The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) (11 page)

For a moment, I thought I would faint. What with the nauseating stench of smoke from the spluttering fire, and the sudden fear that caused the blood to fairly pound in my temples. I felt weak and dizzy and it was all I could do to grope my way cautiously towards a chair.

“Well?” Jock was staring at me with a look of shock and distaste. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I…I…hardly know how to reply to such a…slanderous lie,” I managed to blurt out, my hands trembling as they clutched the offensive missive that would surely tear a wrench out of my comfortable life.

Jock went over to the mahogany sideboard that took up much of the north wall and poured himself a massive glass of whiskey.

“I’ll start inquiries immediately, of course,” he told me in a voice as chilly as the weather. And then with an unexpected touch of levity, or at least what transpired as such, added. “It’s been my experience lassie that there’s never any smoke, but there’s fire.”

As if to prove his point another blast of poisonous smelling vapors came hurling down the chimney with a vengeance.

The panic, which had been rising in my bosom ever since he had shown me the awful letter, now threatened to swamp me altogether.

That I would have to move out immediately, there was no doubt. Either that, or face years in prison as a bigamist.

Who could have done this awful thing that pealed such a death toll for my affluent situation?

I thought of Tom immediately, but dismissed the idea as rapidly. No, he would never do anything as underhanded and spiteful.

Who else knew?

That’s when the dreadful truth dawned on me. Mattie Gwyn! Who had obviously chosen not to believe me when I told her that Ned Beasley had died.

I’ll kill that treacherous little bitch, I vowed, remembering how severely I had beaten her for past transgressions. But this time, I wouldn’t be satisfied until she was truly dead.

It was in this state of mind, a case of temporary insanity no less, that I began to pack my valises and get ready to undertake a journey to who knew where.

“Where is Mattie?” I asked a timid little parlor maid who was polishing the hall table.

“I don’t know, madam,” she replied nervously. Neither did anyone else. It came as little surprise to me that the bird had flown for good, as a quick perusal of her bedchamber proved.

Well at least she saved me from becoming a murderess as well as a bigamist, I thought grimly, cursing her all the way to hell fire as I prepared myself for flight.

Traveling light, but taking all that I could find in valuables, I bundled myself into a carriage and left Jock’s mansion without a backward glance. I was making for a small hostelry in Richmond Hill, a most pleasant district some miles north of the city. In order to cover my tracks more efficiently, I changed carriages twice, en route.

Where to go from here?

I sat and ruminated in the sparsely furnished parlor, which overlooked a dreary herb garden. This was indeed a far cry from the luxury I had become used to at Jock’s. Although I had sufficient finances to tide me over for a while, they would inevitably dwindle away if I didn’t make some sort of decisive move soon.

Should I return to England? I still had relatives there who would put me up for a time at least. That way I would be safely out of reach of irate husbands such as Jock Sinclair and Ned Beasley. Yet, I had grown used to this young country with its wide-open spaces and forward-looking attitude, and would prefer to remain.

If only I could return to my beloved pacific coast. But that was strictly out of the question now. Jock’s solicitor would be sure to locate Ned Beasley and then all hell would break loose.

I felt so very alone, and the gravity of my situation weighed heavily on my unhappy spirit. The ring of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones outside reminded me for a moment on the happy hours I had spent with Tom at the Bryce Arms Hotel in Vancouver. Where, as we lay in perfect bliss in each other’s arms, the rhythmic clip-clop, clip-clop from the street below had lulled me into a state of hypnotic rapture.

The bittersweet nature of this memory combined with the utter desolation of my lonely spirit prompted me to put pen to paper and pour out all my considerable wretchedness to my one true love.

My very own dearest and most darling Tom, I began passionately, letting my emotions fairly rule my actions in one great rush of desperation and neediness.

Then having put so much trust in this one man, whom I hadn’t spent much more than a day with all combined, I awaited his reply with fluttering heart and jangled nerves.

By the time two weeks had passed, and then three, with still no word, I was in a miserable state indeed, swinging from deep melancholia to extreme anxiety in a matter of minutes.

“Tom, oh please don’t let me down, come and rescue me,” I implored, as my finances dwindled lower with each passing day.

He must have received my letter by now, I thought desperately. Why was he not replying? Could it be that he had grown tired of me and my feckless ways, and had met a love more constant and true?

Surely, even so, he would at least honor me with the courtesy of a response.

Had he moved and left no forwarding address?

However, I had put my address on the envelope, so if that were the case, the letter would have been returned to me by now.

As Tom lived with his mother and sister, it is unlikely that the whole family had moved without leaving some sort of contact information behind them.

This then is how the gloomy thoughts paraded themselves through my miserable mind, often jostling each other in their determination for prominence. “He doesn’t love you anymore,” being ousted in favor of, “He’s moved away and you’ll never see him again.”

Then on impulse, one rain spattered morning that quickly turned the roads to mud, I squelched my way down to the telegram office and send him a wire.

“Please answer immediately. Situation getting desperate. Always yours, Hannah.”

This way, I would be bound to find out one way or another what was going on in Vancouver. If the wire were undeliverable, I would be notified as to the reason.

You can imagine my distress when I was informed that it had indeed been delivered, but that the recipient had declined to reply.

Good god, what injury had I ever inflicted upon him that he saw fit to treat me so cruelly? I took to my bed and stared dumbly at the cracked plaster on the vaulted ceiling.

As it was, I cursed myself for being such a fool as to wait around this place for weeks, squandering what little capital I had, waiting for someone else to get me out of the mess that my own actions had put me in.

The time for procrastination was over, I vowed. The anger I now felt against Tom imbued me with the strength to go on.

The steely anger that April felt towards Holt for betraying her still rankled deep within. Caught up in the daily business of running Village Antiques, she had had to put it on hold and get on with things. Now they avoided each other less, and spoke politely when required. Holt was still her business partner, and she had no wish to change that.

However, April was a passionate woman and yearned for the comforts of physical love that had been denied her since the awful business of the robbery and Holt’s defection. While it was Holt’s love that she missed and most desired, her wounded pride made it impossible for her to admit this, even to herself.

It was now April’s custom, to go to and from work by bus. Thereby avoiding Holt driving her home. It was after she had been doing this for a while that she began to feel uncomfortably aware of one of the drivers.

He was athletically built with short dark hair and soulful blue eyes. His friendly manner together with a sort of wired agility of movement, drew her to him with intensity.

Good heavens this is like Hannah’s story playing out one hundred years later, she thought to herself excitedly, for she too had fallen for a handsome man who worked in public transport. I mean what were the odds? This was one helluva coincidence, quite uncanny in its similarities.

Apart from saying “Hello” and “Goodbye,” there wasn’t much opportunity on a crowded bus to cultivate any kind of meaningful rapport. However, a few blocks after April’s stop, there was a layover point where the bus remained for around ten or fifteen minutes before making its descent back down to the Quay.

On this particular day, she felt such a compulsion to be alone with the driver that she remained on the bus. Picking out her own house by its distinctive red tiled roof as they sped past it, and visualizing Spice awaiting her arrival by the door.

“Don’t you usually get off at Royal Avenue?” He turned off the engine and cut the lights on the empty bus.

“I just remembered that I left something behind…in the shop, you know,” she lied.

She had never really managed to get a good look at him before, only sidelong glances that left her tantalized and eager for more. Now as she faced him directly across the aisle of the bus, she saw that he was even better looking than she had realized.

A heady tremor of excitement rippled through her sexually frustrated body as she strived to appear normal and retain her composure.

They were talking about bus schedules and as he reached above her to rewind the destination sign, it took all of her willpower not to touch his arms. They looked so hard and inviting, yet tender and vulnerable too, below the short sleeves of the blue uniform shirt. She would also have liked to unzip the fly of his gray pants and treat him to the best head he had ever had.

Later that evening, she boarded the last bus of the night. Wrapped up against the frosty elements in a fur-trimmed black cape with hood and matching knee-high boots. Her pussy salivated with longing as she eyed the sexy bus driver.

“You’re out late tonight,” he remarked, as they waited for ten minutes at the layover point. The bus was parked high on a steep hill, with the lights of the city spread out before it like a glittering cloak.

“I felt closed in, just wanted to get out for a bit.” Her voice was husky, rife with passion. “It’s lovely here.” She could feel the wine she had drank that evening spreading warmth and courage through her trembling limbs.

He was writing on a clipboard but stopped when he heard the inflection in her voice. Turning to her and smiling with his expressive eyes, it made her insides turn to mush.

April flicked her tongue across swollen lips and was about to approach him seductively, when another passenger boarded the bus and the moment was lost.

When she got on the bus the following evening, much to her disappointment, someone else was driving. This discouraging turn of events was repeated for almost two weeks.

Was he on holiday? She wondered with a franticness bordering on mania. Or, had he been transferred to another route? While the possibility that he no longer worked for the bus company was too awful for her to even contemplate.

I have to have him, she thought desperately, the seeming impossibility of such an exciting consummation making it infinitely more desirable.

“My mother, who is very elderly, is upset because the regular driver is no longer on her bus,” she lied to the Bus Company. Cradling the receiver on her left shoulder while gently filing her nails. “He was always so helpful to her, and she misses him very much.”

Her duplicity paid off. For not only did she learn that he was indeed on vacation and would be returning the following week, but, and this was an added and quite unforeseen bonus, his name…

It was Curtis.

* * * *

April shuddered at the bus stop on a blustery December day that set the evergreens waving about like outlandish feather dusters. Would Curtis be driving the bus today, she wondered? She had not seen him in over two weeks.

A small group of equally chilly folk stomped their feet and shivered along side her with steadily mounting impatience. Complaining about the quality of public transport in the city and questioning why the buses never ran on time.

It was he.

Looking even more attractive than she had remembered, in a freshly laundered blue shirt, which accentuated the color of his eyes.

Feeling unreasonably awkward and self-conscious, she nevertheless managed a weak smile and a hastily whispered “Hi.”

He returned the greeting warmly and covered the coin box with his hand, refusing to take her fare.

”I…” she murmured rather foolishly, but by that time other passengers were shoving her from behind and she had no choice but to make her way deeper into the bus.

He didn’t take my fare, she exalted to herself during the short ride home, and when she alighted from the bus thanked him most warmly and wished him “good night” in her sultriest tones.

However, her dreams of being alone with him again at the layover point were always thwarted by other passengers on the bus.

“Damn,” she muttered aloud as this unhappy occurrence was repeated for yet another time. Well there was only one thing for it, she decided, desperation winning out over decorum. She would write her telephone number on the back of a transfer and hand it to him as she got off the bus.