Alysse Aallyn

Category: Crime

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 38. A Chat With a Publisher

    Miss Bottomley seemed amazingly welcoming to this new body arriving to stay beneath her roof. Scarlet didn’t even manage to sink the fact that Enid was a fan into the conversation before Miss Bottomley was asking her new acquaintance, “Do you know anything about cats?”


    Enid Rumson, as it turned out, knew quite a lot about cats and she was full of suggestions for why The King of Wessex might be off his feed. She didn’t think a diet of cream and pancetta was helping him expel his hairballs properly and suggested serving a “fatty fish” as a curative or, if desperate, olive oil.


    “We have both,” said Scarlet.


    “Oh, God bless you!” cried Miss Bottomley, wringing her hands, and Scarlet showed her the pile of tinned sardines Pom had insisted on throwing into the cart – because, as he said so wisely, “You never know.”


    The King allowed himself to be tempted and was soon hawking and gulping while all three women gazed at him fondly.


    “We can certainly use YOU around here,” Miss Bottomley said thankfully to the new recruit.
    “By the way,” offered Scarlet, “Mrs. Rumson is a great fan of your work.”


    “Call me Esmé,” said Miss Bottomley, offering a hand.


    Scarlet did her best not to feel offended. This sign of favor had not yet been extended to her! On the other hand, Enid was older, and not directly in Miss Bottomley’s employ so perhaps it made sense.


    Enid was suitably impressed by her quarters.


    “You can stay on the third floor if you’d like a private bath,” Scarlet offered.


    “No, thank you,” said Enid, “I want to be as close to this dear little boy as I can get.”
    It took a couple of trips to get all four of her ancient, heavily loaded suitcases upstairs.


    “Sorry,” puffed Enid, “You see, it’s because I’ve already decided that I’m never going back.”


    Scarlet, equally out of breath, said, “It’s fine. I’ve been wanting to get back into trim. These stairs are so much less expensive than a health club.”


    Now that she had someone to watch Nick she told Miss Bottomley that her first order of business would be to arrange a meeting with Mr. Mountjoy of Coltsfoot and Briggins so that Scarlet could find out exactly what his plans were.


    “In the meantime, I’ll make dinner, shall I?” suggested Enid. Nick was enjoying a bottle in the carrycot. They were standing in the kitchen at the time. “I love cooking and at the Embassy I never got the chance. I can tell you I’m very tired of mutton, olives and couscous.” Enid turned to Miss Bottomley and asked, “What’s your favorite meal?”


    Mutton, olives and couscous sounded heavenly to Scarlet but Miss Bottomley gazed at Enid reverently. “Shepherd’s pie,” she sighed. “With minced lamb. Order anything by phone and you will see they just deliver.”


    “Oh, do they? Shall we then have apple tart to follow? I’m a dab hand with pastry.” She flexed her burly arms.


    Miss Bottomley turned eyes swimming with tears to Scarlet. “As long as Enid is our cook, please consider her compensation covered by me.”


    “It’ll never interfere with looking after the baby,” Enid promised, and Miss Bottomley agreed, “Babies come first. Everyone knows that.”


    As Scarlet turned away to hide her glee she heard Miss Bottomley confide to her new chef, “You know, it turns out that I am quite a rich woman.”


    Nigel Mountjoy had an opening that very afternoon, and it’s no wonder, thought Scarlet, after puffing up the six flights to Coltsfoot & Briggins’ three room suite beneath the eaves, because business seemed definitely to be on the slide. The partner’s (Mr. Briggins’) door was closed, (“he prefers to work from his club”), the receptionist’s desk was empty (“Miss Plympton only works half-days”) and in case she missed these symbols of deterioration, Mr. Mountjoy, a sad-eyed hound-dog of a man in his fifties, treated Scarlet to a long disquisition on the essential, desperate unprofitability of publishing.


    “We’ve had a modest success Westernizing adventure yarns,” he told her, as he spread a series called “Reverend Rod to the Rescue” across his desk. In the new version, Reverend Rod had dropped holy orders and become, it seemed, a free-lance spy as well as something of a ladies’ man. Scarlet tried to conceal her revulsion by sipping the lukewarm Earl Grey tea Mr. Mountjoy had made himself. Seemingly no one had ever told him that the water needed to actually boil and she feared he was probably applying this same makeshift attitude to literature.


    “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said enthusiastically. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I knew the old girl wasn’t up to it. She’s almost ninety for heavens’ sake and hasn’t written a thing for years! It’s a miracle she’s not gaga, but confusion is setting on apace if you catch my drift.


    We usually put these things out to bid – it’s astonishing how little money is required to set a writer to work – but there’s no reason at all why you might not do as well.” (And Miss Bottomley would be paying for it! thought Scarlet. Win-win from his point of view.)


    “I’ve taken the liberty to jot down some requirements.” He proffered a handwritten page.
    “First, twenty chapters instead of the twenty-five she used to have. Boil the thing down. Speed is of the essence. Have every chapter end with a cliffhanger – our Rod the Spy fellow is very good model there. Here, take a copy. Gratis. This fellow Clovis is quite willing to do Miss Clew but we felt it requires the feminine touch.


    Then, language. Our target audience has an O-level education – no point using words they’ll only have to look up. They want something that can be read in a couple of railway journeys.”


    He opened up The Poltergeist Problem to a random page and pointed to the word “deleterious.”
    “See what I mean? Nothing double or triple-barreled like that, use your thesaurus to find some other term” – he shuffled through a well-thumbed Roget’s – “There you go. “Bad.” First word out of the gate! Everybody knows what that means!


    Secondly, update the era. Get rid of the Victorian stuff – nobody wants those dreadful memories – we’ve been fleeing them ever since the First War. Make Miss Clew younger, and she doesn’t need to be a spinster. Get it? I’m giving you a free hand here – insert some romantic interest. Keep it light – a different chap for each book would be ideal. No reason she can’t be a bit of a siren – that attracts the male reader as well as the ladies, see.


    It’s a stroke of luck that you’re American – perhaps Miss Clew could have an American mother – appeal to our cousins across the pond. We’ve had no luck getting Rod picked up there but this could break the ice between us and our Boston counterparts – they’ve been freezing us out if I may be so honest. They want to get into “youth” textbooks and religious publishing – we’ve got no market for that sort of thing going here.


    Most of all, mood. Keep it upbeat! It’s the modern tendency to be devil-may-care, not take things too seriously.”


    He tried to smile when he said this but his droopy face couldn’t cooperate – the result was ghastly, even sinister, like a funeral director mewling mawkishly about “loved ones.”


    “I just re-read the series recently – well, not all of them, I confess, there’s a limit to what a fellow can stand – and it’s very difficult going. The woman has – not to put too fine a point on it – an axe to grind. Everybody’s always in the wrong. World saturated with evil – that awful revivalist point of view. People today don’t read to be told life’s some sort of grim masquerade, but to have fun, learn something new and feel a part of some previously unknown but thrilling world that takes them right out of their worries, cares and fears. Follow me? I’ve always found this little volume helpful.”
    He extracted a slim book from the bookcase behind them, Pack Up Your Worries.


    “This is non-fiction, of course, but we’ve had an amazing success with this modest little book published a dozen years ago – right after the war. It keeps the lights on around here, I don’t mind telling you.”


    As if disagreeing, the lights flickered at just that moment.


    Mr. Mountjoy cracked the book open to pages of lists in what Scarlet considered suspiciously large type. The thing was more like an “expanded pamphlet” than a real book.


    “Here, take this copy. I’ve benefited from this advice myself, everyone has. It’s common sense really, no self-pity, no wallowing, each day a fresh voyage of discovery. Appeals to people right across ages, classes, this fellow’s amazing. Sorrowfully Bonamis died a few years ago – he was an untreated diabetic – but we’ve the rights to his name if you’d like to attempt to carry on. You Americans are wizards at this sort of thing. According to him it’s your surface mind you should be cultivating. Ignore the “depths” – whatever dark things are lurking down there. Just the opposite of that fellow Freud, who’s done a lot of damage in my opinion. Keep your chin up, see? Whistle a happy tune even when you don’t feel like it – because modern science has conclusively proven that it’s possible to cheer yourself up by overlooking all the depressing stuff you can’t do anything about anyway.”


    Her pushed the book at her and opened his datebook.


    “I’ve had a lot of experience with the ghostwriting racket and I can tell you the secret is not to wander too far in the wrong direction. Why don’t we meet once a week to see what you’ve got and we’ll discuss. If you wander off the path I can set you right. Think of me as your tutor talking about essay ideas and looking over your first attempts with a view to a “First Class” ranking for the pair of us.”


    He beamed at her, showing a gap between his front teeth that made him resemble a gargoyle. It was all Scarlet could do to keep from blanching.


    “How about Monday? Fresh from the weekend, eh?”


    “How about the following Friday?” Scarlet gasped, trying not to choke.


    “No Friday – nobody’s here on Fridays – the place is a desert. Thursday, then? Four o’clock? I think we can spread out a bit more when Miss Plympton is gone.”


    “Fine,” said Scarlet with no intention of ever seeing this man again if she could possibly help it.
    “Don’t forget to take your books,” he sent her off, rubbing his hands together. ‘This has been a MOST productive meeting.”


    Scarlet would have thrown the books into the nearest trash can if she didn’t need them to show Miss Bottomley. Who would believe any of it, otherwise?


    As she clung to a strap and braced herself on her Tube journey – the work day was just ending and seats were invisible – she wondered at how far she had come already. How long ago was it – days really – that she would have jumped at the chance to be that writer or that receptionist slaving for that pittance! What a different world Miss Bottomley had opened up for her! And the best thing about it was that she clearly needed Scarlet every bit as desperately as Scarlet needed her.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 34. The Detective

    As they selected cheeses, cake, apples, biscuits and the components for what Pom described as a “strengthening soup”, Pom remarked, “I adore old-fashioned places like these. All the grapes and calves’ foot jelly.”


    “Thanks for reminding me,” said Scarlet, adding grapefruit marmalade and fish fingers to their hoard.


    “Fish fingers?” Pom questioned.


    “Everyone needs a fast, easy dinner,” said Scarlet. “That’s what freezers are for.”


    “I don’t have a freezer.”


    “But Miss Bottomley does. Quite an up to date one.”


    “And then there’s the problem that fish have no fingers.”


    “We call them ‘fish sticks’ in America.”


    “My, that does sound irresistible. A stick of fish. Such cleverness you Yanks have. I wonder what is the correct wine with “sticks”? Allow me to purchase for you a nice rosé. Or would you prefer champagne?”


    “No wine at work, thank you,” said Scarlet. “I need to keep my wits about me.”


    As soon as the grocer heard it was for Fourteen Norfolk Crescent he insisted on delivery.


    “She’s our landlady,” he told the astonished pair. “She owns everything round here.”


    Pom kept an admirably straight face during this disclosure.


    Scarlet carefully set up her own account and stressed that it was her responsibility alone.


    “Don’t be in such a hurry to pay for everything,” said Pom when they were safely back inside the Dorset. “Sounds like she’s rich as Croesus, much as she doesn’t look it.”


    “All the other interviewees thought she was the housemaid,” admitted Scarlet. “It just makes me all the more determined to do my very best for her. Those books of hers are just plain wonderful, and where else in the world would I ever get such a perfect job?”


    And she shared with him the dramatic tale of Miss Bottomley’s late-acquired wealth.


    “Please don’t tell anyone,” she begged. “I didn’t even tell Ian.”


    Pom’s eyes widened. “I can keep a secret. Honored that you chose me. But are you certain the pair of you don’t need live-in bodyguards as well?”


    “I’m sure we do,” said Scarlet. “And heaven knows there’s room. Are you offering?”


    “I don’t think I’d be any good at that particular role,” said Pom.


    “I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley very averse to strangers,” said Scarlet. “Maybe as time goes on I’ll be able to talk her round. I’m currently in favor because I was the only one who’d actually read her books. She’s not used to money and she doesn’t like solicitors. I hope Pelham D’Arcy might offer assistance but we’ve got to give it time.”


    It turned out the grocer’s van had gone around to the kitchen entrance. Off the kitchen was a scullery with new-looking washer and drying machines.


    “They’ve got me running off my feet answering doorbells here and doorbells there,” complained Miss Bottomley as they brought the groceries in. “First it was that strange friend of yours -“


    Scarlet seated Miss Bottomley to toast her toes by the gas fire. Pom almost sat on the King of Wessex.


    “Meet Ceawlain,” Scarlet explained.


    “Sue-Allen?”


    “No,” said Miss Bottomley and Scarlet both together, “Ceawlain, King of Wessex.”


    Scarlet inquired, “What strange friend was it that came to the door?”


    Miss Bottomley considered. “Well, he was quite silly. He certainly didn’t guess he was speaking to an authoress of detective novels, because he used quite a transparent ruse to try to get into the house.”


    Scarlet and Pom stared at each other, appalled.


    “What did he say?” asked Scarlet while Pom said, “He could have simply thrust you aside!”


    “I’d like to see him try,” grumped Miss Bottomley. “I’d have skewered him with a hatpin and summoned help with my police whistle.”


    And she displayed these items for their inspection.


    “This is ghastly,” said Pom and Scarlet asked, “Doesn’t that door have a chain?”


    “Obviously one must take the chain off when one answers the door,” said Miss Bottomley.
    “And a peephole?” wondered Scarlet.


    “I’m too short for the peephole,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “The peephole is too tall for me.”


    “Here’s an idea,” suggested Pom, “An intercom. You won’t be run off your feet that way. You’ll be able to ask who it is and get them to describe themselves. Tell them to put a letter requesting an appointment in the mail slot.”


    “Oh, I do like that idea,” gushed Miss Bottomley. “Takes a man to look at problems from the engineering point of view.”


    “I’ll look into it for you, shall I?” offered Pom, and Miss Bottomley seemed relieved.


    “But what did he look like?” Scarlet poured a tin of vichyssoise into a saucepan while Pom sliced cheese and pears.


    “Very smartly dressed, I must say. Bowler hat and all found. He said he was from an architectural publication and he wanted to take pictures inside the house. He asked to see the Missus. I didn’t tell him I was the Missus, I just said no, no, and no.”


    “Did he give up?”


    “He most certainly did not. Tried slipping me a five-pound note!”


    “He really did mistake you for the housemaid,” laughed Scarlet and Miss Bottomley laughed with her.


    “I rejected it. Played along. Told him I valued my “position”. But he wouldn’t leave. He had his foot in the door.”


    “But this is a horror story!” Pom gasped and Scarlet said, “You should have used your police whistle.”


    “Perhaps I should. But then he started asking questions about you.”


    “Me?”


    “Yes. Wasn’t there a young lady in the house and when was she due back. I said, “Here she comes!” and when he turned to look, I shut the door!”


    “That was clever,” said Pom, and Scarlet said, “Worthy of Miss Clew.” And Miss Bottomley reddened with pleasure.


    “But who could it have been?” asked Pom. “It doesn’t sound like Ian.”


    “It’s that detective of his,” said Scarlet. “He took pictures of us last week and Ian threatened me with them. I explained to him that we’re only friends.”


    “Utterly uncompromising pictures,” Pom assured her but Miss Bottomley was nonchalant.


    “I should have known there would be a detective or two hanging about any modern girl,” she remarked. “Keeping me up to date!”


    Pom refused to shake off his anxiety.


    “You be sure to tell your solicitors,” he suggested. “Both of you.”


    “I’ll tell Pelham,” agreed Scarlet, thinking how lucky she was that Miss Bottomley wasn’t sufficiently intimidated by all this bother to choose another assistant, but Miss Bottomley scoffed.


    “Oh, my Mr. Inkum, he’s a perfectly dreadful man! Always trying to get me to sign documents and when I said, “Don’t I need a solicitor?” he answers, “I’m your solicitor. This is for your OWN GOOD.”


    “Funny how when people say that it’s never true,” mused Pom, as they settled at the table for a delicious meal.


    “That’s what I thought,” said Miss Bottomley. “I told him to leave the papers with me so I could think about them and he said, “Don’t think too long!”


    “Sounds like a threat!” gasped Scarlet.


    Nick’s cry made them all jump.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 29. A Letter Home

    The upstairs of Number Fourteen, Norfolk Crescent, was as majestic – and clean – as Scarlet could possibly have desired. There was a long reception room facing the square – empty of furniture as if expecting a ball – with a small serving area – complete with ice chest, warming trays and tea kettles – that could actually serve as a Scarlet’s kitchen.


    A dumbwaiter probably connected it to the kitchen downstairs. There were four bedrooms and a big bathroom. Scarlet chose “the green room” for her own – it was smaller but she liked the old-fashioned chintz pattern of pear trees in blossom. There was even space enough for a nanny if the thought of strangers in her house didn’t unsettle Miss Bottomley. The furnishings were solid, perhaps a bit duller than the magnificence on display downstairs – mahogany and teak – and the upholstery could do with a freshening – but the portraits were interesting. Scarlet studied the faces, wondering about the sudden disappearance of “the Pursuivant line.”

    It was a lucky thing people couldn’t see into the future, Scarlet decided. She remembered herself at her own wedding and her excitement at news of her first pregnancy – what if she had foreseen what would REALLY happen? It would have been too cruel. She had been spared from knowing the sadness that lay ahead – just as these people had been. It was better not to know.


    Miss Bottomley was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.


    “And when shall we be able to get to work?”


    “How about day after tomorrow? That gives me one day to pack.”


    “Perfect. I shall enter it into my datebook.”


    Scarlet reached out to shake her new employer’s hand, only to be presented with a key.


    “I sleep badly, so I dislike being disturbed before eleven,” said Miss Bottomley. “I want you to be able to freely come and go.”


    “Thank you, Miss Bottomley,” said Scarlet warmly. And she meant it.


    She telephoned Mr. D’Arcy from a callbox at the station.


    “I’ve got a job and it comes with a place to stay,” she told him. “And there’s room for the baby but I’m worried Ian won’t let me take him.”


    “Don’t ask him about that yet,” cautioned D’Arcy. “Tell him about the job, then insist on getting the name of his solicitor. Make him hire someone and I’ll negotiate with that fellow.”


    “Ian will probably use some college crony. Or possibly somebody connected to the BBC.”


    “Whoever he chooses, let’s hope he isn’t honest with them,” D’Arcy said blandly. “Giving us considerable advantage.”


    Scarlet thought about it. “I’m not sure he knows what honesty is.”


    At the station, Scarlet purchased a writing block so she could begin the letter to her sister immediately.


    “Dear India – I have both sad and wonderful news,” she began. How lucky that she had waited to write until this unexpected uptick in her good fortune.


    Frankie stopped his taxi by the garage so that Scarlet could see the stained glass rondo hanging in the window. He was bursting with pride.


    “Looks perfect,” agreed Scarlet, barely able to contain her laughter.


    Nicholas was eager to nurse but Scarlet was out of milk. She gave him a bottle as tears rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t what she had promised him or herself but, it couldn’t be changed. She kissed his forehead as he suckled. As soon as he was asleep she knocked on Ian’s library door.
    “Come in,” he called. He was listening to the BBC but turned down the radio as she entered, watching her face warily. She was grateful that she could be so calm.


    “I got a job,” she said, “Ten pounds a week working with Miss Esmé Hope Bottomley.” She knew he wouldn’t recognize the name and he didn’t. “She has a flat in London, in Norfolk Crescent. I can stay there with her.”


    She deliberately neglected to mention the baby.


    “Dogsbody?” His brows creased. “Doesn’t sound like you.”


    “Editing a novel series for Coltsfoot & Briggins.”


    His brow cleared. “That’s wonderful then. But there’s no reason we can’t share the flat the way we share Nicholas. Be reasonable. There are two floors – I’ll take the downstairs if it makes you more comfortable. I won’t ask you to entertain.”


    No, Candi and Margalo would compete for that honor. She could see his mind working: glamorous young couple with baby, two important jobs, country place AND he had the freedom he craved, which appeared to be mastering a harem of gullible girls. What could suit him better?


    “My solicitor is Pelham D’Arcy in Maida Vale. He needs the name of your solicitor so that they can talk.”


    “My solicitor? So they can ratchet up the bills? Darling, ask me for what you want. We can get the life we need. Talk to me.”


    She looked at him critically. He was seemingly more confident and handsome now than when she had first met him. Yet he really was a total stranger. She could imagine him doing literally anything, now. You could never trust, or rely, on a person like that.


    “I’d rather do this through solicitors. I don’t feel I can trust you anymore.”


    “That’s too bad,” he said coldly. “It’s silly to break up over a bit of passing fluff, especially when it means there’s that much less cash to go around.” He turned up his radio as if preparing to ignore her. She raised her voice.


    “So? You think you’ll use Harry?” Naming an old college friend.


    “I’ll talk to Margalo.” He turned away from her decisively. She knew this was supposed to frighten her, suggesting the massive power of the BBC ranged formidably against her but she thought of Pelham D’Arcy and didn’t feel scared.


    “One more thing – “ she braced herself to ask, “When does your job start?”


    “I’ll be going up to town tomorrow.”


    He hadn’t really answered her question but the information was sufficient.


    “Are you taking the car?” she inquired.


    “Would you rather I leave it for you?”


    “Yes, I would, really. I’m going to have a lot of luggage.”


    “I can take the train. Sure, you wouldn’t like the come along? Settle things about the flat?”


    “No thank you. I need to go up soon myself, I’m not sure when. I’ll let you know. Through my solicitor.” He sniffed.


    “Mind that you do.”


    She was amazed that he never mentioned Nicholas once! He obviously didn’t expect that he would have to concern himself with the child. Clearly, he assumed the system would always work to his advantage and grant him whatever he asked; a child when he wanted one, no concerns or responsibility when he did not. She could see that this habitually forgetfulness about his son and heir meant Ian was still taking his wife for granted. As she had once taken him. Suited her perfectly.
    Having the car would be helpful: ideal, in fact.


    She went upstairs to organize Nick’s and her belongings so that packing after Ian’s departure would be a breeze.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 28. Our Miss Clew

    Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle.


    The cat opened one eye.


    “That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again.


    The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically.


    “I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices.


    “So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.”


    Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation.


    “If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.”


    “I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.”


    Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?”


    The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.


    “Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?”


    Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle.


    “Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzle right now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?”


    The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry.


    “You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?”


    “Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?”


    “No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.”


    Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed.


    “Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.”


    Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.”


    “Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet.


    But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers.

    “Dear Madam,” it said,
    “We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1st allowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties.

    Nigel Mountjoy
    Editor in Chief”

    “How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?”

    Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.”


    “I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?”


    “I don’t know what they will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.”


    Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust.


    “I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult.


    “You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.”


    Scarlet had to agree.


    “What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet.


    “I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?”


    “Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly.


    “Sixty pounds a week?”


    “No – for the whole three months.”


    “Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet.


    “That would be acceptable.”


    Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications.


    “You live in the country?”


    “Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.”


    “There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.”


    “But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“


    Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?”


    “Six weeks.”


    “Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?”


    Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon.


    “Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.”


    How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation.
    “Have you always lived in this house?”


    “Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.”


    “Tontine?”


    “Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.”


    And the story spilled out.


    Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her as a hanger-on of rich county families – some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world.


    Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s newer, more personal novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity.


    Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship – were completely out of the question as prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church.


    Therefore, it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”)

    She had never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – a woman who preferred foreign travel to a life at home.


    One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring.


    “Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.”


    “Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?”


    “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit my convenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.”


    Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brush-offs! Something was very wrong there.


    Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 27. The Final Applicant

    Scarlet took a long, thoughtful walk. She wanted to call Pom and thank him for sending her – by whatever circuitous route – to Pelham D’Arcy, but she needed to think over what had transpired. The one thing she found most distressing about the encounter was D’Arcy’s advice to avoid heart to hearts with her new best friend. Did telephone calls count?


    She had the uncomfortable notion he’d tell her that they did – but she didn’t plan to inform on herself. Guilty conscience? Ian’s detective couldn’t be listening on phone calls – that was spy stuff. And how could she explain any of this to Pom without enmeshing him still further in the unpleasantness – think how embarrassing THAT would be. Suddenly her greatest fear seemed to be that Pom, simply because their timing was so “off”, would simply begin avoiding her – and then she would have no friends at all.


    Shouldn’t she be wanting to discourage him? Maybe Ian was right about loving two people at once…in different ways. No, it was more than Ian used to be her confidante, her best friend, and he’d disqualified himself. Her loneliness felt unbearable.


    But D’Arcy had flatly told her that any male confidante was dangerous. Intimacy of any sort might give Pom the wrong idea before Scarlet even knew what the “right idea” was. Yet what was the “wrong” idea when Scarlet was having so much trouble figuring out the simplest objective truth?


    She resolved to send a nice long letter to India telling her the facts without any false shame. It was awkward considering the distance but maybe India could be her confidante. India had said she was contemplating a summer visit – perhaps she could be talked into moving up her dates.


    By the time Scarlet checked her watch she was in a completely unfamiliar part of London and it was almost 3:00. This was Thursday – last day she could visit Mysterious Employer before the weekend. Checking in at a sweetshop for the nearest cab stand she was told, “I’ll call one for you, miss.”

    She thanked the helpful man but the cab took fifteen minutes to arrive and Fitzrovia seemed far away. Scarlet was feeling increasingly desperate to the point where she had to force herself to stop checking her watch. As they pulled up to the address and she sorted out a payment the door of # 14 opened and an obviously irate man in a bowler hat and muffler stormed out clutching a dispatch case.


    Scarlet buttonholed him – because what if he himself were The Mysterious Employer?
    She questioned, “Excuse me, but were you here about the job?”


    “I don’t think there is a job,” he protested huffily as he stomped away. Having no time to think about it Scarlet rung the bell. The door was answered by a tiny, very old woman wearing a faded dress, a dirty apron and an annoyed expression. She seemed awfully old to be anyone’s housekeeper.


    “I’m here about the job,” said Scarlet hopefully.


    The furrows between the woman’s brows deepened.


    “It’s almost four o’clock,” said the woman. “I was just about to have my tea.”


    Although she looked like the housekeeper her voice was imperious. Scarlet jumped to conclusions.

    “Don’t let me stop you,” said Scarlet, stepping boldly into the house, “I can tell you about my qualifications while you prepare.”
 “There’s only enough for one,” admonished the woman in a school- mistressy voice.


    “Perfectly all right,” Scarlet lied desperately. “I’ve had my tea.”


    “Very well then,” said the woman. “Follow me.”


    She led Scarlet through several ornate reception rooms filled with magnificent Belle Epoque and Directoire furniture that seemed completely unused, as if this were some sort of museum. As they passed through the dining room Scarlet noticed papers on the table – this must be where candidates had been interviewed. The front door bell sounded again.


    “Too late!” announced the woman triumphantly. “It’s four o’clock!” and they passed through baize swing doors into a small, muggy kitchen.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 22. A Train Ride

    She missed the first train; overslept as if resting up for coming trials. The simplest breakfast order (croissants and coffee) seemed to take this hotel forever; they couldn’t believe she didn’t want their “nice kippers” and “fried tomatoes”. Managing all her new boxes proved impossible until the concierge fetched twine and roped them together into a still threateningly unwieldy parcel. Why wouldn’t she have them sent? Impossible to explain that these clothes suddenly seemed more intimate, more “hers” than the pre-pregnancy and shabby maternity clothes awaiting her at that castle. She definitely required the services of a porter. Scarlet had come up in the world. Unfortunately, she missed the second train, too.


    Sitting in the third train – it was lunchtime as this point – she felt dull, self-accusatory, downright stupid. Her buyer’s remorse was so severe she couldn’t even open Miss Clew. She’d managed everything so badly.


    Ian didn’t know when she was arriving. Oakhampton was too far to take a taxi. She’d have to call him from the station and hope he answered the phone. She was feeling nervous about all this shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? Was the best way to deal with Ian’s sudden aristocratic craziness to get crazy too? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing.


    It now seemed to her like angry, “revenge” shopping, which was exactly what it had been. She couldn’t forget that spectral look in the eyes of Stella, manager at Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers, inciting her by acceptance and flattery into playing the “wealth game”. Scarlet had only been too glad to comply. Was that what it felt like being Ian, taken advantage of by all the broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress?


    Even the London flat seemed now more like a will o’ the wisp than a solid achievement. How had she let a giggly young estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without getting any idea of its actual cost? If she was behaving just like Ian, then his behavior was hardly extraordinary. This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. And how on earth could she ever explain any of it to India?


    Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important, but were new people really treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly cheese-paring. She couldn’t help feeling there was something else on this table, something she wasn’t getting. What if everything was just another one of Ian’s rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool?


    She calmed herself. She hadn’t signed for the flat. Jane was only “talking” to Margalo – surely you can’t accept responsibility for something so evanescent! If Ian’s employer didn’t give a green light, nothing would happen.


    She found herself longing for the ordered world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, possessed the razor-sharp standards to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was famous for its explosion of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy keeping right up with every new marvel of the technological world. But somehow, Miss Clew always saw through to real motives and intent. Eagerly Scarlet opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount of money could be considered “within their budget” because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain or plan his income.


    Yet even this book flatly refused to come to life with her head in such a whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a tiny hole in the wall meant she’d be cheek by jowl with the man she was currently feuding with, that would certainly be money down the drain. But this selected flat could potentially be shared – one parent “up” and the other “down” – for the benefit of the children. It seemed like in many ways the best solution, she comforted herself.


    The real question was, why did she feel so awful? Such a failure? Because of Pom, dammit! Why was this man so interested in her and why was so she so dependent on that fact?
    Because her own husband was ignoring her. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 15. Married Romance



    Because Ian’s train came in at the dinner hour, Scarlet hoped to turn the event into a sorely needed romantic date. Fern agreed to look after Nicholas if Scarlet dropped the baby off in his carrycot at her parents’ home. Fern’s mother oohed and aahed over Nicholas and offered to give him a bottle of warm, diluted condensed milk if he cried.


    She seemed so motherly Scarlet agreed. It was glorious to be set free for the evening, to imagine herself young and carefree with her whole life ahead of her. Those had been such good, such memorable days – she needed their nostalgic power to propel her through this crisis. When she dared to fall for an acknowledged heartbreaker, she told herself his bad reputation had grown out of disappointed spite. Every girl was attracted by Ian’s glamor but it was the shy American girl who had captured his heart.


    She had dressed carefully for this evening. Technically they weren’t supposed to “go all the way” tonight but what could twenty-four hours possibly matter? A whisper of the forbidden could spice up routine. According to Scarlet’s thinking this was the second time the future of their relationship required her to throw caution to the winds.


    She wore a low cut glittery velvet top – tight, her nursing bra pushing her newly inflated breasts upward. Now that she possessed such a pair of gaudy bosoms she might as well flaunt them. Her black velvet skirt was a bit long, forcing her to wear heels, but Ian liked high heels anyway – didn’t all men? If they danced high heels guaranteed they’d be cheek to cheek. Careful makeup, swinging gold leaf earrings, a fleecy wrap and her pale hair brushed fine and down. She had certainly caused favorable remark at Fern’s house:


    “Smashing!” declared Fern’s brother.


    She needed this confidence, she realized, as she waited for the train.


    The train was on time and she was a bit discouraged to see Ian step out of the dining car, his cheeks lit with comfort and good living, talking and laughing in a gaggle of male strangers.
    He waved goodbye as she flashed her lights at him, then she climbed out of the station wagon.
    “I hardly recognized you,” he offered.


    She hoped it was meant as a compliment but didn’t feel sure. She clambered, heels skittering across the icy cobblestones.


    “Steady on!” He grabbed her elbow. “Did you start the celebration without me?”


    That’s my line, she thought, almost angrily. “No, I made reservations Sous les Arbres. I thought we deserved a night out. How about you?”


    “Suits me,” he said, answering the wrong question, but she left it at that. At least he hadn’t dented his appetite which was something to be grateful for. And he didn’t seem visibly impaired. She must firmly reject that role of critical wife, Xantippe to a pathetic Socrates. Probably he’d had no more than a Guinness. Or two. Drink rounds were a rigid English social requirement in the club car ethos – especially if the “friends” were new.


    Scarlet plunged ahead – straight, she hoped, into their shared new life.


    “So, tell me the good news! I’m dying to know!”


    “I got the job!” he said, grinding the gears into reverse. “It’s a great opportunity. They love my modern mythology series idea. “Jupiter in Your Office!” They ate it up. They created a brand new position, just for me, based on me bringing in all my contacts. Director of New Programming. Fresh people, fresh ideas – cultivating movers and shakers. If we make it our business to know everyone it guarantees our place at the top of the game.”


    “Oh honey, I’m so glad!” and she kissed him. It really had worked out all right, then, after all. Buying this impossible house in the country hadn’t been the end of everything, but a more exciting beginning. Sister India had been entirely wrong – she just didn’t understand the English system of presentation, perks, honors and rewards.


    “Tell you what, you go up tomorrow and look at flats,” he said.


    “What can we afford? What are they paying you?”


    “That’s not settled but it’ll be something pretty generous. Should we call the Pourfoyles so you can stay over? They offered.”


    Did that mean he had seen them?


    “I don’t want to be away from Nick overnight. I think I should take him along.”


    “Oh Scarlet, stop being such a sentimental American squaw. Face it, the English have a much better system. You wean that baby and give him to Fern. Or Ina. Or somebody.”


    Scarlet certainly would not do that but she knew this was not a good time to argue the point. They had arrived at the restaurant where it was time to surrender their battered old car to the valet.
    “Pas devant les domestiques,” said Scarlet and Ian had the grace to laugh.


    They enjoyed a lovely meal. Snails followed by steak Diane set flaming in the pan, and a fine old Bollinger to drink it all down. Scarlet thought one glass was all she could manage – after all her abstemious days, wine seemed to soar straight to her head.


    Ian talked about all the new people he was meeting – important people with “royal connections” looking to him to “set the tone.” “They’re planning to really build me up!”’


    The champagne gave him the confidence to say, “Margalo really has no idea of quality. I believe I could sell them any damn thing. We should tart up your verse play and pretend we’ve just discovered it.”


    “Margalo?” asked Scarlet sharply. She ordered coffee with her cheese. Café americaine.
    They served espresso instead. Oh well, thought Scarlet, I don’t want to fall asleep immediately anyway.


    “Margalo Chalmers,” said Ian. “She’s the one who hired me. Don’t be jealous Scarlet old girl, she’s an unspeakably hideous old lesbian.”


    Scarlet knew there was no guarantee whatever that this was true. Margalo was doubtless a perfectly presentable thirty-five-year old businesswoman. Ian had probably flirted with her shamelessly. Scarlet accepted the driving duties as they tottered, flushed, out into the night.


    Fern’s Mom – who seemed to have commandeered the baby care – said she thought Nick’s diaper rash was “keeping him awake” and she had “taken the liberty” of applying some ointment the locals swore by. Scarlet sniffed at Nicholas like a mother wolf – she couldn’t help herself – had these people “altered” her child? She thought it much more likely that Nick was exhausted from being passed around to strangers when he should be getting his rest.


    The “baby minders” were thanked and coins changed hands, then just at the door Ian announced, “Scarlet’s going up to town –“


    “I don’t know,” Scarlet interrupted almost ferociously. “We’ll see.”


    As Ian helped her and carrycot into the car he said, “See what problems you make for yourself? That nice lady would love having a “babby” to look after!”


    Scarlet hissed at him angrily. “They won’t even tell us what they used to treat our child! Could be deadly nightshade for all you know.”


    “Hardly, if all the locals have been using it for years. There can’t be anything dangerous in the preparation or it would never have lasted this long. Naturally they keep their secret recipes proprietary. You should consider partnering with Mrs. Mugle to sell Failsafe Babby Ointment to every woman in Britain – that would be a lot more lucrative than verse plays.”


    There was so much umbrage to take at this sentence Scarlet didn’t know where to start, so she chose the better path and said nothing. By the time they got home she would hopefully be calmed down enough to get their “special evening” back on track.


    “What I hear you saying,” Ian went on in his most reasonable-sounding way as the car rattled around the corner onto the main road, “Is that you need help but you also want to do everything yourself in your own way.”


    Horribly, he was right. Her continued silence would sound like sulking.


    “I’m the one who chose Mrs. Mugle,” she said. “At least let’s see if this magic ointment really works before we try her again.”


    But if she asked Mrs. Mugle to put aside her own maternal instincts how good a job of baby-minding could she possibly do? Resentment and secrecy must follow any such request. Anyway, Scarlet had really signed on for the services of Fern – who had been nowhere in sight. Scarlet feared these local coven mothers with their unscientific, outdated superstitions. She couldn’t be too careful with her only child.


    “Americans fuss too much over their children and then they all grow up weak, delinquent and neurotic,” Ian accused comfortably. “In our country, we don’t believe in all this indulgence and fetishizing.”


    Once again Scarlet could barely control herself. Who could possibly be more neurotic than any aristocratic twit nursing his entitlement or for that matter an Angry Young Man seeking fame by proclaiming his grievance? But she knew she couldn’t say this – Ian would only tell her she didn’t know anything about it and the fight would be on. That was NOT her plan for the evening.
    “I’m bushed,” said Ian, pulling off his tie as she tucked Nicholas into his crib. “I’ll take the guest bath.”


    She heard the water running, but she also heard voices. Creeping down the hall she saw he had taken the hall telephone into the bathroom with him and closed the door.


    Who could he possibly be calling at this hour? Margalo? Candi? Someone she didn’t even know about? This was insufferable. She’d bitten her tongue all evening, now secret phone calls were too much. The moment for intimacy with her husband– on this night of nights – had passed. Intimacy with her son was all she had left. Too bad her milk seemed to have dried up.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 14. Marital Disharmony

    On the very day Scarlet sent Candi’s telegram, Ian suddenly announced he must go up to London. Scarlet battled hard to suppress her instant jealousy. Jealousy placed her in an invidious position – the Ball and Chain carping wife. Who WOULDN’T want to escape from that? Ian argued that he had appointments about “employment options”, but Scarlet knew and stated that he’d received no calls or mail.


    “Oh no?” he’d returned loftily. He’d always had these appointments, he simply didn’t tell Scarlet because “she would react like this”.


    Scarlet was stumped. Stymied. How on earth had this happened? They’d been so happy just a couple of months ago, when they moved in – they’d always been a happy, get-along couple. The envy of their friends. Suddenly he had become a “high-flier” and she was a stuck at home as The Complainer! Why, oh why hadn’t she listened to India, her own Sister Anne, who warned her about Wives Stuck In the Country?


    The seeming inevitability of rigid roles loomed over them. There was the “hardworking long-distance husband” who needed and deserved whatever relaxation, rest and entertainment he could find in The Big City versus the “trapped, bitter drudge” of a wife who didn’t appreciate all she’d been given and always wanted more. It was the “battle of the sexes” they’d read about (and laughed over) during courtship. It could never apply to self-aware, intelligent artists: lucky people who knew where to find and how to value “true love”.


    Charming as Wyvern House was slowly becoming, it could never be worth a loss this devastating. Scarlet was facing nothing less than the total corruption of her love relationship. Worst of all, they couldn’t discuss it. She daren’t even mention it. She knew with absolute certainty that Ian would blame the baby, not the house! Wouldn’t he be simply playing to “type”? And wouldn’t everyone agree with him? Wasn’t this what the “world” insisted always happened to everyone else? The mother fell in love with the baby and the father, feeling the loss, sought attention elsewhere. He became freer, she became more burdened, then the fights began. She’d never – and Ian said HE’D never – thought any of this could possibly apply to them!


    He changed, not me, thought Scarlet mutinously. Suddenly his mind was closed to her. It happened the instant we walked into this house. But how could she have stopped Ian from buying a house she’d neither heard of nor seen? Talk about inevitability! They’d planned her pregnancy together but the house idea was his alone. Although when Scarlet thought honestly about it, hadn’t agreed they needed more space? It was a hopeless mess.


    Scarlet felt uncomfortable requesting fidelity from her husband considering they were banned from having sex. Although she couldn’t feel confident in his devotion, she did ask him – “will you be true to me?”


    His horrible answer was, “What do you think?” Either he scorned her for raising the question, or he dared her to tell him the truth, which was, that she thought he wouldn’t be. But her pride couldn’t allow her to beg from this stranger. Who was he? The more responsibilities Ian had, the more different he became from the playful, imaginative student she had married, and the more he seemed to be turning into a hostile alien driven by unreadable compulsions.


    But mightn’t he say the same of her? She kept secrets, too.


    For example, she had originally considered Nicholas would have better childhood in the country. Ian considered it “American” and “suburban” (both pejoratives) to dread the dirt and despair, the “rat-race” of big cities and to conjure up instead a green Eden where Nicholas could grow slowly, while studying the past’s best minds.


    Scarlet had known she must eventually brace herself to fight the English craziness of sending eight year old boys away to boarding school but in the old days she had enough confidence in herself and her marriage to feel this was a battle she might win.


    Now she saw he considered marriage a partnership only when the wife agrees with her husband. When she didn’t, it was easier to ignore her.


    Before the most recent trip to London she had taken care to mark him with her scent so to speak, to bathe him in her love, remind him of their passion, but after the guest weekend she felt too dispirited and if she must be honest, too angry at his cultivation of someone like Candi and his apparent willingness to use her as a goad against his own wife. How dare he! So disloyal! Her itch to scratch his face was decidedly de-rousing.


    He was claiming the Holy Grail – a proffered permanence at the BBC. According to him, “everybody knew” television was THE modern workplace nowadays for money and advancement. Scarlet hadn’t cared for the BBC people she had met. They seemed so relentlessly – even aggressively, proudly “unpoetic”. Couldn’t Ian see that these people quashed rather than enhanced creativity? But such concepts only made Ian angrier. Their new obligations were expensive. She couldn’t contest that.


    She found herself yearning hopelessly for the carefree days of courtship and poverty – a honeymoon in Spain for pennies a day – a dingy flat with a toilet on the landing. Too late for such nostalgia. Those days were pre-Nicholas, and now that he was here he needed the best care possible. The universe required Nicholas. It was Scarlet’s deepest belief that Nicholas needed to be born. One could even argue that Scarlet needed to become a mother, for Nicholas’ sake. Everything Ian knew of this atavism he instinctively despised. She was certain he considered Wyvern House more important than his son.


    A cynic would say this was the oldest Tale Ever Told. Men and women had different investments in children. Who was that American scientist in the thirties who wrote about how important any particular man was to a woman, and how unimportant any particular woman was to a man? Men didn’t comprehend the process of giving birth, didn’t need to because in biological fact they could father hundreds of children every year. Women, on the other hand, must invest years in bringing up a mere handful of children.


    Scarlet certainly didn’t want to hash any of this out with Ian. Back in their courting days, he was interested in her thoughts and they could talk about anything; now he seemed resolved on turning her own words into weapons against her.


    One morning Ian galvanized her with a totally unexpected argument.


    “You know, if I got this job, we’d have to get a place in town. What a Christmas that would be!”
    This was casually stated while he was looking in the mirror, tying his tie.


    Scarlet’s mouth fell open. “A flat in town AND a house in the country?”


    “Why not? Other people do it.”


    They certainly did: rich people. Ian did have that thousand pounds – if he hadn’t already used it to stave off debts. They’d already agreed to skip Christmas presents in the face of all these expenses – but a shared apartment hunt would be a gift in itself!


    Wouldn’t that be the perfect solution? Had she jumped too fast to all her negative conclusions? Her face burned – was he right when he called her “The Doomsayer?”


    He didn’t need the mirror to tie his tie – he was using it to study her face. She had never been one who aspired to mask her emotions – especially from her husband! But this time she really tried. In her mind she saw their lives unspooled – dinners with fake people like Candi, hours spent rushing from town to country and back again, passing the baby between them and multiple caregivers as they sought to keep a precarious footing in the world of “the lucky ones” – was that really the life she wanted? She felt certain that even in the midst of these complex preoccupations, people found time to feel lonely and hopeless. Equally she felt certain that such a busy chatelaine would never write a worthwhile word.


    Money was universally supposed to solve all dilemmas. She was beginning to see that wasn’t true. And yet – if she needn’t scrabble for a job herself, a flat in town would solve the education dilemma. And so she said,


    “Sounds wonderful,” and was touched when he sighed with visible relief. He still cared what she thought!

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 12. A Hostess Gift

    They all rose late. David insisted he’d slept “very well” but Ian’s eyes were shuttered against Scarlet’s inquiring look and Candi seemed smugly triumphant. It went against Scarlet’s grain to question them but if you didn’t tell foreign sexual adventuresses that your husband was off limits, how could they be expected to know? Candi’s barbed words – “glad to know another couple with a truly modern relationship” – came back to haunt her like some sly promotion of infidelity as sophisticated, international and superior. Scarlet felt certain husband David wasn’t on board with that.


    They drove to Oakhampton after a late and hasty Continental breakfast prepared by Ian, (wonder of wonders) – the “girls” in the back of the estate wagon with Nick in his carrycot between them. Scarlet struggled to find words that would be politic yet reproving, fearing that if she missed her chance, she’d be silenced forever.


    But Candi forestalled her.


    “You must come up to London soon,” she gushed, “Now that you have a nanny.”
    Scarlet struggled with the concept of Fern elevated to this pinnacle while Candi hurried on; “So we can have a real heart to heart.”


    Which of us is being courted now? Wondered Scarlet. A nightmare world appeared to her inner eye where her personal good fortune; talent, beauty, husband, house, son – laid her open to invasion by this succubus scheming to supplant her.


    Candi placed a cold hand with terrifyingly long, red lacquered nails on Scarlet’s hot, stubby, hang-nailed paw.


    “I have discounts at all the best places. Now that you have your figure back we must suit you out.”
    “Lovely,” quivered Scarlet, revolted by virtually everything about this patronizing sentence. She knew immediately that the truth was of no interest to Candi, who sought always to perpetrate a façade, and who took it for granted other people did too. She seemed confident Scarlet would never correct her, never insist that she was large, baggy and leaking milk in all directions. Her presentable caftan at the restaurant for dinner out could be considered “maternity wear.” She would rather die than ever shop with Candi, didn’t want to resemble her and hadn’t planned to buy anything new until Nicholas was weaned.


    But she felt a horrid certainty that Ian would side with Candi; that one must always “put on a show”. Was she being penny wise and husband foolish? Something to consider. Perhaps she could spring for one outfit – but certainly not alongside Candi! Tatiana had a pair of velvet toreador pants Scarlet coveted. “Divorce insurance” – distasteful as that might be. And she desperately needed a warm winter coat – something better than this shabby red anorak she wore everywhere.


    Breakfast had been so late and Ian’s porridge was so stomach-churning nobody could think of food or even a cup of tea at the café. In desperation, Scarlet suggested visiting the bookshop instead to purchase “something to read on the train” and all agreed with this idea.

    The Fruitful Browser was fortunately open Sundays. It might specialize in old, antique and “used” books but there is no such thing as a “used idea”. Francesca even offered a respectable cup of coffee which she called, charmingly, “café americaine.” She gave Scarlet’s guests – and then Scarlet – a look that could only be described as “conspiratorial.” Baby Nicholas cooperated by staying sound asleep locked safely in the car.


    “Literature by the yard! I see!” said Candi, who appeared personally insulted by the very concept of used books. “But I suppose if you’ve got shelves to fill” – until Ian commented,


    “Here’s a lovely section of pocket Trollopes.”


    That’s what Candi was, thought Scarlet. A “pocket trollop!”


    Seemingly Candi wanted anything Ian wanted. Her acquisitive eyes lit with lust.


    Scarlet left them to it while she and David happily perused the Golden Age of Crime novels – tuppence a copy. David was thrilled to find a series Scarlet had never even heard of.


    “Our Miss Clew,” he said, “These are glorious. I think there were only ever a baker’s dozen and I’ve been missing five! Here they all are!” To Scarlet he hissed conspiratorially, “Don’t tell. They could sell the full set for substantially more.”


    Scarlet had to assume Francesca knew her business. In any event, she personally dropped a guinea in this store on her every Oakhampton shopping trip. She snapped up the five David didn’t need.


    “I see you love Miss Clew,” Francesca remarked, adding up their purchases. “They really must issue reprints – these inexpensive editions – “railway” they called them – fall to tatters far too soon.”


    Scarlet could only agree – her copies appeared to be restored with what she, as a new homeowner, recognized as friction tape.


    Candi had chosen a first edition of Frank Harris’ Life and Loves which, horribly, Ian insisted on purchasing for her.


    “I shall have to think up a really special bread and butter present,” said Candi. “This has been the most wonderful weekend of my life.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 10. The Bookshop

    Scarlet was rather hoping Ian would be jealous when he found out about her dinner party, but sadly, she turned out to be the jealous one. She could hear him whistling as he came in the front door and she rushed in to meet him so he wouldn’t wake the baby.


    He was waving a thousand pound cheque from his father’s account. Scarlet caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ name in the memo line before Ian whisked it away.


    “For the baby?”


    “Of course, for the baby!” Ian seemed irked. “Everything’s for the baby, which is to say it’s for us.”


    Scarlet hoped Ian’s father wasn’t under the impression that he was starting some special bank fund for Nicholas but feared he probably did. Ian often misled people about the finer points of his spending, implying he was a saver and an investor when he most assuredly was not. However, protecting Ian’s parents could not be her concern when she had too much on her plate already.


    At exactly that moment, Ida and Fern – riding with her grandmother today, thank God – showed up and Scarlet made the introduction. An expression of coy simpering Scarlet had previously imagined and dreaded did appear on Fern’s face – reflecting her babysitter’s appraisal that Ian was a fine figure of a man. But even worse from Scarlet’s point of view was the expression on Ian’s face. In spite of the girl’s youth, he paid clear tribute to her beauty.


    “Challenging your game,” Ian murmured, digging an elbow into Scarlet’s side. She had to struggle to keep from rolling her eyes. In what universe could she and a rural seventeen-year-old school leaver ever be rivals? She tried telling him about her dinner with Pom but he yawned with boredom. She could only hope he wasn’t as mentally finished with her as he obviously was with Pom. Ian considered a case of wine no more than his due -“He owes us” and when she mentioned the cherry tart he poked her middle and said jestingly, “No more of that for you!”


    But he really got under her skin when he called Pom a “poofter.”


    “Surely you can tell,” he drawled. No hope making him jealous of Pomeroy Bronfen!


    She wanted to argue the point, but realized it made her ridiculous. She honestly DIDN’T know – the only “evidence” she actually had that Pom appreciated ladies was the way he had made her feel – beautiful, interesting and intelligent. She stomped away in a huff which all too obviously gratified Ian.


    With Fern present she could at least go to her tower room and write. But she didn’t want to. She needed to get out of this house. She resolved to visit the bookshop Pom had mentioned and locate a copy of Perrault’s fairytales.


    “The Fruitful Browser” turned out to be Scarlet’s favorite kind of shop – from the tray of books outside to the shelves inside it was crammed with interesting finds. Not for the first time Scarlet asked herself, ‘Why should I bother to write when there’s so much to read?”


    The only thing she didn’t like was that she was alone in the store. Usually bookshops swarmed with incompetent help, though in this case the lone leonine woman behind the desk asked, “Anything I can help you with?”


    She looked to be in her 60’s with a big blunt face, broad nose, no makeup, and curly grey streaked hair streaming out around her like a nimbus.


    “Perrault’s Fairytales?” Scarlet asked. “In English. Er – adult version.”


    The woman tossed up a corner of the countertop and hasted out to shake her hand.
    “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Francesca Joringel. Follow me.”


    Her broad, booted, stumpy body was swathed in shawls. As they walked, Scarlet noticed the shop was carefully arranged and labeled – “Poetry”, “Literature,” “Biography” and some unusual ones: “Bloody Mystery” “Bloodless Mystery” and “American Crime.”


    Bet she knows what a paradigm shift is, thought Scarlet.


    They had arrived at “Story Therapy.”
    “Story Therapy?”


    Francesca – “Call me Fran” – turned to face her.


    “You are perhaps familiar with Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning? No? Oh, every visitor to my shop who’s unfamiliar with that book gets a free copy. This shelf represents all my research for my forthcoming tome; Woman’s Search for Meaning.” She waved a hand. “I use folk-tales to back up my theories.”


    “Which is?” questioned Scarlet.


    “Frankl’s experience at Auschwitz convinced him that terrible experiences can be borne only when we comprehend the meaning that they have for us. Story therapy builds on that – it isn’t my own idea. Six years ago, I was living in London at the point of despair and I was fortunate to encounter a Hungarian psychoanalyst – she was a Jungian – who believed with stories we can foretell the future.”


    Scarlet was feeling a bit overwhelmed by this and found herself suddenly needing to sit down. Luckily benches, stools – and in this case an upright kitchen chair – were sprinkled around the store.


    “She taught me to apply these stories to the great question: how shall I live? Psychoanalysis is not only about coming to terms with the past, but planning for the future.” She dimpled unexpectedly. “Enjoy.”


    Scarlet was glad she needn’t suffer scrutiny as she opened book after book and studied their contents. She settled on Grimm’s Fairytales – faintly remembered, and a large version of Perrault, heavily illustrated.


    Fran was waiting for her at the counter with a threadbare paperback of the Frankl book.
    “Would you like to be on our mailing list for future events?”


    “I certainly would,” said Scarlet, and entered name and address in a ponderous volume. It was a warm comfort knowing that Pom had been there before her.

    That night a poem came to her.

    Sister Anne in the Dark Tower

    How you jumped
    When I upbraided you!
    Your sightless spyglass – a
    Sham panopticon –
    Can’t answer Spirit’s Questions.
    Summon the Ouija board and
    Let’s play cards
    Toss the dice like lovers;
    If you win I’ll be
    Forever celibate;
    Prisoned in an oculus
    Heated by
    Rage and
    Prophecy.