Chapter 13 #2
He takes another sip. “Now, enough about my books, I want to hear more of your story—not the fantastic Heathcliff Saga, but you. 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. “And that is 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.
“What does a typical writing day look like for you, August?”
“It’s really quite dull.”
“You live in Bedford Gardens and take breaks at the British Museum. That hardly sounds dull.”
“But you see, it really is. I get up. I drink loads of coffee and sit in my study and think about murderers and people who
solve murders and then I write about murders and people who solve murders. I take breaks, walk around the museum. Or I sit
in here. I usually teach at least one writing class a year as a guest lecturer at the University of London, where the girls
write I love you on their eyelids like they do for Indiana Jones in that god-awful American film you all love. I love what I do. It’s just everything that happens in my head is so much more bloody interesting
than what happens in my real life.”
Even amid my Irish whiskey buzz, I’m a little miffed that his writing day looks so very different from mine. I don’t have
time to meander around museums when the writer’s block hits. It’s hard enough to wrangle Heathcliff into his school clothes
and not murder Bill Rhodes at faculty meetings.
August sighs, raps his knuckles quickly on the coffee table in front of us. “I suppose you could say I’m chronically bored.”
“Boring isn’t bad. I’d give anything to have my happily boring life back,” I mutter, my tone darker than I intend.
“Right,” he replies carefully.
I shift in my seat. “Do they really write I love you on their eyelids?”
“No, but they do leave their numbers on their papers.”
He looks over the jet and fingerprint necklaces. “So what happens if you take it all off?”
A blush burns like a flame on my cheeks.
“I mean the necklaces, the . . . the sad trinkets.”
Why does everything he says sound so goddamn sexy?
Then August’s actual question sinks in.
What would I do if I stopped wearing black, took off the jet locket?
The vapors hit hard, like a corset squeezing my chest.
My ears ring.
Ribs compressing, I can’t breathe.
I’m about to fall into a void.
“I’m sorry . . .” August says suddenly. “I’m so sorry.”
I take deep belly breaths, something my mom taught me to do once when I fell and got the wind knocked out of me. I remember
Chloe’s instructions on breaths.
“Forget it, Elizabeth. Let’s talk instead about my great-great-great-uncle Albert. Ran an opium den in Shoreditch with a wooden
leg. Interesting chap. He . . .”
With each breath, the corset loosens. I gradually pull myself away from the void and listen to August’s story. My breathing
and heartbeat slow until I’m rooted again. August is a great storyteller. After his tale, I share my much more mundane family
history—Midwest farmers descended from rather severe Swiss nonconformists—and eventually forget that terrifying moment a bit
earlier.
After we finish our drinks, he signs Ms. Fernsby’s book for me.
“Obligatory author photo selfie?” he suggests, smiling rakishly as he pulls out his phone.
And then before I know it, I’m leaning into him as he snaps our picture.
August insists on paying and escorting me back to the row house. I protest as we step out onto Regent Street, but he won’t
listen.
“Now, I’d be a bloody bad chap if I don’t see you back.”
I can’t argue with that. Admittedly, I’m a little tipsy after the drinks.
We talk easily and freely on the way back. Even if I weren’t attracted to him, I’m sure we’d be friends.
He doesn’t seem keen to leave me when we get to the front door.
“Quaint house,” he says, admiring Ms. Fernsby’s roses. “It’s very storybook-ish.”
We linger for a minute at the front door. The sunshine, roses, lingering whiskey, and August make me forget that I’m supposed
to be sad now. My widow’s jewelry works for me about as well as Heather’s purity ring worked for her. Drat.
“Shall we do this a second time? Can you endure me again?” he asks.
“Maybe. You do know, though, that I’m only here for a few weeks.”
“Let’s just worry about the time you’re here, shall we?”
@ADHemmings *Lizzie and August’s selfie*:
Drinks with the lovely @LizzieWells at Café Royal. Plotting and general debauchery.