“Ahhh, swimmingly. Really great. I met my deadline on the last one, and it’s full speed ahead on the new one now. As you know from readingBlood Oath, Inspector Hall tups Penny Bledsoe after getting pissed on too much gin. It was a mistake and... take care, I’m about to give you privy writer information...” He leans toward me a little, his breath smelling like the pear-and-spice-heavy whiskey we’re drinking. “If you’ve been reading the sequel,Blood Ties, you see it’s not a great love match. He stays with her for a while before learning that she’s not all that—all fur coat and no knickers—nothing close to an Irene Adler. But there’s a baby and that will all come to light inBlood Offspring,so stay tuned.”
Ahhh... good call, Ms. Fernsby!
He takes another sip. “Now, enough about my books, I want to hear more of your story—not the fantasticHeathcliff Saga, butyou. To be honest, I’m fascinated. I’ve literally never, ever been on a date with a widow. I snogged one at uni years ago. She was a bit older, and her name was Brenda... no, it was Barbara. But it wasn’t a date—she was my best friend’s mum.”
I arch my brow. “Are you really this much of a cad, or is it all smoke and mirrors?”
He puts his hand over his chest and gasps in mock-hurt then recovers and leans forward. “Elizabeth, you’ve been through a lot, and I promised you from day one I was going to get you outside of your mind while you’re here, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Cad, I am not. Free spirit, I am.”
Hmmm. I take another sip. “So, as a writer, what do you do to get outside of your mind?”
“Burlesque. I’m a burlesque dancer on the side.”
I laugh.
“Really! You should see me in a corset.” He smiles, little laugh lines crinkling around his eyes.
Whatever else he may be, August Dansworth is good company.
“But back to you. Please tell me more about you. You’ve been through so much... emotionally... enough to give you depth and you’re... so... so...”
Sexually needy.The phrase hangs in the air because it’s so cliché and true, and the whiskey makes me almost say it out loud. But I’m still not too buzzed, so I don’t.
“Tragic. And tragic women are interesting. Right?” I quip.
“Well... no, that’s not how I’d put it.”
I finish my drink in another gulp. August smirks, and motions for the server to bring us a second round of doubles.
“We widows are terribly tragic. Real downers. I met my husband, Philip, fifteen years ago while we were both students. We married quickly and had a fucking happily-ever-after. It was the real deal. Wonderful. All our friends envied us. We had our Heathcliff and then his car ran off the road during a rainstorm and it was all over.” I snap my fingers. “Just like that. He’s gone. I wear black all the time now and carry around his ashes in a bird urn.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
I stare into my second drink.
“I’m intrigued by why you do it. Why the black? Why carry around the urn?”
I see Queen Victoria in my mind, black taffeta skirt, bodice embellished with carefully arranged black grosgrain ribbons.
“Lizzie?”
“I don’t know. I guess it provides structure to my big, sad feelings.”
He nods. “Andthatis what makes you so delightful.”
“What?”
“Those big, sad feelings. That’s what I was getting at. Not that I like it that you’re sad at all. But your experience makes you more compelling to me.”
“Please don’t tell me I’m going to end up in one of your novels.”
“Oh bloody hell, yes. Chadwick needs a new love interest and I’m afraid you’re the inspector’s next affair. He’s going to be snogging the mysterious Widow Wells by the third chapter.”
I kind of like the idea of my sexier alter ego ending up in his book. Maybe she can put Chadwick Hall in his place.
