The Harlot’s Pen by Claudia H Long Read Free Book Online Page B

bold relief, and the dark car loomed almost gigantic in my tired eyes. A man looked out of the car, and I looked stealthily back at him. He seemed kind, and I was no longer able to think clearly. I staggered toward him.
    “Please. Could you take me to a friend’s? I have been robbed.” I emerged from the shadows.
    The look of horror on his face drove me back. “No, don’t hide, miss. I won’t hurt you. Come, come into my car, and we will take you where you will be safe. Joseph, pull forward for the lady,” he said to his driver.
    He held out his hand. I inched forward and took it, and he helped me into his car. Looking more closely, I thought I recognized him. I looked away, for if I might know him, he could know me. But he was a true gentleman, and if he did recognize me, he said nothing. Instead he introduced himself. “I am Fremont Older. Where can we take you?”
    Fremont Older! The editor of the Call who had so unceremoniously declined my poem and had fatefully pointed me toward the Argus . In some way, here was the catalyst of my undoing. But for the moment he was my rescuer.
    I stopped before giving my own address. What would Sam do to me? Though it could not be worse than what was done to me tonight, he would only blame me for my troubles and add to them. I paused, and then, remembering her promise, gave Jacqueline’s address.
    “Oh, the Pemberton home,” he said, and I hid my face in my hands. I should have realized that he would know them. “They are very kind people, and if they are your friends you will be in good hands.”
    I sighed with relief, and we were soon at Jacqueline and Francis’ doorstep. Mr. Older escorted me to the door and waited with me until a maid, still with sleep in her eyes, answered the bell. She eyed me first with suspicion, and then with a glimmer of recognition. I hoped she would not greet me by name.
    “Tell Francis that Fremont Older is here with an injured friend. There has been an accident, and she needs help immediately.” Mr. Older took charge before the maid could be indiscreet.
    The maid stepped aside and let us in. Mr. Older nodded to her, and as soon as she was out of sight he said, “I’ll leave you now. You will be safe here. And send me the next poem you write. The last one wasn’t half bad.”
    And before I could reply, as I stood in shock, he was gone.
    Moments later, Jacqueline was wrapping me in a blanket and ordering a hot bath. I woke up in a soft bed with a hot cup of tea at my side and a sourdough roll with sweet butter alongside, and a stack of blank paper, a fountain pen on the desk nearby.
     
    * * * *
     
    March 10, 1920
     
    Jacqueline sent for Sam once she deemed me fully recovered from my ordeal, and he bore me away with a show of care that I knew was a false display for the Pembertons’ consumption. Once home, I awaited the barrage, but instead he ignored me completely. I wisely shut myself not in the bedroom we shared, but in the other bedroom that we used for occasional guests.
    We tiptoed tentatively around one another, avoiding any reference to the past several days. How we could not speak of what had happened was a testament to the ultimate destruction of our relationship.
    At last, at dinner he made his announcement. Sam had ended the lease on the house as of the first of June, agreeing generously let me stay there until then. I had jeopardized his future with my antics, as he called him, and he was through with me. He was leaving for Argentina on April first, and I could stay in the house until the first of June, after which I could sell the furniture and keep the proceeds as my settlement. Other than that, he was washing his hands of me. In the future, he would dine alone.
    I nodded, grateful for his generosity, and grateful that he did no worse than end our relationship formally, as it had ended spiritually long before. Our evening passed dully, with each of us preoccupied with our own thoughts.
    On a better note, someone has posted