Alysse Aallyn

Category: #Mysteries

  • 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 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 25. A Mysterious Employer

    On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers. Scarlet found herself unable to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice.
    She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in.


    “I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked.


    “What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?”


    She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off.


    “We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.”


    “Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.”


    Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was Pom’s fault it was the world’s fault. How could she ever explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.”


    “No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.”


    “Well, he’s an arrant idiot. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best – and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.”


    “Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’


    “I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “Two shoulders, really. And I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off.


    Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve.


    When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor.


    Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him murmuring into the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey?


    Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard.


    However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body?


    All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram – not to assault you with.


    She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant.


    Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it – a boxed advertisement in the top corner:

    Editorial Ability – Temporary.


    Possibly, thought Scarlet.


    “Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to:

    14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.”

    No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God, she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions.


    She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly depend on to represent her well. She felt too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browser and explained her difficulty.


    “I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly.


    “I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?”


    “I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.”


    “Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.”


    So comforting.


    “We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.”


    “Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 23. Down From Town

    Ida answered the phone. “I don’t know where he’s gone. The babby’s safe with my girl.”
    Scarlet was too dispirited to ask if Ida meant her daughter or her granddaughter.
    “I suppose I could take a cab if the bank’s open and I could cash a cheque,” Scarlet sighed. The bank’s hours were so bizarre. She didn’t relish dragging these boxes up the street. Maybe she could deposit them in the left-luggage room.


    “You stay right there and I’ll call down to the garage for Frankie to get you,” said Ina. “He’s coming to fetch me anyway – just add it to my pay – he charges less than a cabdriver anyhow. Would you like to pick up the babby?”


    “Yes,” said Scarlet, suddenly teary. “Thank you.”


    Here was the Scarlet Pom couldn’t know, the kind of desperate idiot who needed a cleaning woman to solve all her problems. If she’d been able to think she could have laid in some grocery items. As it was, all she was showing up with for was a pile of expensive, useless, yet-to-be-paid for clothes.


    No wonder Frankie dubbed his flivver a “gypsy cab” – the aging Singer looked held together by string. But he was certainly obliging – even willing to stop for bread, milk, ham, green beans and tomatoes. And when Scarlet was reunited with her “babby” the world magically righted itself. Nick had been at Mrs. Mugle’s, naturally, the center of a group of admiring ladies. He had just been fed and smelled powerfully of Amazing Baby Ointment. We’ll never be parted again, thought Scarlet fiercely, hugging him to her chest. But she thanked Mrs. Mugle as politely as she could. For a wonder, Mrs. Mugle disclaimed payment.


    “It’s a joy to touch a sweet baby like he is,” she said, her whole face shining. How could anyone muster hostility against such a woman? Scarlet’s heart melted and she had the grace to realize that her unwillingness to allow another woman to “mark” her child was nothing more than atavistic jealousy. She herself would always possess the powerful priority of motherhood. No one could take that away.


    “Shall Fern come up at three o’clock?” Mrs. Mugle inquired. “The library switched her to the mornings.”


    Gritting her teeth, Scarlet agreed. It reminded her that the Fern situation was temporary – whenever the library gave her extra hours she’d drop baby-minding like a shot. Scarlet actually preferred Mrs. Mugle’s attitude. But beggars can’t be choosers and delivering her baby to a house eight miles away so that she could write in her tower made little sense.


    As for Frankie, after he’d unloaded patiently at Wyvern House she gave him all the rest of her cash as a tip.


    “And there’s more coming through Ida’s cheque,” she promised. She showed him her empty coin purse. It occurred to her – too late of course, the way every other insight seemed to come – that she could have cashed a cheque at the hotel. She’d skulked out of there like a street drab from an assignation.


    But Frankie was cheery. As she took down the garage phone number he offered, “Everyone spends all their cash in town. That’s what towns are for is what I figure.”
    Her heart warmed to him. She wrote Ida a cheque. Thank God for the glorious English invention of the “overdraft.”


    Now she must confront her enormous exhaustion at the mere sight of her own home. From a tiny three-room flat she and Ian had been acquiring real estate in a frenzy – there was no way they could actually take care of all they possessed. Where was Ian now? Gone! Where was Ian planning to be? Gone!


    It was just so crazy Scarlet dreaded trying to explain it to her sister in one of her long, newsy letters home. Better wait to see how it played out. The approaching confrontation would go better if she were calmer. She heated a can of soup and made herself a sandwich. While she ate the high and low points of her London trip danced through her memory in a blur, seemingly as if they’d occurred to someone else, or were part of the film she’d seen. The food helped her feel better.

    Now she felt silly and sad as she put her new clothes away. What need had she for party gear in her new life? She tried imagining Ian contrite and promising fidelity: would she even believe him?
    She was grateful to be rescued from her thoughts when Nick awoke, hungry. She was even able to produce milk for him. She relaxed into his body as he melted into hers.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 21. Voyeurs

    So that’s where they went. She felt relieved that he didn’t suggest that they could have coffee just as well at his place; this was all coming at her too fast as it was. They sat in the window looking out on the darkened street. He chose espresso. For her it would always be “café americaine.”


    “I liked that man’s helplessness,” she said finally. “It’s the exact opposite of every other movie.”


    “Well, he has to trust his girlfriend to do what he can’t do.”


    “Trust her not to get herself killed, you mean? They share an unbearable curiosity. Audere scire, that’s my real motto. Dare to know.”


    “What a perfect phrase! Family?”


    “Hardly,” said Pom. “I think they chose some scrap of boilerplate that meant “Toady like your life depends on it.” Picturing a toad rampant.”


    She laughed until his tense face relaxed.


    “The camera’s like the wheelchair, in a way,” she suggested.


    “How do you mean?”


    “Well, he’s at one remove from the action. At a distance, always.”


    “A voyeur, you mean,” agreed Pom. “That’s what they say about Hitchcock, that he turns us all into voyeurs.”


    ‘And he wants us to be both intrigued and ashamed.”


    “I suppose our hero was so eager to find out if he was right about his neighbor being a killer that he didn’t mind putting Grace Kelly in harm’s way,” Pom suggested. “Pretty unforgiveable, really. They needed three scriptwriters to figure a way out.”


    “She was brave, I thought. She really went in without his permission.”


    “But knowing she was doing what he wanted.”


    “He’s still helpless at the end,” said Scarlet. “Breaking the other leg.”


    “He needs a special manager,” Pom agreed.


    “And then Hitchcock makes fun of our happy ending by showing she’s already bored by his life before they’re even married.”


    “Perhaps he’ll realize he must always find – and film – mysteries that keep her interested. Apparently Hitchcock’s real wife always wrote his screen treatments. He thought in pictures, working the film out in storyboards and then she’d write the first script.”


    “What a perfect combination of skills,” said Scarlet. Like our movie tonight – he’ll be curious about the neighbors and she’ll investigate, and that’s what happily ever after is.”


    “For their sake I hope so,” said Pom. A little sadly.


    Scarlet realized with a start that Pom must always be looking from his lonely life into the brightly lit windows of others’ married bargains. But she couldn’t think of any polite way to broach the subject.


    Pom drained his espresso, then effortlessly became very personal indeed. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”


    She panicked as she realized two things – both that it was possible to have too good evening and secondly that she needed to put a stop to this very agreeable fantasy right now.


    “I want to thank you for such a pleasant evening,” she began formally.


    “Oh no…” he supplied. “I can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.”


    Could she explain, “I’m especially vulnerable right now -“ no, that was a mistake. Putting poor Pom in the wrong. Best come clean. “Ian and I have been having trouble.”


    “I hope it’s not the house. I’m afraid I’ve sold you a permanently sinking ship.”


    “No. No.” In a way it was, but nothing specific to Pom’s estate. She had assumed the “trigger” was her pregnancy but maybe the truth was even worse. Had Ian always been mistress as well as house shopping? “It’s his – attitude. As a country gentleman.”


    “I begin to see,” Pom supplied. “The “girlfriend” thing?”


    “Yes. He’s separating himself from us, as if he’s fulfilling some kind of ancient pattern that I thought we’d both rejected. It closes him off to me and to the baby.” Really, this conversation was getting too intimate. It proved that she was desperate for a friend. But could Pom – could any man, much less an Englishman – ever be that?


    “Tell me,” she hazarded, “When English men go shopping for a country house are they really looking for an excuse to be unfaithful?”


    She was trying to lighten the desperate moment but Pom gave the comment deep consideration.
    “I suppose so,” he said finally. “It’s the nest thing. You’re asking, does “nest” mean “harem” to an Englishman?”


    “Am I?” She felt stunned. She gave a gasping, nervous laugh but neither that nor her stricken face intimidated him.


    “I’m imagining things I haven’t experienced,” he went on. “That’s my voyeurism for you right there. It’s been my perpetual difficulty because I’ve always been considered such an odd duck. Ian blocks you off so you open yourself up to me and I don’t want that to stop because I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before, something that I’d given up expecting to ever feel – something I assumed would always be impossible for me.”


    Blood flooded her face; she couldn’t speak. She was grateful for his calm. Was this something adults who’d just met could discuss? He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. “I put a curse on you by selling you that house. Sadly, you can’t have the money back.”


    She hadn’t been able to lighten the moment but he certainly could. She laughed to the point of tears.


    “In America, we call that “no backsies”, she said.


    “No backsies,” he agreed. “I’ve spent most of it anyway.”


    When she raised her eyebrows – he shared, “Debts. I bought an annuity with the rest. Keep a little money coming in.”


    So he was careful! A cautious, forward planning man. Ian was the one equating masculinity with carelessness, Ian, who enjoyed recklessness for its own sake. To such a man, thoughtful Pom seemed a “poofter.”


    Pom said, “So what are your plans, if I may ask?”


    “I’m going to confront him with what I’ve found,” she allowed. “We have to start telling each other the truth. So really it’s about what HE will do.”


    “Or?”


    She pulled away. He was too persistent.


    “There is no “or.”


    “I’ve got a lot riding on it,” he admitted.


    Once again, she was wrong. Pom was, in his own way, a reckless man.


    “I can’t go that far. Yet.”


    Truthfully, she had imagined so many possible scenarios. She wanted to pray, to hope, even to pretend. Anything rather than dwell upon the ugly possibilities. She knew she couldn’t live with a liar and continue to seek the truth in art. One of those devotions must be sacrificed. She had never imagined Pom stepping in to fill her husband’s place.


    He squeezed her hand. “Keep in contact,” he said. He stood up over their empty coffee cups.
    Their ride to the hotel was silent. She wondered if his mind was as busy as hers. He seemed to concentrate on the route.


    “Don’t come up,” she said at the hotel. “I can only repeat what a wonderful time I’ve had.”
    “Are you going back tomorrow?”


    She nodded. “First train.”


    “I’m driving down tomorrow night and I can give you a lift if you can wait.”


    She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Nick for an extra moment.


    “You won’t cut me off?” he requested anxiously.


    She was touched – a little scared – to have so much power over this wonderful man so recently encountered.


    “Of course not.”


    In the elevator, she reflected on the oddness of their exchange. What kind of man made overtures to a woman who had just borne a baby to another man? It made him sound so awful. She heard herself trying to explain to anybody – India perhaps – that he “wasn’t like that”. But where honesty and directness stopped and fantasy took over in either of their hearts and minds she really couldn’t say. She didn’t know him that well, and it was beginning to seem like she didn’t know herself either.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 19. Acquisitions

    “I’m certain you’ll like this one,” said Jane as both women drove in Jane’s Ford Anglia toward Hampstead Heath, “No garden but such a view! It’s a second floor maisonette – two whole floors with a bit of a balcony. Lots of room, considering it’s a London flat. Be honest if you take against it – I’ve got four other possibilities – it’s just that this is the one with the most space.”
    The yellow stone-faced outside bore a plaque honoring the building – or at least the location – as one of William Blake’s London residences.


    “Promising augury for poets,” said Scarlet, resolved to love the place and get this over with.
    “Of course!” agreed Jane, who clearly had never noticed the plaque before. Possibly a disorganized, half-crazed ancient mystic was not the type her usual clientele yearned to emulate. “So, you write, too?”


    “I’ve been a bit absorbed in the baby,” said Scarlet. “But I have hopes.”


    The entrance was cramped and unphotogenic– obstructed as it was by dustbins – and the narrow staircase was clearly impossible for prams.


    “Furniture comes in through the windows,” said Jane, and when Scarlet commented, “Like Holland” she agreed, “As you say.”


    Jane was too agreeable – it was beginning to make Scarlet’s skin crawl. What would Jane would say if a male client asked to squeeze her knockers? “As you say?” Or is that just my cynicism, Scarlet wondered. Have my husband’s predilections ruined my temperament?


    After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped into a lovely, light filled flat, large as promised, with a full bathroom on each floor. Scarlet wanted it at once. The kitchen was miniature with the usual unacceptable Stone Age English appliances – but there was a bedroom off it – “Servant quarters” according to Jane – which would do for an au pair. Scarlet fantasized that if you got rid of the huge Victorian bathtub and installed a shower instead the downstairs bath could contain a modern washing machine. Three large reception rooms, and upstairs three big-windowed bedrooms. Off the largest bedroom was a tiny balcony with room only for a pair of chairs but with a glorious view all across London.


    “We’ll take it,” said Scarlet and Jane crowed with satisfaction, “I thought you might.”
    There was nothing to sign and no mention of money.


    “We need Margalo to negotiate with the builders,” said Jane, “She’ll tell them what’s what. I’ll give her the green light, shall I?”


    “How lovely,” sighed Scarlet. Was this what spending was like for rich people? Minions took care of all details, while your sole obligation was to consult your pleasure.
    “Shall I drop you at your hotel?” queried Jane.


    “No,” said Scarlet. “Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers.” She couldn’t say, “I have a date.” And after all, wasn’t shopping what ladies were expected to do when they came up from the country? Scarlet needed London clothes for her new London life.


    “I can find it,” Jane said confidently.


    Two suits, two cocktail dresses, a long black velvet skirt and a brocade gold top were what Montcalm Clothiers’ fashion wizard Stella told Scarlet she would require, and Scarlet quite agreed. Two tweed suits – for town and country – thrown into the bargain. Scarlet sat on a miniature Louis Quinze sofa, accepted a cup of weak China tea (no milk, sugar or lemon) and watched a parade of garments. The dark blue chiffon cocktail dress made her heart beat fast but, “I don’t think I have a waist yet,” she sighed.


    “Nonsense,” said Stella brusquely, “Where would any of us be without our corsets?” And she produced a buff and black merry widow complete with stocking suspenders. “Give it a try.”
    It worked.


    Stella said, “We don’t sell proper jewelry here, just a few outfit-finishing costume pieces but nothing better instructs a man what to give for Christmas and birthday when he contemplates the shortcomings of your jewel box.”


    So that’s how it’s done, thought Scarlet. Clever girls!


    A brooch, a necklace and a wonderful pair of dangly jet earrings were consequently chosen.

    Scarlet felt most important. No mention of Margalo here – but merely – “Would you like to open an account? We need a few items of personal information.”


    These included references. Scarlet gave Margalo and both the London and Oakhampton bank managers.


    “Shall we bill the country or town home?” Stella was good. She was almost as good as Jane but, because she was older and consequently wore a lot more makeup the tension lines around her lips gave her away.


    “The town home,” said Scarlet, “We’re not moving into the London flat till February 1st.”
    Stella’s face relaxed and she purred like a kitten as she took down the address. “Wyvern House” did sound quite chi-chi.


    “Shall I send these along to your hotel?”


    “Will there be delivery by five?” asked Scarlet and when reassured, gave her address. Mentioning the Cumberland seemed to seal – not queer – the deal.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – In the Mews

    It was a mews flat – small and tucked away above a car barn.


    “You can’t seem to get away from the auto motif,” was Scarlet’s comment as she climbed the steep stairs.


    “I do keep my vehicle downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s right handy.”


    It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.


    “Looks like the only wine available is burgundy,” he said as he uncorked it. “I was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.”


    Scarlet readily accepted a glass. “You cook?”


    “I’m taking a cookery class. Let’s say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, I’d like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?”


    She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs – well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.


    “I can’t bear comments before I’m ready,” he said. “I’m sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.”


    He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.


    She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color – these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.


    “It’s like… an eye.”


    “Yes. Reflections.”


    He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasn’t sure she liked them so she didn’t know what to say.


    “I know,” he said. “My abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husband’s money – your money – has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. I’ve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so I’m attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. I’m playing with – not needing beauty. With … whatever’s the opposite of beauty.”


    “They’re scary,” she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation.
    He zipped up the portfolio. “I’ll accept that,” he agreed. “Life has a decidedly dark side.”


    “Doesn’t it,” she agreed. “When did you…evolve?”


    “Truthfully, you had something to do with it.”


    Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.


    “Lady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,” he said softly. “You’ve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.”


    She quivered. She couldn’t face it – turned to flee.


    “I don’t know what’s happening,” she said when he grabbed her shoulders.


    “I find it’s best to wait storms out,” he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. “Then assess the damage. If you’re staying in town, there’s a Hitchcock movie I’d like to see again.”


    “Really? Which one?”


    “Rear Window.”


    “Haven’t seen it.”


    “Then you should. What’s your favorite meal?”


    “Shrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?”


    “I most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.”


    “As long,” she said, “As the car doesn’t run you.”


    “Touché.” They smiled at each other, relaxed into complete understanding. Somehow the dreadful moment had been averted. She wants…she doesn’t want… how could Scarlet explain herself to herself, let alone anyone else?


    “Now let’s see – where’s this estate agent?” He studied the card. “That’s almost Kensal Green. Let’s check you into the hotel and then I’ll run you over.”


    She didn’t argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.


    Why was she so completely certain “everything would work out?” The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend – that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?


    She stepped thoughtfully into Pom’s 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.


    “Do I get goggles with this thing?” she queried.


    Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.


    The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room.
    “I’m not tipping you,” she said.


    “Yes, you are,” he insisted. “By coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six o’clock?”


    Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldn’t be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.


    She was ten minutes late to the estate agent’s, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents don’t care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ian’s eyes.

    Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?