Alysse Aallyn

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  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 41. Candi’s Game

    Dr. Spock’s Commonsense Book of Baby and Childcare was in the Medical section. She was immersed in its pages, reading almost in a state of bliss the doctor’s opinion that mothers were always the best judges and should “follow their instincts” – God Bless America! – when her elbow was roughly grabbed, and she was jerked around face to face with Candi Pourfoyle.


    Candi looked terrible. She seemed to have given up the Cleopatra eye makeup, instead wearing peculiar white eyeliner and white lipstick that only made her sleepless face look bonier – positively skeletal.


    Her voice was rough as she pulled Scarlet closer.


    “Why don’t you just give him up?”


    Scarlet studied her pityingly. “I have given him up.”’


    “Then divorce him.” There was a definite note of desperation in Candi’s voice now as she scrabbled for a tissue in her bag. Scarlet saw pill bottles.


    “I AM divorcing him,” said Scarlet, “You must speak to Ian. He’s the one who doesn’t want a divorce.”


    Candi’s face collapsed before this terrible truth. She smeared her makeup with the tissue as she dabbled at her eyes. This was a far cry from the confident seductress who’d visited Wyvern a few short weeks before. Was this what Ian did to women? Or was this what Ian so, so subtly suggested women should do to themselves?


    Scarlet pulled away from this depressing spectre, fearing that she herself had looked like this, only days ago.


    “He says he can’t divorce you,” gasped Candi. “I’m warning you, you can’t get away with that.”


    “You can stop worrying,” Scarlet told her. “Whether Ian likes it or not, we are definitely getting a divorce.”


    It’s none of my business if he lies to his girlfriend, she thought, stepping with relief into a stream of foot traffic headed for the cashier’s box. She would expect nothing less of the new Ian she had come to know. He said whatever was convenient for the moment, but made no effort to bring his lies into a consistent story. And soon she was once again free, outside in the brisk London December, clutching her parcel, signaling a cab and giving the address of her solicitor.

    Bob Thomas immediately poured her out a welcoming cup of tea, ushered her into a chair and acted as if he had all the time in the world.


    “Miss Bottomley hired me to help edit her novel series,” she told him. “I wonder whether you know that.”


    His broad face expressed confusion. “It wasn’t mentioned,” he said shortly. Scarlet was not surprised that poor Miss Bottomley had not thought to mention her authorship of a long sold series as any part of her current assets.


    “Our Miss Clew – published sixty years ago? I don’t know if you recollect the titles.”


    “Ladies novels?” His face became if anything more impassive. “I’m sorry, no.”


    Scarlet thought of David Pourfoyle’s enthusiastic recommendation, which had started her on the long path leading her to this very office, but she couldn’t explain it to Mr. Thomas. Instead, she shared with him just the facts he needed to know.


    “Let’s say they are highly regarded by the literati. Miss Bottomley was forced by pecuniary imperative to sell the series to Coltsfoot & Briggins, Publishers, forty years ago and now they are suggesting an updated re-issue. Miss Bottomley doesn’t trust them to edit the series – er – respectfully, you understand – and suggested she submit her version first, to which they agreed.
    I went to see Mr. Mountjoy yesterday and we had what I can only describe as a ghastly meeting. He showed me other series they have done – Rod the Spy if you recognize that –“ horrifyingly, his face lit up. It seemed that he did. She took a strengthening cup of tea and pressed on in spite of the fact that she feared this was about to go all wrong.


    “And I came away with no faith whatever that these publishers are going to preserve any of the wonderful charm and special interest of those books – which I may say are personally beloved by many, many people, including me.”


    Luckily, he didn’t insert a dismissive comment. His attentiveness emboldened her. She sharpened her point. “I also noticed that these particular publishers seem to be in dire need of cash.”
    Mr. Thomas said, “Most publishers are. Dicey business, publishing. They’re in the fashion business more than anything.”


    Scarlet felt cheered and suitably strengthened. “When I returned to Norfolk Crescent, I told Miss Bottomley I thought she ought to buy an equity stake in those publishers and bring out her books her own way. She was delighted with the idea.”


    At last Bob Thomas slid a memorandum pad towards himself and began taking notes.


    “Capital idea,” he said. “Miss Bottomley sorely needs a losing business. All her current rentals are bringing in money hand over fist. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I make some preliminary inquiries – sound them out so to speak to see what such a stake might cost without letting out who wants to know, and when I see Miss Bottomley tomorrow afternoon – I’m coming by tomorrow afternoon with some documents for her to sign – she can let me know how she wishes to proceed.”


    “Marvelous,” said Scarlet, rising immediately, “She’ll be so pleased. I can’t thank you enough.”


    Really, she was just grateful he hadn’t thrown her out on her ear. I mean why on earth should this solicitor discuss Miss Bottomley’s business with her?


    As she was putting on her coat Pelham D’Arcy thrust his head around his door.


    “Mrs. Wye, could you stop by for a moment?” he requested. “I’ve got something I’d like to discuss.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 40. Machinations

    That is, until she saw Ian.


    His face was all smiles. He was looking very smart and every bit the country squire in green coat and moleskin breeches. She was glad she’d taken care with her own appearance, but she couldn’t disguise her dismay at the sight of him.


    His arms moved to hug her but she refused to halt her stride and so he fell into step beside her.
    “I’ve come to pick up the car,” he began, and she cursed herself for not having thought of it.
    “It’s around back,” she told him ungraciously.


    “You don’t want a car in London,” he said, “The parking alone is a nightmare.”


    And Candi must want the car in the country, thought Scarlet, but she managed to say nothing.
    Ian fell openmouthed at the sight of the large cobblestoned back court of Miss Bottomley’s residence. Parking was clearly no problem.


    “You’ve certainly fallen on your feet,” he murmured. There was enough room for ten cars.


    “You’re right,” she said, unlocking the car, “I don’t want a car in London.”


    He stood awkwardly by the driver’s side.


    “I just wanted to see where you live and perhaps catch a glimpse of Nick.”


    Her heart smote her. She should have been ready for this! If she had walked through the kitchen to reach the back court instead of out of the front door she would have driven off without even seeing him! What would Enid and Miss Bottomley have done then? But it was no part of her plan to keep the child from his father.


    “I really think you need to make an appointment,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat, “While things are so awkward. Anyway, I must be on my way – I’ve got to see my lawyer.”


    She couldn’t resist this last.


    “I’ll drop you,” he said amiably.


    That would put her at the solicitor’s office far too early.


    “I have to go to Foyle’s first,” she admitted so he said, “Get in. I’ll take you.” Mr. Bossy or Mr. Agreeable? She couldn’t be sure, because she no longer trusted him.


    Into the silence he injected, “You’re looking well.”


    “I’m feeling well,” she lied after her sleepless night. But she appreciated the compliment. I’m as starved as Miss Bottomley, in my own way, she thought. Lots of deprivation and loneliness going round.


    “So…are you all moved in?” He made conversation.


    “It was furnished,” she responded.


    “And probably pretty well judging by the neighborhood.” He whistled. “How’s the editing job?”


    She tried not to laugh. “It’s quite involving. Exciting and unexpected.”


    He seemed amazed she’d acquired anything but drudge work.


    “And the old lady? How’s she holding up?”


    “I got someone to look after her,” said Scarlet, struggling not to sound smug but feeling it. Would he ask about the nanny? I mean, here she was, so SOMEONE must be looking after Nick. Did he understand? Did he care?


    Apparently not. He evidently thought a house of old ladies and old lady minders could look after an infant. I despise this man, thought Scarlet a bit angrily. I actively despise him!


    “Well, I’m moving into the BBC flat,” he said. “It’s dreadfully big for me.”


    Should she remind him he needed a room for Nick and possibly for a nanny as well? She should ask Enid if she’d consider staying with Nick elsewhere. Would Nick be swarmed instead by Ian’s girlfriends – Scarlet felt certain that to the extent he thought about it at all, THAT was his plan, to fob Nick off on a series of impressionable girls. That wouldn’t do at all, but she knew Pelham would want her to say nothing. But there was SO MUCH she wanted to say! About his detective, for example! Trying to horn his way into Miss Bottomley’s! But she realized there was no point – he’d disavow knowledge, certainly. Anyway, why question a committed liar?


    “Would you like to…help furnish the place?” He asked this respectfully, almost shyly. “I could use your assistance.”


    Scarlet stared at him. He’d had plenty of ideas about Wyvern House! So why the sudden dearth – the need for her help and intervention now?


    She experienced an unnerving thrill of power. Was that his goal? Or was he admiring her, courting her even, for refusing to lie down and accept ill treatment?


    She hadn’t considered this possibility – that once she no longer wanted him he would want her again – but she realized she should have. It had been true of all her boyfriends in the past. Probably some quirk of the male character – they always wanted to be the one to walk away.
    “I’ll help you do Nick’s room,” she offered.


    He pulled up to Foyle’s while traffic flowed around them. “This is fine,” she said, and jumped out of the car before he could argue. Parking really was a nightmare around Foyle’s – buses were everywhere. Once through the glass revolving door she watched him grinding gears as he swept into the roundabout. She wanted to make certain he was really gone.


    And then she saw a redhead step out of a cab – a strawberry in sunglasses – surely that wasn’t Candi? It looked like her! She pulled away from the glass as if fearful of contamination.

  • 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 38. A Chat With a Publisher

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


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


    “We have both,” said Scarlet.


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


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


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


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


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


    Enid was suitably impressed by her quarters.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Her pushed the book at her and opened his datebook.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 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 34. The Detective

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


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


    “Fish fingers?” Pom questioned.


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


    “I don’t have a freezer.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Pom kept an admirably straight face during this disclosure.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    “Meet Ceawlain,” Scarlet explained.


    “Sue-Allen?”


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


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


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


    Scarlet and Pom stared at each other, appalled.


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


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


    And she displayed these items for their inspection.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    “Did he give up?”


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


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


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


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


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


    “Me?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Pom refused to shake off his anxiety.


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


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


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


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


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


    “Sounds like a threat!” gasped Scarlet.


    Nick’s cry made them all jump.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 33. Miss Austen Entertains

    There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood!

    With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking.


    “I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.”


    “Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.”


    “I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet.


    “I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.”


    They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture.


    “Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?”


    “She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.”


    Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.”


    “Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.”


    “I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.”


    “The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.”


    “That’s just what my husband said.”


    Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.”


    “You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.”


    Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side.


    “I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?”


    “Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.”


    “Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.”


    “I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand.


    “Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.”


    “You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor.


    “I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.”


    Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf.


    “Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.”


    “And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.”


    Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said.


    “I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.”


    It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot.


    “Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked,
    “I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.”


    Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.”


    “And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”


    When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 32. High Tea

    While feeding Nicholas in the “ladies’ retiring room” Scarlet read in the available pamphlet all about the antique pub. “Lady Catherine’s Garden” was named after a character in Pride & Prejudice and was originally built by a fan of Jane Austen’s work. Chawton, the author’s last home, was situated nearby. Today the weather was too cold to sit in the garden but the glass tearoom built almost to the river’s edge offered a suitable summer illusion of swans and willows. From his collapsible stroller, an alert and cleaned up Nicholas seemed riveted by the sunlight playing on the tile floor.


    “It’s just good pub food,” Pom apologized in advance, “Though of course some people say that’s the best English cooking. But look at this view!”


    Scarlet looked. A snow-free water meadow spread out endlessly before them.


    “Seems like it’s always spring around here,” she agreed.


    They ordered tea and ham salad sandwiches. The waitress was very young and did not recognize Pom. He breathed a sigh of relief.


    “Well, there’s one fear that didn’t come true,” he said.


    “Tell me about the last time you visited,” Scarlet prompted.


    “Three years ago. There are charming rooms upstairs. We made use of every one of them but not – I hasten to add – on the same day.”


    “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen?”


    “Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy Bronfen.” He did not blub.


    “So, you thought she was a wolf and she turned out to be a dog.”


    “That’s not it. Because she was cheating on her husband I knew she was a dog. I just tried not to care.”


    “But you did care.”


    “I wanted what I wanted and I ignored every warning until finally I got a warning I couldn’t ignore.”
    “Was it a “shop closed” sign?”


    “Oh no. She was willing to continue after her wedding – which, by the way, she invited me to. I don’t know what I would have said during the, “Speak now or forever hold your peace” part, because I didn’t go.”


    ‘Did you try talking her out of it?”


    “Oh, yes. She tried completely humorlessly to clue me in on the deadly importance of cash and titles.”


    “Sounds like she’s some kind of third animal in your bestiary. The sharing kind? Or the devious kind? Maybe a cuckoo?”


    “She certainly took me for a cuckoo. She offered possibilities like the plot of a Henry James novel. “He can’t last forever! We could enjoy his money together.”


    “Those novels always end badly,” she agreed, feeling illiterate in Pom’s presence. Which James novel could he be referring to? The Golden Bowl?


    “I can’t rid myself of the idea that I should have warned the poor old thing,” Pom said seriously.


    “The Catholic peer? Surely not.”


    “But what if he ends up dead? What if she gets her next teddy boy to kill him?”


    “Oh, Pom! I’m starting to appreciate your interest in Hitchcock. But do people really do those things?”


    “Yes, Scarlet,” he said seriously. “They do. I actually don’t know of a single aristocratic family without a murder in its history.”


    “Good God!” Why was she surprised? Miss Clew wouldn’t have been! She brought herself into the conversation. “Very Turn of the Screw. Reminiscent of my situation, that temptation. Why couldn’t having a castle and a flat in town compensate me for losing my husband’s fidelity?”


    “Oh, Scarlet, you American girl,” he said it admiringly. She felt a gush of gratitude. Was this the first time in England that “being American” hadn’t seemed a social liability?


    “How much were you actually tempted?” she asked him.


    “I’ll never know. I might have considered it if she hadn’t started going on about how much she “loved’ me. It was the first time she’d ever used that word.”


    “Traitor!”


    “Exactly how I felt. Stomped away in a wounded huff. That sort of thing.”


    “Haven’t contacted her since?”


    “I have not.”


    “And she?”


    “Total silence. I’m sure she replaced me. I did read about Her Ladyship’s wedding in Country Life. Couldn’t resist that.”


    “I can see it would be difficult.”


    Their food arrived.


    “In the spring they have watercress,” sighed Pom nostalgically.


    “This looks nice.”


    Nicholas’ eyes had drifted shut.


    “They’re very easy at this age.” said Pom.


    “He’s being particularly good today. I’ve heard they like traveling in cars. It’s the motion.”


    “So,” said Pom, “Now you owe me a story. You’re really going to have to tell me about how you and Ian met.”


    How long ago it seemed! Four whole years. How different she felt now from that long-ago girl.
    “I too ignored all the warnings. Ian was considered the prize at Oxford, a real heartbreaker.”


    “But you thought you’d be different.”


    “He told me I’d be different. And then he married me so I thought I must be. I was so proud of having bagged him.”


    “One does tend to think in these big-game metaphors.”


    “It would be good to get over that,” she reflected. “And stop trying to “capture” people. It turned out he assumed I came from a rich family!”


    “Brits think all Americans are rich.”


    “It must be because we try to pretend we are. Everything new. We call it, Keeping up With the Joneses.”


    “There’s another thing we all have to get over,” agreed Pom. “This competitive furor.”
    “We call it the capitalist fervor.”


    “Obviously that has to go!” agreed Pom. They both laughed. Pom went on, “This is exactly why friendship is so important. Why I’m willing – I hope this won’t embarrass you – to wait for you.”
    It did embarrass her. She blushed the color of her name.


    Pom went on smoothly, “You know, I never had any female friends at college. Coming out of an all boys’ school of course it’s different. Girls seem so exotic. Did you and Ian share a tutor? Or did he see you from afar and think – rare species? I’m sure the big game metaphor operates here as well.”


    “I doubt it. He made me work for it. We shared editorship of a student literary publication – lasted a mere three issues – the St. Euphrosyne Review.”


    “Good Lord! There was a Saint Euphrosyne?”


    “It’s a bad joke. I think the joke was on us female students – apparently St Euphrosyne disguised herself as a man to become a monk. That’s the legend.”


    “Irksome.”


    “I’ll say. We Americans don’t put up with that sort of thing. We’re coeducational all the way. I was always wrestling with Ian to get him to respect my poetry – we just didn’t have the same taste. He really felt “female poet” was a contradiction in terms.”


    “But suddenly he stopped wrestling?”


    “Suddenly he let me win. I should have known.”


    “I’m sure he was in love.”


    “As much as he could be, I think, which isn’t enough, I’m afraid.”


    “They do say people can only respond to another’s depth to the extent of their own.”


    “Meaning there’s a lot of shallow people in the world.”


    They smiled at each other.


    The sandwiches were delicious. Scarlet produced the advertising brochure she’d been reading.


    “Know what it says here?”


    “Remind me.”


    “Jane Austen’s house is nearby and I’ve never been.”


    “Must you arrive in London at any specific time?”


    “No. How about you?”


    “Never anyone to please but myself.”


    “What a fortunate state of affairs!”


    “It has its highs and its lows. Shall we go then?”


    “Do let’s.”