaturally bright glow on their faces. Even at a distance, she recognized them as painted ladies, who, in defiance of the fog and cold, were plying their trade. As she watched, one of them glanced up at the window. For an instant, their gazes met, and, through the distance and the fog, Marie thought she saw the woman’s carmined lips twist into a mocking smile.

Marie turned away. Her hands balled into fists, and her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palms. She had to get out of here. She had to.

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