Alysse Aallyn

Category: #Family

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 43. Rupture

    Mr. Gammel the bank manger had been appropriately primed. Scarlet opened a trustee account for her son and one for herself. She did feel relieved – and rich – as she pocketed her new chequebook, even though she had yet to actually get a paycheck. The thirty pounds deposited in each account – she only hoped Ian would cover the checks when they were presented and that depended entirely on his mood – could not yet be accessed.


    Enid had prepared a lovely lunch – in the dining room for a change. Her eyes shimmered.
    “Salmon mousse!” she exclaimed. “Look how beautifully it came out. Miss Bottomley’s kitchen has every amenity – conveniences I’ve only heard about and am looking forward to discovering the use of. I’m having as much fun as a bride!”


    In Scarlet’s memory, her “fun” as a bride was quite different, but Enid had spent her morning sorting pots and pans and implements in Miss Bottomley’s kitchen while Baby Nick waved his legs and the elderly author looked on, bemused.


    “Nick was as good as gold. He had his bottle and now he’s having a sleep. I spoke to your lovely solicitor Mr. D’Arcy and he’s promising to set me right with my finances. It will be such a relief not to have to sound pathetic and uncertain when I speak to the children. My husband can well afford an adequate disposition.”


    It was quite a Mediterranean lunch. Salmon mousse ornamented with black and green olives, a green salad with sliced tomatoes and buttered whole meal bread. Tea to drink – Miss Bottomley’s favorite Earl Grey. No alcohol in sight, Scarlet gratefully noted.


    “Mr. Thomas seemed interested about our plan about investing in publishing,” said Scarlet succinctly, shaking out her napkin as she addressed Miss Bottomley. “He said you need another business!”


    Miss Bottomley perked up visibly. “Isn’t it wonderful, being rich!”


    The ladies agreed that it certainly seemed to be.


    “He’ll do a bit of research and come by tomorrow afternoon to discuss it with you.”


    “Good plan,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “Scarlet, how can I ever thank you enough? Enid, dear, will you mark it in my book? By the phone?”


    Scarlet would have thought that keeping Miss Bottomley’s “books” was her job, but she didn’t argue. Perhaps it was best to see how things shook themselves out. After all, if Miss Bottomley really did buy a stake in Coltsfoot & Briggins, Scarlet might find herself working there. At least temporarily. Having Enid care for Nick and Miss Bottomley at the same time would clearly be the beau ideal. If, that is, she was trustworthy as she seemed. A big “if.” But she certainly appeared to be, so far.


    Scarlet’s offer to do the dishes was roundly turned down.


    “No, thank you,” said Enid. “I feel Miss Bottomley’s generous pay entitles me to make the kitchen my dominion. I don’t mind it a bit. In Morocco and India, we had servants and they wouldn’t let me do anything. I found it horribly frustrating. We have the most elegant commercial dishwasher and I’m dying to use it! Would you care for coffee?”


    There seemed no point waking Nick merely to carry him upstairs so Scarlet took her coffee upstairs instead.


    She was kicking off her shoes and looking forward to an exhausted nap when the phone rang.
    “Mr. Pelham D’Arcy for Mrs. Wye,” announced the careful clerk Mr. Gotobed. Enid came on the line.


    “What is it?”


    “It’s for me,” said Scarlet shortly.


    “That’s all right then.” Enid hung up noisily.


    “Good news about Mrs. Rumson,” said Pelham as soon as he took up the line. “I wanted to reassure you that Jim Bogswell made a couple of calls and there’s no black marks against her. I think you made a good hire. Nothing damaging known.”


    Scarlet felt relieved to the point of tears. “That’s marvelous. You can’t think how knowing that relieves me. Mrs. Rumson’s doing such a fantastic job here – and Miss Bottomley’s having the time of her life. I would feel dreadful if I brought a wolf into the fold.”


    “It seems the wolves are all outside,” Pelham warned sententiously. “We are numbering and fighting them off, one by one. Now, don’t ring off. Bogswell had some other news. It seems your husband has more than one girl-friend.”


    That more than explained Candi’s anxiety! Apparently Candi’s upgrade to “house-help” created a vacancy! Now that the poor woman found herself in Scarlet’s old job, maneuvering her way around a prevaricating, untrustworthy male, she as being acquainted with the stresses and strains of the position. Scarlet’s conscience smote her – she hadn’t even mentioned Candi’s threat to Pelham. Should she bring it up now? But D’Arcy was in full cry.


    “He’s got some woman staying at the flat. Bogswell’s trying to find out more about her.”


    “That was quick work,” said Scarlet. “He only told me this morning he was just beginning the move in.”


    “Taradiddle,” said Pelham shortly. “Our source says some young woman – early twenties – has established base camp.”


    Well then why on earth had Ian invited her over? To make her jealous? She couldn’t put it past him.
    “And there’s more.”


    “More girls?” No wonder Candi was feeling desperate!


    “More facts. I believe I mentioned that Mrs. Pourfoyle gave up her employment and moved to Verne on Wye?”


    “You didn’t say she’d quit her job!”


    “Oh, yes. Gave in her notice. And she had –“ he cleared his throat – “A recent hospitalization.”


    Scarlet couldn’t parse his heavy emphasis. “Some kind of miscarriage?”


    “It seems,” Pelham said with the delicacy of an elephant, “She experienced a rupture.”


    “A physical rupture?”


    “Correct. Requiring stitches.”


    Scarlet was imagining Ian had socked Candi in the eye when Pelham continued, “Er – gynecologically.”


    “Oh, my God!”


    “Precisely. Was your husband excessively adventuresome in the bedroom?”


    “I believe I used the word “pushy”,” Scarlet said somewhat coldly. This was what people warned you about with divorce attorneys.


    “Ah, yes. Forceful.” He seemed to be making a note. “Well, let me tell you this news puts our case in very good standing. We are certainly entitled to a no-contact order at the very least. I will notify you of further developments.”


    “Thank you,” gasped Scarlet and fell back on her pillows, all chance of a nap gone.
    Would she ever sleep again? Poor Candi! Stitches! Hospitals! She would discover first-hand that Ian really had no sympathy for the sick, the disabled, or the “hors de combat.” Candi was truly, now, a “whore de combat.”


    Scarlet had never imagined feeling sorry for the woman, but it seemed her rival had unleashed a whirlwind. This was a vision of the country gent as member of the Hellfire Club. Could it be that Ian divided “wives” and “girlfriends” so thoroughly in his own mind that it liberated his aggression if the woman had no legal claim on him? If so, poor Candi! She seemed like the unlucky sorcerer’s apprentice who couldn’t manage her own spell and was now being threatened by her own creation.
    In which case, why not wash her hands of him? Militate for a better position? But how could she when she had given up both husband and job?

    In fact, it was apparent to Scarlet that now that Candi had given up her London work she was dramatically worse off – at Ian’s mercy in fact. How could Candi have not foreseen this? She had always bragged about her gallery job as if it were a wonderfully lucky break. Plainly she considered Ian an even luckier break, only to discover the man was all smoke and mirrors. What was the matter with women?


    At the center of all this was Ian, wreaking havoc and feeling entitled to wreak more. In a way, this piece of unholy medical information erased much of Scarlet’s guilt over a “non-contact” order. She needed to come out the other side, with a good arrangement to focus Ian’s good behavior around his own son, as well as terminating Scarlet’s dependence on such an undependable man.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 42. Plots & Ploys

    D’Arcy, too, suggested she sit and helped her off with her coat – probably thinking the sweat on her forehead meant she was overheated instead of merely tense. He closed the door behind her with a conspiratorial air.


    “Your husband has acquired an attorney,” he said. “Really it could not be better for us. He seems to have instructed a Mr. Jellicoe, who shares offices with his detective.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “It sounds to me as though the cart was driving this particular horse, and we all know what is the result when THAT happens.”


    “It sounds horrible,” said Scarlet faintly. “I can’t imagine.”


    “Disaster, my dear Mrs. Wye, disaster. I suspect here we have the client who thinks he can manage his solicitor – NEVER a good idea.” He looked repressive. That’s Ian for you, thought Scarlet. He considers himself the smartest man in the room.


    “I saw Ian this morning,” she interjected. “His showed up unexpectedly at Norfolk Crescent. To take the car.”


    Pelham’s eyebrows knit worriedly but he said nothing.


    “That was all right with me,” she hurriedly asserted – “I don’t want it and he’s moving into the BBC flat. I told him in future he should make an appointment. Say, to see Nick.”


    “Naturally,” Pelham agreed. “Mr. Jellicoe and I will iron out a schedule. Until we have I suggest you inform your husband there will be no visitation. I will be serving Mr. Jellicoe with our Notice of Potential Harm to a Minor Child.”


    He’ll love that, thought Scarlet.


    “Have you been to the bank?”


    Scarlet looked guilty.


    “Not yet.”


    “You really need to set that up account. Planters Bank around the corner is the one we use. Would you like me to instruct Mr. Gammel, the bank manager?”


    “I wish you would,” said Scarlet hopefully. If there was any way to make this rough course smoother, she would take it.


    “I’ll give him a call. Do step round and ask to see Mr. Gammel at conclusion of our business. Should I know any more about this surprise meeting with Ian?”


    Should I mention Candi? Wondered Scarlet. The fact that Ian insisted he wouldn’t be getting a divorce. But she couldn’t see how that would help.


    “He invited me to help him move into his flat. I declined but I offered to help with a room for Nick. Should I mention the nanny? Could he use mine? My new nanny’s that new client I told you about – the one with the Foreign Service husband. How should I handle this?”


    “Ah, Enid Ransom.” Pelham D’Arcy gave a wolfish grin. “We have a lovely case there. Mrs. Ransom will be coming into a tidy sum. I hope that won’t interfere with her need for employment. It would be too cruel if your good interventions deprived you of a nanny.”


    “I doubt it,” said Scarlet. “Miss Bottomley also hired her as a cook – I think both of them are having the time of her lives. And Norfolk Crescent’s a most comfortable place to live.”


    D’Arcy assumed a serious mien, “Mrs. Wye, I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you NOT go to your husband’s flat. You simply cannot be alone with him. If he assaulted you before the separation is final, such are the marriage laws in this country, we could not prosecute a rape. It would be assumed to be consensual. Every conjugal act sets us back to the beginning of the process, as if you had accepted and forgiven him.”


    Scarlet felt faint. Rape as a method of subjection! Like a cruel colonial power subduing recalcitrant populations.


    “I did think my husband had some ulterior motive inviting me,” she gasped nervously. “I can’t believe he would be…force me.”


    Pelham looked alarmed. “Let’s not wait to find out what he does when he feels desperate,” he insisted, “But assume at the outset that if the worst is possible, the risk is unacceptable.”


    Just what Miss Clew would recommend! Thought Scarlet. She began to see the possibility for a new book: Miss Clew’s Advice to Young Girls. Always carry a hatpin would be Precept #1! In spite of the general tension, she giggled.


    Pelham D’Arcy pulled out the brandy bottle. Evidently, he considered his client on the verge of becoming hysterical. It had probably happened many times before.


    “I’ll do as you suggest,” Scarlet agreed hastily, but declined the brandy. It was eleven thirty in the morning, and on an empty stomach, brandy probably promoted hysteria.


    “Have there been occasions in the past” – D’Arcy gasped, pouring himself a snifter, “I realize I should have enquired earlier – when your husband has been – punitive?”


    Scarlet blushed uncomfortably. “He is customarily quite pushy,” she said finally. “He hasn’t had occasion to feel…deprived. I was the one being deprived…as soon as he got a girlfriend.”


    Pelham tossed back his brandy. Obviously he found discussing marital intimacies the toughest part of his job.


    “Live and learn,” he said finally. “We frequently handle suits for restitution of conjugal rights and I confess I usually consider the problem from that point of view. But given the situation, you must have nothing to do with your husband. Consider yourself at risk. Any further questions?”


    “No. Thank you very much – for all you have done.” I’ll get right over to the bank.”


    She left as Pelham D’Arcy was placing his call to Mr. Gammel.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 39. Strategy

    When she opened the front door at Norfolk Crescent the delicious scent of roasting lamb assailed her nostrils at the same time as laughter struck her ears.


    In the kitchen, she was surprised to encounter a mini-cocktail party – Enid chopping vegetables while Miss Bottomley looked on, enjoying a glass of red wine. Her withered-apple face glowed.


    “I hope you had success?” she enquired. “Enid’s been regaling me with tales about Morocco.”


    “There’s just a bit of hummus left,” said Enid. “Really you must try it.”


    Scarlet was more interested in the wine.


    “Sawditch is ordering couscous!” Miss Bottomley said. “Enid promises to cook us a mush-wee!”


    “A meshwi,” Enid corrected, handing Scarlet a glass of wine. “How did your publishing encounter go?”


    “Sadly, the man is a complete dunderhead,” said Scarlet, throwing the books on the table. “THIS is the sort of thing they publish! They expect us to accommodate ourselves to this ghastly drivel!”


    Enid looked thoughtful but Miss Bottomley seemed so crestfallen Scarlet sat right down to comfort her before taking a single sip.


    “They’re doing it for money,” she said. “They are on their beam ends – the place looks desperate – and remember, you are a very rich woman!”


    Miss Bottomley’s face cleared. “Buy the series back? Of course!”


    “These wonderful books deserve republishing, but I’m suggesting a lot more than that. What if you buy the publisher?”


    Miss Bottomley looked appalled.


    “Buy a PUBLISHER?”


    “Your money is currently all in property, which you’ve stated you don’t really care that much about.”


    “That’s true enough,” agreed Miss Bottomley. “But what if these dunderheads – as you call them – are correct and my books are such old hat no one will want them?”


    “Impossible!” roared Enid and Scarlet enthusiastically together.


    Scarlet said, ‘This Mr. Mountjoy is overlooking an entire market of mature women. They are the most enthusiastic readers of books, and Miss Clew has so much to offer them. Isn’t there a revival going on of the Golden Age of Crime?”


    “But buying a whole publishing company – “


    “Or you could simply become an investor. Bob Thomas will know how to set it up.”


    Miss Bottomley’s face cleared. Obviously “Bob Thomas” had become a magic name for her.


    “You’re right,” nodded Miss Bottomley. “Bob Thomas will know. Let’s call him.”


    “Call him tomorrow,” said Enid, spilling wine on Rod the Spy as she swept him off the table.

    “Dinner’s ready!”


    The dinner was delicious enough, but for some reason Scarlet had trouble sleeping, and Nick, too was wakeful. Enid seemed to sleep like a rock – at least Scarlet didn’t hear her or encounter her on the way to the bathroom. That’s all right, thought Scarlet stolidly, I can handle the nights if Enid can handle the days. But she was worried. How did she know Enid was who she said she was? Even if her past was impeccable, what if she was, say, an alcoholic? Who had she really brought into Miss Bottomley’s home? She was surprised – shocked wouldn’t be too much to say – at the vulnerability of this old lady. She had handled the hiring of an editor much more expertly – though of course I think so, Scarlet admitted, because she hired me. Obviously, others might quibble.


    Enid put Scarlet’s fears to rest in the morning with her vigor and drive. She made crepes with fresh fruit for breakfast – Miss Bottomley sat at the table expectant and eager as a child. Enid managed Nick and the cooking effortlessly enough, Scarlet had to admit. A pile of clean diapers was already whizzing around the modern dryer.


    “Could you pick up a copy of Dr. Spock’s childcare book while you’re out?” Enid requested. “It had a wonderful recipe for infant’s milk I seem to remember. Probably get one at Foyle’s.”
    Any excuse to go to Foyle’s was welcome.


    “I’ll take the afternoon,” Scarlet promised. “Pelham D’Arcy has an appointment available for you at three-fifteen.”


    “That would be suitable,” Enid agreed. “I most concerned to protect the children from knowledge of – er – their father.”


    “I’m sure your husband wants that too,” Scarlet comforted her, hoping it was true. Enid, who knew her husband best, didn’t argue.


    Scarlet phoned Bob Thomas and asked if she could have a short word with him – he suggested she join him for his “elevenses.”


    Scarlet dressed carefully, called, “See you later!” from the door and found herself out on a fashionable London street on a brisk winter’s day with the most blissful sense of freedom she had experienced since Nick’s birth.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 37. The Nanny

    After all this excitement Miss Bottomley wanted to return home for a nap, so Scarlet cabbed alone to the nanny agency. Nick was unhappy in the stroller and needed skin to skin contact, so she was forced to carry and jiggle him as she told the receptionist she had arrived for her appointment with Miss Gorgon.
    Miss Gorgon’s name wasn’t actually Miss Gorgon – it was really something like Bourgoyne – but she was apparently so shocked, so downright appalled by everything Scarlet said that she would be Miss Gorgon in Scarlet’s memory forever after.
    No nanny could be found for a newborn this late in the game – newborn nannies were engaged as soon as a due date was decided. No nanny would enter someone else’s home – a residence owned by someone other than the employer’s for a temporary three month stay! Miss Gorgon was insulted by the very idea.
    Such a thing was QUITE out of the question. Scarlet was recommended to try Talliver’s who handled nursemaids, companions and au pairs. She MIGHT find something suitable there. Mrs. Rumson was going there also, so if she hurried, perhaps they could go together.
    “Mrs. Rumson!”
    Miss Gorgon called into the waiting room where a plump middle-aged woman with reddish silver hair and an unfashionable and too-tight tweed suit was sitting on a side bench drinking muddy tea from a thick china cup. At the sight of Miss Gorgon she slid her feet guiltily back into her shoes.
    “Mrs. Wye is going to Talliver’s also,” said Miss Gorgon. “Perhaps you could guide her.”
    And slamming the door, she visibly washed her hands of the pair of them.
    “I hope it’s no trouble,” said Scarlet, trying to figure out Mrs. Rumson’s place in the scheme of things. If she was the office go-fer, why the uncomfortable shoes?
    “Not in the least,” said Mrs. Rumson. “Allows me to start practicing my “companioning” right away, so to speak. You know, fetching and carrying, holding tickets and maps, reading guidebooks aloud – I’m a very experienced traveler. Oh, what an adorable baby! He’s so new!”
    “Eight weeks,” admitted Scarlet.
    Mrs. Rumson sighed with ecstasy. “May I hold him?”
    Scarlet gave Mrs. Rumson a second – then a third – look.
    “Certainly,” she said, handing him over.
    Mrs. Rumson – “Call me Enid” – handled him so expertly Nick didn’t mind or even seem to notice the change. Scarlet snapped the stroller shut with some relief. It was SUCH a problem on the stairs.
    “And why are you going to Talliver’s, if I may ask?” inquired Enid, as they descended.
    “Because I’ve just been told I can’t have a nanny,” said Scarlet. “And do you know, I don’t really WANT a nanny. I want someone trustworthy to watch this baby so I can do a job of editing.”
    “Well,” said Enid boldly and perhaps a tad hopefully, “Perhaps what you need is a companion.”
    This was rapidly turning into a job interview.
    “Have you had lunch?” inquired Scarlet.
    “I have not,” agreed Enid. “But won’t you be late for your appointment?”
    “I don’t have an appointment,” Scarlet admitted. “I feel I’m on my “last chance” so to speak. And I don’t like the feeling.”
    “Welcome!” laughed Enid. “Last chance” isn’t such a bad place. I’ve been there quite awhile by now.”
    They hied themselves to the nearest restaurant, a self-serve cafeteria with an Oriental theme and special on meat pie and sprouts.
    “I should have a salad,” sighed Enid Rumson, “But it’s been SUCH a day. I feel I must fall on my food before I fall on my sword.”
    Scarlet admired the expert way she handled tray and baby – she showed no inclination to give Nick back and Nick didn’t seem to mind. Scarlet would have almost felt jealous if she hadn’t been in search of exactly such a person. Enid bravely ordered the special, Scarlet chose the baked beans on toast with coffee. Scarlet insisted on paying and they found a quiet corner table.
    “Have you been companioning long?” Scarlet enquired officiously.
    “Not in the least – I’ve never actually companioned at all. Bourgoyne’s told me it’s all that I’m good for so I’m just starting out in the game. I actually wanted to be a nanny – I love babies – had five of my own – but Miss Gudgeon told me I didn’t qualify. Whereas with all my travel experience –“
    “You had five children?”
    “Yes. Only one daughter in England – she’s at college for physiotherapy – the rest are very far flung. No surprise since they grew up all higglety-pigglety. Such is the life of the foreign service.”
    “You were in the foreign service?” The coffee really wasn’t bad. Scarlet was feeling better every moment.
    “Yes and no. That is, my husband was – is – and there’s quite a lot of work – unpaid, naturally – for wives to do. I’m just back from Morocco, actually.”
    “Morocco?”
    “I hope you don’t think me odd for bringing this up – thank goodness you’re an American – they have such a free and easy way – but I just discovered –“ she paused delicately, a lost pastry crumb falling unnoticed to her substantial bosom – “that my marriage is a sham. I can’t decide how to tell the children – so I told them instead that I just needed a complete rest – but I fear –“ she took a long sip of coffee – “This coffee is good – I fear my husband doesn’t really care for women.”
    She gave Scarlet a meaningful look. Scarlet’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. Enid nodded.
    “He says he’s tried us, he didn’t like us and I don’t think he’s ever coming back,” she confided. “I think Bert has found his – nirvana was the word he used. Among the young Arab boys.”
    Scarlet put a hand on Enid’s, noticing the mark of an absent ring as she did so. And Enid – who was quite sharp – noticed her noticing.
    “Sold my wedding set first thing,” she said. “For money in my pocket –hotels and trains, you understand.”
    “Surely…” Scarlet was shocked by this, “Your husband’s income at this point is more than adequate for two.”
    “Correct. But he’s not in the mood to share. He has – other expenses – according to him. Especially if I leave and he has to cover – er – hostessing.”


    “But he wouldn’t want word of his – er – peccadillos getting out.”


    Enid looked shocked. “But that’s blackmail! I would never do that! Think of the children!”
    “Not blackmail exactly,” Scarlet soothed. “It’s just that you shouldn’t end up being punished for wanting the values of your wedding vows.”


    “What an American way of putting it,” sighed Enid faintly, taking up a big glob of pudding.
    ‘You need a good matrimonial attorney to point this out to him,” Scarlet went on, itching to get this case under Pelham d’Arcy’s purview. On the face of it, it certainly looked easier than hers. “And I know just the one.”


    Enid flushed very red. “I really have no money left,” she gasped.


    “It’s perfectly all right,” said Scarlet. ‘Your husband will pay.” And PAY, she thought, righteously. “Are you staying at a hotel?”


    “I parked my bags at the Paddington left luggage,” said Enid. “I thought it was the best plan to come to the agency first thing, in case they wanted to send me out of the city.”


    She looked a bit dashed as she admitted this fact, but for the most part she was braver and more confident than Scarlet thought she herself would be in the same situation.


    “We are in similar circumstances,” Scarlet confessed. “My husband just announced he plans to enjoy a mistress. Preferably several.”


    “What a cad!” Enid remarked. “Funny how often men seem to wait to make that announcement until they’ve rendered us utterly helpless.” She leaned forward. “But we’re not helpless, are we? I will certainly see your matrimonial – er – agent. But what I’d really like is for you to explain about this job you have going.”


    “Are you – by any chance – familiar with a book series about a detective named Miss Clew?”
    “I grew up with them!” A happy light of reminiscence broke over her face. “My brother actually called me “Our Miss Clew” when I was growing up, because I was always very nosy. Wanting to know everything about people. Life’s such a mystery, isn’t it, to the young? And I went on to I miss the biggest one right in front of my face! You know I actually wished my husband DID keep a mistress – that’s how bad things were. It’s terrible to be told your partner has always found you secretly disgusting and had to force himself to carry on and think of England. Are you the new Miss Clew?”


    “Miss Clew is very much alive,” said Scarlet. “I’m taking you to meet her and then you can decide if you want the job. It’s just three months to start with but it’s live-in. Looking after Nick so I can help Miss Bottomley get on with modernizing her work.”


    “I’ve landed on my feet, haven’t I?” gasped Enid, “What a fairy godmother you turned out to be!”
    “Just one thing,” said Scarlet, “I’m calling you a “nanny” instead of a “companion”, if you don’t mind. Miss Bottomley is elderly and I don’t want her to feel –“


    “Oh I quite understand,” agreed Enid. “Battlefield promotion for me! Nanny it is!”


    Scarlet was convinced she had chosen exactly the nanny she really needed. Better for Enid in the long run. She was certain to get a settlement from her husband – Scarlet felt sure her story was not a new one for Pelham D’Arcy – and she would make a much better nanny than a travelling companion, since she was clearly built for comfort, not for speed.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 36. Machinations

    Pelham sat in the second client chair and feebly patted Scarlet’s heaving shoulders. “There, there now,” he murmured. “You would think as a matrimonial solicitor I would be more prepared. I must do better – I assure you my heartlessness was purely thoughtless. It won’t happen again.”


    Gotobed produced a cup of tea and biscuit tin. “I’m sorry about the baby bottle”, he chuffed, but Scarlet had located Nick’s pacifier, what the English call a “dummy.”


    “That’s all right, Gotobed,” said Pelham. “But make a note to purchase – er – one of those things.”
    “Yes, sir.”


    They were alone again. Silence fell as Scarlet sipped the strengthening brew.


    “I think I’m the one who should apologize,” she said finally. “I really thought I had given up on my marriage. It goes to show I hadn’t. Please go on – what were you saying? Why exactly is this such good news?”


    But now Pelham was frightened by his client’s possibilities of distress.


    “Well,” he began nervously, “Your husband knew you were applying for employment in London. He had given his permission, correct?”


    “Correct,” agreed Scarlet, annoyed that she would need her husband’s “permission” to get a job.
    “With his girlfriend in residence, you’ve been evicted, so to speak. We shall argue that you can’t stay in a home where your husband has installed his girlfriend. Most judges I know of would agree. And you certainly can’t bring up an infant there!”


    “He’ll say she’s not his girlfriend.”


    “Our man Bogswell will get the goods on them. No one will be fooled.”


    “But I left first,” argued Scarlet, playing devil’s advocate.


    “Didn’t you come up to London to rent a flat and get a nanny under your husband’s advisement?”


    “Well, yes, I did.”


    “Is your room connected with your employment?”


    “Well, yes.”


    “Do we not have documentary proof that your husband was the first to transgress?”


    She thought of the Carpathian Hotel.


    “Quite true.”


    “Well there you are.”


    Scarlet sat silent for awhile, drinking tea while Nick sucked vigorously with an annoyed look on his face. He apparently already knew when he was being fobbed off with something that was not quite real.


    But those days are over for me, thought Scarlet. I won’t be “fobbed off” anymore. “Thank you,” she said gratefully to her solicitor. Pelham visibly relaxed.


    Gotobed inserted his head into the room as narrowly and as tactfully as it was possible for a human to do. The man had a head like a flounder; completely flat, with eyes on either side.


    “Lady Lechmere has arrived,” he murmured unctuously. Pelham vaulted upwards, helping Scarlet assemble her things.


    “Take Mrs. Wye to the Partner’s Room, please.”


    Lady Lechmere was so old and bent her gaze was permanently fixed on the floor. What could a woman that elderly possibly need with a matrimonial attorney, Scarlet wondered, wishing she could ask Pelham. But she did recall that Pelham’s specialty was said to be “marriage contracts” and Lady Lechmere doubtless had one of those. The intriguing possibilities would set any novelist or short story writer’s mind to spinning!


    Nick couldn’t settle, so as she walked him up and down in the waiting room she wondered how her own contract with Ian would read. Possibly that was the problem – she felt there was a marriage contract – it had been explicated by the vows – but Ian felt otherwise. If he had told her what he really intended, she would never have married him. Would she? But deeply in love, hadn’t she been in the mood to risk anything? Ian seemed so as well. That was the hell of love. You might fall in together, but you fell out at different times, and under different circumstances.


    Before the sniffles got any worse, Scarlet betook herself and Nick to the Ladies Cloakroom, two flights down.
 Miss Bottomley was just coming out of Bob Thomas’ office when Scarlet returned from the Ladies Retiring Room, and Bob Thomas was every bit as unctuous in handing her off as Pelham D’Arcy had been with Lady Lechmere.

    When she saw Scarlet, Miss Bottomley brightened excitedly and placed a finger to her lips. She could barely contain herself – as soon as they were in the hall and the office door closed behind them she hissed, “Do you know, Scarlet, I am a very rich woman!”


    Scarlet laughed. “That’s what I heard,” she said.


    “Mr. Thomas told me the estate is mine free and clear and I can do anything I wish with it which is most certainly NOT what Mr. Inkum told me! Do you know, that man actually lied to me? He is simply the estate manager ‘per my pleasure’ – and I don’t think I want an estate manager who LIES to me!”


    “I feel sure you can do better,” agreed Scarlet.


    “That’s what Mr. Thomas said,” Miss Bottomley said comfortably, “He told me there is nothing whatever wrong with my mind and I am as sharp as a knife!”


    “The more I hear about Bob Thomas the better I respect him,” said Scarlet.


    Miss Bottomley nodded. “I had the same thought myself. He agreed that I need a trust – or several – but said they should serve my ideas and not Mr. Inkum’s!”


    She expressed herself so explosively Scarlet was afraid to ask what those ideas actually were. In her experience, 88 year old women could sound very cranky, and Scarlet wanted nothing to interfere with her respect for her employer, so she only commented, “Just as it should be.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 35. Sops of Wine

    Scarlet gave Nick his bottle right at the table and Miss Bottomley eagerly joined in. She ate like a starved person, which it turned out, she was. The bacon and cream Scarlet had seen in her refrigerator were for the exclusive delight of The King of Wessex. Scarlet determined to shift him to tinned cat food and begin charging groceries to Miss Bottomley as Pom suggested. Feeding the old lady and the cat would have definitely bankrupted her.


    “These apples are delicious,” said her employer. “What are they called?”


    “Sops of wine,” Scarlet told her. “Who could resist that?”


    “Most romantic,” Miss Bottomley agreed.


    Pom said he must be on his way and refused a lift. Miss Bottomley closely watched Scarlet change Nick. This became less embarrassing when her employer confided her nursing experiences from World War I. The things she’d seen were worthy of a memoir. Scarlet began thinking her new employer was starved for human contact, too.


    As soon as a clean Nick was stomach-down on the rug Miss Bottomley changed the subject.


    “I do like your Pom person,” said Miss Bottomley, whose still-sharp eyes apparently missed nothing. “Hiring a detective, indeed! Seems so drastic. Is that husband of yours a dreadful Heathcliff? A would-be tenant of Wildfell Hall?”


    “I’m no longer certain,” said Scarlet. “I thought I was in an equal marriage but he seems to have been playing a long game to maneuver me into a corner.”


    “Into his harem,” Miss Bottomley agreed. “Men often do that, I find. Their excuse is that they must decide for us because we’re so supposedly “emotional”. But in my interviews with Mr. Inkum he’s always the one to fly off the handle! After all these years if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned how to keep my temper, I can assure you.”


    “May I look at those documents the solicitor wants you to sign?”


    Miss Bottomley fetched a blue legal-looking folder, settled down by the kitchen fire and promptly fell asleep.


    Scarlet had discovered there was a telephone extension upstairs in the serving area and she put in a prompt call to Pelham D’Arcy at his home number.


    “Miss Bottomley’s inherited some dreadful solicitor pretending to represent her but as far as I can see he’s representing himself. He wants her to turn her estate into a trust with himself as sole trustee!”


    “Sounds most unsavory,” agreed Pelham. “Tell you what, Bob Thomas is our wills & trusts man – the old ladies love him. I happen to know he’s free tomorrow at ten o’clock.”


    “We’ll be there,” promised Scarlet. She had had enough excitement for one day.


    It wasn’t difficult to convince Miss Bottomley that she needed “a second opinion” in the matter of solicitors.


    “Why of course I do,” she said, “Someone who represents my interests to the best of my ability and who’s willing to explain to me what those are. But how to find him was my dilemma? Who to trust? When anyone learns out about this estate they become so overly deferential – I don’t know how else to explain it – I feel certain they’re disguising their true face. Dilemmas of the wealthy! Who’d have thought?”


    “I don’t actually know my solicitor’s partner,” said Scarlet, “but he works with my solicitor whom I like very much. Just use your instincts – we’ll interview as many solicitors as you feel you need to get a true perspective.”


    “How refreshing!” said her employer. “I love options! It’s such an extravagance!”


    “There’s been a development,” said Pelham meaningfully to Scarlet, after hands had been shaken all round. Bob Thomas looked more like a farmer than a solicitor with his round, cheery red-cheeked face and gleaming bald head, but Miss Bottomley seemed to take to him. Scarlet left them alone so that they could study the papers Miss Bottomley brought and transact their own business.
    Nick was decidedly fussy. Scarlet wasn’t sure he’d calm down enough for a conversation. He insisted on being the center of attention. Scarlet walked the floor with him, apologizing. “I’m interviewing nannies today.”


    “Think nothing of it,” said Pelham. “I’ve got four of my own. I’ll make tea while you settle him.”
    Fortunately, he did settle, allowing Scarlet at least sit down and look at the grainy black and white photos he spread before her.


    “As I informed you, we now have a detective of our own.”


    Scarlet gazed at the photos uncomprehendingly, as if these were stills from some bizarre English version of La Strada. A man, a woman, suitcases and parcels – a big house – Ian. Here was his unmistakable face – looking guilty. Rather an uncommon expression for him. Had she ever even seen it? Who was this dark-haired female with the too-tight skirt stretched over the too-big bottom? Then a face shot – expression unreadable beneath Cleopatra makeup.


    “Candi!” Scarlet gasped.


    “Moving in to your marital residence!” Pelham rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “It’s really the greatest good luck for us. Your husband went back to town,” Pelham confided, “So I transferred our detective’s attention to her. I must say I do hope she’s planning a long stay.”
    Scarlet burst into tears, waking Nick, who wailed as well.


    Pelham was aghast. He rushed around the desk wielding a handkerchief.


    “You must think me an insensitive monster! I do apologize!” He threw open the door and called to his clerk, “Gotobed! Fetch a cup of tea and a baby bottle immediately.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 31. Paradigm Shift

    Scarlet and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the boiling anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!”


    She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.”
    Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.”


    A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless her marriage. Seemed like they had been unsuccessful. And they were off.


    At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load.


    “Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded.
    “I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself.


    “And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt.


    “Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.”
    Scarlet gulped, unable to speak.


    “I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.”


    English roundabouts – everyone driving with demented entitlement – were particularly nasty.
    “It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice.


    ‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?”


    Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing.


    “What was that about?”


    “He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.”


    “That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera?


    “Don’t you have any luggage?”


    He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?”


    “I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls.


    “Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it ever got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.”


    Scarlet burst into tears.


    “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.”


    He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.”


    “It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed.


    “Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.”


    “You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about this man. He always reliably boosted her spirits.


    “You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.”


    “What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?”


    His face turned serious.


    “Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.”


    “That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.”


    “Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?”


    She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?”


    “Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.”


    “Dubious.”


    “I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears.


    “Spill.”


    He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.”


    “My husband said you were a poofter.”


    “His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?”


    “I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can no longer surprise me.”


    “All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years – with a woman who was married to someone else.”


    When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?”


    “And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.”


    “A paradigm shift.”


    “Exactly.”


    “You didn’t know about – the other fellow?”


    “I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.”


    “Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.”


    “Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning – I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred to tackle anybody else.”
 She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings.


    “Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.”


    “Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.”


    She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him.


    “It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.”


    “Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.”


    “He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.”


    He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.”


    “I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.”


    His eyes seemed to plead a question.


    “Are you so certain?”


    She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.”


    “All men? Or just English men?”


    “Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really men have as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.”


    “How Victorian.”


    “Is it?”


    “Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.”


    “The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.”


    “D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.”


    “He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.”


    “He’s aware you’re leaving him?”


    “Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Habit-forming, even.


    “You know that solicitor you sent me to –“


    “Bob Thomas?”


    “Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.”


    “I’m glad.”


    “The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.”


    “They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again.


    “I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“


    “They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.”


    “Well, stop it. We need clear heads.”


    “Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.”


    “Ian had us followed.”


    As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in.


    “He had US followed? But there is no us!”


    “I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.”


    “Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent.


    After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.”


    Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?”


    “Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.”


    “I’m honored to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.”


    She hoped she could ignore this last remark.


    “It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.”


    “The Kensal Green lady?”


    “No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.”


    He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!”


    “I was!”


    “Who is she?”


    “Esmé Hope Bottomley.”


    He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?”


    “She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!”


    “Candi has a husband?”


    “Sad to say.”


    “What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?”


    “She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.”


    “And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.”


    “I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold.


    But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“


    “Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?”


    “I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.”


    “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”


    She felt a flicker of panic.


    Another subject change was called for.


    “Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?”


    “I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.”


    “One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.”


    “That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.”


    “Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.”


    “It’s a well-kept secret.”


    “Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”.


    “See how deceptive language can be?”


    “Truly. One needs a native guide.”


    “Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed.


    “I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.”


    “Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.”


    Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.”


    “Got an idea where we’re going?”


    “I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.”


    “You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying.


    “We’ll all blub together,” agreed Pom.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 30. Packing

    Scarlet’s sister India’s Christmas package arrived on the same day as a rejection from Nigel, who said the magazine was “going in a different direction.” Had Ian spoken with him? Scarlet couldn’t put it past him. India’s little gifts were nostalgic food items like pfeffernusse and windmill cookies and an unexpected present for Baby Nicholas – a collection of the sisters’ broken-backed, well-loved books from childhood. Scarlet pushed Ian’s gift aside (a joke tie probably, considering India had never liked Ian) and stroked the worn book covers sadly. There was so much imagination in childhood that it seemed the power of youth and yearning itself was magic.


    She had not even bothered to set up a tree but Ian could hardly expect one now. Perhaps she could make an effort for Miss Bottomley – see what the old dame thought about Christmas. Some people disregarded the holiday – others actively hated it, after repeated bad experiences.


    Ian and Scarlet’s last apartment – where the Pourfoyles now lived – had been too small and Ian’s family had always focused more on stockings and tiny gifts. Ian was quite comfortable leaving Christmas up to his wife, all the effort and all the blame. It was always the wife’s jobs to meet everyone’s expectations, grumbled Scarlet, even those of her husband’s family whom she didn’t know while men sat comfortably aside and ordered grog.


    What a different plan she’d had for Nicholas’ childhood than the desolation that lay before her! But what was her alternative? Ian hadn’t noticed Scarlet sexually or romantically since Nicholas’ birth. He had chosen a different bed. She was in this utterly alone.


    Could he possibly expect her to compete with his “bit of fluff?” She couldn’t imagine that in a thousand years. The very thought made her want to enter a Turkish steambath and turn herself inside out in an effort to get clean. The church ought to offer a ceremony for this – instead they acted as if menstruation and childbirth were the defilers instead of a husband’s reckless dalliances and pernicious prevarications. She was done with all of them.


    What would happen now? The future was impossible to guess at or see into. She now saw that any belief that she could see into it had wrong-footed her from the start. There were too many other players. Likely life would always be more surprising and unaccountable than she expected or counted on. The most important question was, could she ever trust anyone again? How teach Nicholas about a universe where no one could be trusted?


    Favorite Egyptian Tales of Mystery & Magic – Scarlet had loved this particular volume so much it had lost its cover. For years after reading it she told people she wanted to be an “Egyptologist”. After that it was “archaeologist” until she fell in love with literature and poetry in high school and literature and poetry seemed to love her back. Would those, too, let her down? So much depended on the frail elderly shoulders of Miss Bottomley.


    She turned the pages slowly, remembering every illustration. Here was the hippopotamus Ammit – “devourer of hearts” – waiting for Anubis to throw him the heavy, most evil hearts to eat. In this religion, only the light-hearted were worthy of heaven. Not a bad idea! When she thought about the challenges ahead, she did feel her heart lighten. She had Pom on her side, and D’Arcy and Miss Joringel and Miss Bottomley.


    Ian had Candi and Margalo and whatever drunken buddies he could find to applaud him at the pub. But those were meretricious relationships in the fullest meaning of the word. They were based on Ian NOT showing his true self. Based, really, on his never finding that real self but remaining content to swim with whatever school he found himself in.


    Scarlet had always resisted this. She understood perfectly that art required an audience and patrons, but the first requirement was that it be Art. Utterly fresh and new. The time it took to temper the artist – not to mention imagine, create and complete the work – meant finances couldn’t be a consideration. She was being tempered and it was bloody uncomfortable. But seriously, what produced good Art? Seeing Ian no longer caring about courting her – because she was good and captured, she lapsed into “history” – was like seeing the world with its skin off. It was losing part of herself.


    But she had gained a new part too, with Nicholas. She was seeing how the world really worked. Promises weren’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough. The question was what you did when people showed their true selves – because that told you what YOUR true self was.


    I WANT to know the truth, thought Scarlet. There really isn’t any point going forward if you didn’t know the truth. Obviously, people preferred sentimental fictions, chocolate box prettiness. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She must move forward. Thank God Miss Bottomley’s works were somethings she could enthusiastically admire. Think how grim this would be she was editing one of those writers – sadly, there were many of them, some very famous – whose work she despised. Well, she wouldn’t take such a job. She’d return to America if things got that bad.


    She wanted Nicholas to know his father, but she didn’t want to tempt Ian to behave as badly as he was able and he was showing himself quite able. Pelham D’Arcy was right, it was time to make a plan and stick to it like adults. That was the model for Nicholas. That proposed a future he could rely on. Ian had come to America before; he could again.


    Were there any warning signs that Ian would suddenly treat her so cavalierly? He had repeated (with so much relish!) the wedding vow to forsake all others and cleave only to her – wouldn’t that have been a good time to mention that mature British males never actually followed that plan and he didn’t intend to, either?


    What would she have done if he had? Well the wedding would have come to stop, that’s for certain! But he had consistently represented himself as wanting what she wanted. Truthfully, after their marriage she had had some doubts. She had felt some “pulling away”. It made her a little scared and sad – after all she was in a foreign country – but it hadn’t seemed unnatural or unexpected. They were carving out individual lives as well as one joint future.


    Vows were meaningful to her. She had been especially careful to extract the word “obey” – after all it didn’t appear in his! The expectation that all accommodations ought to be up to the wife Scarlet repudiated as not what “modern” people thought. Ian’s parents would be bound to blame her now, taking it for granted that it was somehow her “non-traditional, American” ideas that were “at fault” for their breakup.


    And weren’t they? The coming days would be consumed with sensitive, difficult negotiations. The law would try to bring her down and Ian would enjoy the spectacle of her humiliation. For Nicholas’ sake she must not allow it.


    Enough daydreaming. She forced herself up to her study to pack up all her papers – all her hopes and dreams all fit neatly into one brass bound trunk. She resisted the urge to burn her poetry. It seemed so insipid now – “idiotic” wouldn’t be too strong a word. She mustn’t make such cataclysmic decisions while she was in this emotional state. Some brave new world must lie on the other side of this devastation – some universe she couldn’t see – what form would it take?


    Maybe learning how to proceed without hope – was the “putting away of childish things” of which the Bible spoke. When she opened this trunk again what kind of person would she be? She pushed the thought away: now she must concentrate on her job and on Nicholas. That would more than fill her days. Three suitcases, three boxes of books and a trunk – that was all she had to take with her. Goodbye to the beautiful desk – the loveliest thing Ian had ever given her. Except for Nicholas.
    Even the huge, ornate pram that had been Ian’s family’s gift was much too large to take in the station wagon – luckily more practical India had sent a folding stroller – just the thing for vehicle transport.


    She saved India’s letter to read at tea – but it was not the treat she had expected. Naturally, it had been written before her news of separation and new address had arrived but even the usual sisterly comforts were not on offer.


    India’s big news was she had decided to be “psychoanalyzed.” She, too, felt the need of a “responsible life partner” just like Ian and someday, a child – just like Nicholas! She said she needed to get to the bottom of the mental blocks she assumed were standing in her way. Psychoanalysis required making herself “unavailable” to others and making no “radical life decisions” for three years.


    India might be coming to England in July – but now it was up to her psychoanalyst – to determine if she was “ready.” She was currently deep in their childhood – issues of toilet training and sibling rivalry.


    Scarlet didn’t like the sound of this. She knew she couldn’t blame the psychoanalyst entirely – India hadn’t enjoyed the trouble-free childhood that was Scarlet’s legacy – if only because she hadn’t had an elder sister to cushion the parental blows. Now that India was making herself vulnerable to this rather irritating sounding man – a Dr. Weitzkopf – it would be up to Scarlet to “support” her. Scarlet wished she hadn’t written that woebegone letter of – could it have been as recent as yesterday? She must write immediately and soft-pedal her own changes. Now it seemed she couldn’t rely on India. It was a brave new world in every respect.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 26 – The Solicitor

    Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale.
    “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp.


    She displayed Candi’s stained glass creation.


    “Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his fine red coat! Matches the foxes’ fur! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. I’d be proud to put it in the window of the garage.”


    Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls.


    “Excellent,” she said.

    Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as some kind of a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce.
    “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling that if she had any strength left she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I there was I, innocently thinking wedding vows would cover everything! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help could a contract possibly be? She feared the worst about all solicitors, but at this particular moment she was far too dispirited to seek further. She summoned up as much energy as she could manage and asked a question.


    “What good is a marriage contract?”


    “Well, I am afraid that under our laws the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third. A marriage contract would guarantee that in the event of – er, negative outcomes – the wife gets a fairer disposition.”


    Now she could see the point. Too late, of course. She explained her situation.
    “Plus, I don’t currently have any income,” said Scarlet faintly.


    “What is your husband’s income, if I may ask?”


    “I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.”


    “Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?”


    “Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?”


    “Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.”


    Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some Top Secret document.


    “I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband has announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity.”


    It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it this possibility. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her?


    “I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“


    “Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?”


    “Separation definitely,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.”


    “Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet was rapidly losing patience with this troglodyte.


    He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then with an effort he seized control of himself, stiffened his upper lip, (thinking of England, presumably), and mustered up a calm facade.


    “I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.”


    “It’s just that I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.”


    “I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.”


    “The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.”


    D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?”


    “Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly.


    D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“


    “Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we ran into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.”


    “I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also think it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.”


    “Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.”


    “Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he emphasized the word – “It’s a question is what a judge might think.”


    “And what might he think?”


    D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.”


    She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing.


    “You mean if we both have affairs?”


    “If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.”


    She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were – but she knew that wouldn’t help.


    “I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy.


    “You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.”


    “I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.”


    Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all?


    “Exactly. And I want no part of it.”


    “How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers.


    “American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled.


    “It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I must say my wife shares your view.”


    Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all.


    “Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?”


    “Under the scenario you describe, I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.”


    “Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?”


    D’Arcy raised a blocking hand.


    “Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.”


    “Why a will?”


    “It’s part of establishing the trust. A trust allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.”


    “I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed.


    “I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?”


    Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed.


    The session ended warmly on a handshake.


    “I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news. And I’ll take that hotel bill, by the way.”


    “Sounds smart,” said Scarlet. Yes, it did.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 24. A Separation

    The last train came in at nine o’clock, but why would Ian need it? He had the car, and Scarlet hadn’t seen it at the station. He could be anywhere. She heard nothing from him. As she gave Nick his bath she wondered what she should do. Should she call Candi and ask about his plans? But there seemed no more reason to expect her husband’s girlfriend would be any more truthful than Scarlet’s own husband had been or that he even told the truth to her. Maybe David – Candi’s husband – was the one she should call. Or how about Margalo?


    “Hello – we haven’t met – I was just wondering –“ No wonder country wives got such a bad reputation as jailers: they were both jealous and clueless; perpetually the one because they were the other. Day late and a dollar short as the Americans put it.


    Even some disguised query about job or flat would be ridiculously transparent. Her private job, as Nick’s mother, was to figure out just how much of this she would tolerate, and what she would do about it. She knew marriage was no bed of roses but she had not expected so many thorns.

    Scarlet, the writer, so long buried, had nothing to say. Her only role was to be oblivious, unworldly and unassuming. Scarlet surrendered her thoughts and fell asleep.


    Nick awoke, like clockwork, at one in the morning. She fell back asleep while feeding him. She dreamed she stood at the junction of several dark, long tunnels. Which offered the best way out? In the distance, she heard a roar of water – but from which direction? She would drown – she felt a laggard inertia – the horror of such hopelessness awakened her. It was already light out. Here she was in Nick’s bedroom so freshly decorated with the hopeful yellow paint she’d applied herself just before his eagerly anticipated birth. There was no threatening water, no terrifying tunnel. The future that awaited her was terrible enough – or maybe just sad, really. But at least there wouldn’t be a drowning at the end of it.


    She placed Nick carefully in his crib and went downstairs to the cold kitchen to make coffee and light the boiler: what Ida called “the heart of the house.”


    Outside a fresh coating of snow had settled over the drive. She shivered, making toast, skipping butter but slathering plenty of tart, orange, homemade marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dream of power, and she had eagerly embraced them hoping for a by-product of happiness. What had it wrought instead?


    She carried her coffee and toast to her bed to find Ian sprawled beneath a pile of blankets. He must have come in during the night, and she hadn’t heard him. She moved his clothes from the armchair to the valet and settled down to watch him. He was in a deep, deep sleep. She herself was wide awake, although she felt odd, as if hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing.


    Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective having no assistance to offer to those who willingly immerse themselves in intolerable situations. She needed someone who understood how you could be pulled one way and another till paralysis inevitably set in. She settled a lap robe over her knees and opened Muriel Spark’s The Comforters.


    She must have fallen back asleep because it was past ten when she awoke. Ian sighed and rolled onto his back. Now, she thought, the light will wake him. If he can still be affected by the light. She checked on Nick – right above the kitchen he was in the warmest upstairs room – and then went downstairs to bring up more toast, warmed milk, and the coffee thermos.


    When she returned to the bedroom, Ian was in the bathroom. She shivered reminiscently as she heard water running. She placed the tray on his recently vacated spot, poured herself another cup of coffee and returned to the lap robe and armchair.


    He wore only boxer briefs, his big body seeming somehow more hairy and sprawling. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he smirked with reassurance. Why was that? His wife’s lack of splotchy tears or visible distress?


    “Thanks for this,” he said, crawling into her side of the bed and helping himself to coffee.


    “I went to the Carpathian,” she said. “I was surprised to find you’d checked in with a Mrs. Wye.”


    He cocked his head. “I suppose you made a scene? Screaming and sobbing – “I’m the REAL Mrs. Wye!” he chortled, munching toast. “A right show to entertain the tourists. Give ‘em what they came for.”


    She felt the hot blood bubble in her veins – as surely he intended – but she fought it down. He wanted her to get angry – to give him the upper hand. Many people preferred the relief of rage to the pain of mourning. She refused to oblige.


    “I found the receipted bill,” She told him, “You lied about where you stayed. I wondered why.”


    “If I don’t tell you everything – come to Jesus and confess every sin of thought and deed like one of your poor rubes at an American tent revival, does that mean I “lied”?” He scoffed. “You don’t tell me everything.”


    She gasped like a fish. She hadn’t expected this return attack. But that, of course was precisely why she should have.


    “I don’t have a boyfriend and a hotel bill!”


    He rose portentously, snapped open his dispatch case and produced a
    manila envelope from which he extracted grainy, full-size black and white photos. It took a moment to uncover the sense in them, but finally she recognized shapes – herself and Pom, going in and out of his flat, at the Soho restaurant, at the Cumberland Hotel. Riding in his car. She could scarcely believe her eyes.


    “You were SPYING on me?”


    “They don’t do that in America? Home of hardboiled Sam Spade? We call it alienation of affections here. At the very least. Possibly criminal conversation.”


    She was at a loss for words. She had definitely not expected this.
    “I ran into Pom in town! It was entirely coincidence.”


    “Says you!” He jeered. “Look darling –“ he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but she shied away. “Don’t you see the birth of our son puts our relationship on an entirely different footing?”


    “No, I don’t.” She rose and paced away from him.


    “It’s an American fantasy that a young couple with a squalling newborn is still enjoying honeymoon sex, don’t you see? It doesn’t happen anywhere else, it’s never happened anywhere else – I wager it doesn’t even happen in America but Ladies’ Home & Garden or whatever slop you read won’t admit it. It really is possible to love two people, three people, even seven people at once, just not in the same way. Adultery strengthens marriage. Read Lawrence.


    Seriously, try to view this objectively. You get Nicholas, and I’m guessing the odd passade with a sychophantic poofter – and I have…my dollies. Little bits of fluff. That’s what’s done. I can guarantee you it won’t interfere with our family life. I think I can promise that I won’t invite them to dinner – how about that?”


    “No,” said Scarlet, taking a breath and trying to remain stone-faced. “I want a separation.” Was she angry because he wasn’t jealous? Because he wanted her to be a cheater too?


    “Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You’ll be moving out?”


    “I’ll live in the London flat.”


    “That you won’t. It’s leased by the BBC for me and my –“ he paused delicately – “Household. I could give you permission to live there, of course. But you can’t keep me out – or anyone I choose to invite. I’ve already accepted a position with the company.”


    She was filled with horror. She couldn’t keep him out of this house either – and she didn’t want to, really. Where could she be safe? She just wanted out.


    “We’ll see,” she said and it sounded feeble to her own ears. “All I know now is that I can’t trust you.”


    “By all means seek counsel,” he said. “Someone to explain the realities of British marriage. But don’t let it be so very expensive. If you’ve determined on a separation I think you’ll find your allowance won’t stretch very far. Luckily women are masochists. According to Freud.”
    “I’ll get a job,” she said loftily.


    “All right then. And I’ll get Nicholas.” He backed away. “Not that I ever wanted children. But you were so determined. There’s no talking sense to a woman in heat.” At the sight of her face he finished, “Move to the guest room, shall I?” His eyes swept over he with…was that disgust or nauseated disinclination? He closed the door in just enough time to miss the bookend that was thrown at him.