coat with a sturdy navy wool skirt rippling out, was the unmistakable swish and swing of a most singular bottom.
As Molly Muffin, no other, registered there for the night, Stuart nearly dropped his newspaper. But didn’t. Instead, he watched, holding his Monday Times up just enough to stare around its edge. He watched her shed her coat in the warm lobby, then bend over the registry book, her glorious backside outlined in a navy skirt that ended upward in a striped blouse. Beneath the skirt, even more out of character, she was wearing boots. Large, gum rubber boots so oversized for her proportions they suggested they belong to someone else: a man. Which made Stuart all but rock in his seat, until he told himself her father’s . They belonged to her blind, lame, deaf father.
When her perfect backside swiveled around and made its way toward the stairs—he would be galled later to remember—he actually had to still the impulse to rush after her. Or atleast rush up to the concierge and find out if there were a place, anywhere, that had flowers this time of year in the country, a hothouse. Send that woman six dozen something-or-others that smell…that smell at least as good as clover.
Even as a frown descended deeply into his brow, as the print blurred before his eyes, one part of his imagination could still see huge, surprising bouquets of hothouse roses or forced tulips or lilies or fragrant narcissus or all of them. A card with his name. An invitation to dinner, since—what a coincidence!—they were staying at the very same hotel. He would approach her again, this time with more flourish. Your humble servant , bowing his head, removing his hat. Yes, you’re welcome for the whatever-they-turned-out-to-be flowers. Yes, yes, so beautiful, so unusual in winter, lovely gesture. So perhaps dinner—
Stuart’s daydream stopped here, because his frown had deepened to the point of crimping his face till the blood beat in his cheeks. Anger, such anger rose up as he considered the possibility:
Why was the woman who had been taking dictation at the bank in York—where his fifty-six pounds had disappeared, where she had done the double entry bookkeeping for the day—why was she suddenly here exactly in the strange little village where the cheque had turned up? What kind of a coincidence was this?
He remembered the baffling, papered-over window of her reputed employer.
He remembered, before that, standing in the street, while wondering what on God’s earth else she might have thought he’d wanted from her. Then her relief when she’d realized: only sexual favors.
Though, alas, now another possibility for her befuddlement materialized: guilt. Fear.
And for good reason. She was right to worry.
Stuart tried to squelch his fury, tried to imagine a rational explanation: Why would a total stranger, a woman—if she had, though he kept telling himself, surely it was a mistake, but still, if she had—why take him for such a paltry amount? He could think of nothing, no reason. All that would come to mind were the many punitive measures with regard to this woman that would make him feel much better about the whole situation. My God, he thought, if she had manipulated him and his already terribly tangled finances…
He sent a note to his own messenger stationed at the bank. It read:
If a woman comes to draw on the account, tell her the money will be ready the following morning. Delay her, then report to me. Tell the bank they may give her the money when she returns for it tomorrow. I emphasize: In the instance that a female arrives to make the withdrawal, do not go to the sheriff without speaking to me first.
Chapter 4
There is in human nature, generally, more of the fool than of the wise, and therefore those faculties, by which the foolish part of men’s minds is taken, are most potent. Wonderful like is the case of boldness…a child of ignorance and baseness…[which] nevertheless doth fascinate, and bind hand and foot,
As Molly Muffin, no other, registered there for the night, Stuart nearly dropped his newspaper. But didn’t. Instead, he watched, holding his Monday Times up just enough to stare around its edge. He watched her shed her coat in the warm lobby, then bend over the registry book, her glorious backside outlined in a navy skirt that ended upward in a striped blouse. Beneath the skirt, even more out of character, she was wearing boots. Large, gum rubber boots so oversized for her proportions they suggested they belong to someone else: a man. Which made Stuart all but rock in his seat, until he told himself her father’s . They belonged to her blind, lame, deaf father.
When her perfect backside swiveled around and made its way toward the stairs—he would be galled later to remember—he actually had to still the impulse to rush after her. Or atleast rush up to the concierge and find out if there were a place, anywhere, that had flowers this time of year in the country, a hothouse. Send that woman six dozen something-or-others that smell…that smell at least as good as clover.
Even as a frown descended deeply into his brow, as the print blurred before his eyes, one part of his imagination could still see huge, surprising bouquets of hothouse roses or forced tulips or lilies or fragrant narcissus or all of them. A card with his name. An invitation to dinner, since—what a coincidence!—they were staying at the very same hotel. He would approach her again, this time with more flourish. Your humble servant , bowing his head, removing his hat. Yes, you’re welcome for the whatever-they-turned-out-to-be flowers. Yes, yes, so beautiful, so unusual in winter, lovely gesture. So perhaps dinner—
Stuart’s daydream stopped here, because his frown had deepened to the point of crimping his face till the blood beat in his cheeks. Anger, such anger rose up as he considered the possibility:
Why was the woman who had been taking dictation at the bank in York—where his fifty-six pounds had disappeared, where she had done the double entry bookkeeping for the day—why was she suddenly here exactly in the strange little village where the cheque had turned up? What kind of a coincidence was this?
He remembered the baffling, papered-over window of her reputed employer.
He remembered, before that, standing in the street, while wondering what on God’s earth else she might have thought he’d wanted from her. Then her relief when she’d realized: only sexual favors.
Though, alas, now another possibility for her befuddlement materialized: guilt. Fear.
And for good reason. She was right to worry.
Stuart tried to squelch his fury, tried to imagine a rational explanation: Why would a total stranger, a woman—if she had, though he kept telling himself, surely it was a mistake, but still, if she had—why take him for such a paltry amount? He could think of nothing, no reason. All that would come to mind were the many punitive measures with regard to this woman that would make him feel much better about the whole situation. My God, he thought, if she had manipulated him and his already terribly tangled finances…
He sent a note to his own messenger stationed at the bank. It read:
If a woman comes to draw on the account, tell her the money will be ready the following morning. Delay her, then report to me. Tell the bank they may give her the money when she returns for it tomorrow. I emphasize: In the instance that a female arrives to make the withdrawal, do not go to the sheriff without speaking to me first.
Chapter 4
There is in human nature, generally, more of the fool than of the wise, and therefore those faculties, by which the foolish part of men’s minds is taken, are most potent. Wonderful like is the case of boldness…a child of ignorance and baseness…[which] nevertheless doth fascinate, and bind hand and foot,
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