The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder (15 page)

              The shabby London neighborhood advertised a grim reality that conjured up the most sinister images of humankind at its worst.  Brophy walked along the narrow, rubbish-strewn alleys, alert and aware, passing dull ramshackle buildings, their facades crumbling, and their cracked windows covered with a grey film.  This was an area long since abandoned to the most reviled purveyors of all things evil.  Anything could be procured here anonymously and for a price.  It was a place of danger, home to the most heinous of criminals, a neighborhood one entered with no guarantee of his ever leaving.

             
It had not been that many years ago when somewhere in these putrid slums, a man of rank had taken an interest in his skills and had elevated Brophy from the deplorable filth of this felonious underworld.  And now he was returned, on a mission once again, and he knew precisely the person who had what he was seeking.

             
The toxin was called Belladonna, beautiful lady, but was also known by another more sinister name, Deadly Nightshade.  There had been other alternatives under consideration, including arsenic and oleander; or perhaps wolf’s bane, derived from the monkshood plant would have accomplished the goal.  But Edward Mansfield’s instructions had been explicit: he wanted only to sicken the woman, not kill her.  Belladonna seemed the most promising choice, sufficient to the purpose.  In centuries past it had been used as an anesthetic for surgery; the ancient Romans used it as a poison.  Women sometimes applied eye-drops derived from it to dilate the pupils and appear more seductive.  Just the right dose would induce bizarre delirium and hallucinations, even seizures, in the intended victim.

             
Brophy found the door he was seeking and turned the knob.  The rusty hinges announced his arrival.  He peered into the darkened room, the sun’s rays caught the dust motes floating through the air and illuminated two walls of shelves containing grimy glass bottles in a variety of shapes and colors; the tools of the trade.  Brophy closed the door behind him.  A scruffy man slowly shuffled forward from the shadows of the back room.  He was stooped over, was thin and frail, with bushy eyebrows and grey, shoulder-length hair that was in disarray.  He looked up and faint recognition registered when he faced Brophy.

             
“Do you remember me?” Brophy asked.

             
“Brophy?” the scruffy man answered, wrinkling his brow.

             
“That’s right,” was the clipped response.

             
But the man seemed unfazed.  He did not truckle in the presence of so menacing a figure as Brophy.  They were malevolent brethren, after all.   “What brings you here?”

             
“What brings anyone to this hellhole?” said Brophy.  “It is the Nightshade I am after.”

             
The old man remained silent.  Something sinister was afoot but he didn’t give a bloody farthing.  He shuffled over to the assortment of bottles and rummaged through a shelf for a few moments, as glass clinked against glass.  He triumphantly held a bottle aloft and then carefully filled a small vial with the potent liquid.

             
“Eight or nine drops will bring hallucinations.  Fifteen or so will bring seizures.  More than that is deadly,” said the man as he handed over the vial.  “One pound, six pence,” he declared, matter-of-factly.

             
Brophy held up the vial and examined it.  Satisfied, he then pocketed the container, placed the money on the table and slithered out the door without comment.

             
The evening of November 14
th
was chilly, the low clouds producing freezing fog which shrouded tree branches, dormant grasses and errant tumbleweeds with a frosty glaze.  When Jack called on Susannah, he found her waiting for him in the parlor, seated near the cozy fireplace.  He arrived at six-thirty; the performance was to begin at eight, but Susannah’s obligations with the Ladies Aide Society required her to arrive ahead of the guests.

When he entered the room, he beheld a goddess incarnate.  His mouth went dry.  She was dressed in a dark blue silk gown, with capped sleeves trimmed with Venetian lace, a draped overskirt and a slight train on the ruffled underskirt.  The square neckline was cut low, flattering her curvaceous figure.  Her creamy skin, the swell of her alabaster breasts shimmered in the firelight.  She wore opera length gloves and a lace shoulder shrug.  Her shiny hair was swept upward into an array of soft curls.

“Good evening, Susannah,” he said.  She smiled when he entered the room.  “Jack!” she said brightly.  “You are here!  It was so helpful of you to be here early; I did not want to disappoint the other ladies on the committee.  We can spare a few minutes though if you would like a glass of sherry.  I am having one to calm my nerves.”

             
He placed his top hat on the butterfly table, then removed his coat and draped it over a wing chair.  She regarded him.  He looked distinguished, handsome.  He wore a black coat with contrasting collar.  His black waistcoat, decorated with a gold watch chain, accentuated the sweeping breadth of his shoulders.  He wore a wide ascot tie and square toed shoes.  

“Yes, thank you,” he said.  “You look lovely this evening, Susannah,” he said honestly.  “And you have absolutely nothing to be nervous about,” he reassured her.  “All the same, I will join you in a glass of sherry.”  He walked over to the fire and rubbed his hands together to warm them.  She stood, poured the amber liquid from the decanter into an etched crystal glass, and handed it to him, her fingers momentarily brushing against his like a soft whisper. 

              “This will warm you,” she said, as a blush crept into her cheeks.

             
They stood before the crackling fire and he raised his glass in an impromptu toast.  “To Susannah and the undeniably good work of the Ladies Aide Society.”  She gave him another smile, joined her glass with his and brought her full lips to the delicate crystal.  His eyes held her gaze for a pregnant moment.  She was charming and unpretentious, and he had long since fallen under her spell.  She sipped; he swallowed in one gulp and placed the empty glass on the fireplace mantle.  For a moment, her gaze lingered on that mouth, wondering what it might feel like on her own, but she pushed the errant thought away.

             
“The musicians arrived yesterday.  The programs were delivered from the printer just this morning.  Mrs. Gibson inspected the arrangement of the chairs in the hotel ballroom this afternoon,” she reported.  “I think we are ready for our event this evening.”

             
“Well then, we best go,” he said.  She put down her glass and reached for her wrap.  “Let me help you,” he said.  He arranged the fur-trimmed wrap around her shoulders, his warm fingers faintly brushing against skin that begged to be touched, sending frissons of awareness coursing through her.  There was something about being this close to him, a kind of vibration almost.  Jack slipped on his coat and top hat and led her out into the freezing fog to the waiting carriage.   Once they were seated, Jack kept the conversation light.  He wanted to distract Susannah from her own nervous anxiety and wanted to distract himself from her sexually potent charm which was set to overpower him. 

             
“Tell me,” he said.  “Did you finish the painting you were working on for Professor and Mrs. Purfield?”  She was grateful for the question; seated next to him, she could feel the heat of his powerful thigh as it rested against her gown.   

             
“As a matter of fact I did,” she replied.  “It was crated and shipped to England about five days ago.  They were wonderful to me, and I will always remember them,” she said wistfully.

             
“I am glad to hear it.  They will no doubt display your painting in a favorite spot and recall the many enjoyable hours you spent with them.”

             
Whatever apprehensions Susannah may have entertained in the days leading up to the musicale soon evaporated once the evening was underway.  The guests began to arrive and the hotel staff efficiently collected their coats and wraps.  The ballroom looked festive, the crystal chandeliers glittered brightly above the assembled guests.  Champagne flowed freely, the swish of silk gowns could be heard along with the clinking of glasses and soft murmurs as guests engaged in friendly social banter.  With their programs in hand, the guests were soon settled into their comfortable seats and the concert began.

             
The talented musicians from Vienna were all men.  Their instruments included two violins, one cello and one viola.  Their first selections featured Haydn’s Quartet in C Major, opus 76; Beethoven’s Quartet #13 in B Flat Major, opus 130.  This was followed by Mozart’s Quartet K 421 in D Minor.  This passionate work was written in 1783 while his wife was in labor with their first child.  The entertainment continued for another thirty minutes followed by a brief intermission.  When the concert resumed, the selections ranged from another composition by Beethoven to several by Brahms, including Quartet #3 in B Flat Major, opus 67.  The audience was delighted to listen to Schubert’s
Rosamunde
, the only one of his quartets to be published while he was alive.  It was composed in the midst of despair over his failing health, but the piece concluded with a joyful tone.  The final selection for the evening’s program was Mozart’s Quartet #23 in F Major.  The appreciative audience was delighted when the talented musicians graced them with an encore.  The musical selections had stirred the audience.  They thundered their applause at the conclusion; the successful concert had warmed the ballroom and everyone in it on a very chilly night.

             
Jack dutifully stayed by Susannah’s side throughout the evening.  It was her first social appearance since the tragedy.  The evening was important to her.  He noted how much she seemed to be enjoying herself.  He remained discreetly aloof so as not to give rise to any misinterpretation of his presence.  There was no impropriety.  He was her chaperone, her escort, nothing more.  He obligingly attended to her when the champagne and cakes were served in the salon, and was friendly and gracious when the musicians were personally introduced to the guests.  All in all it was a very pleasant evening and a profitable fundraiser for the Ladies Aide Society.  

             
It was late, nearly midnight, when they arrived back at 56 Grant Street.  The fog still persisted, covering everything with a silvery glow.  Jack helped Susannah down from the carriage, took her arm and guided her up the steps.  She removed her key from her reticule and turned it in the lock.  Jack opened the door and followed her into the foyer.  An oil lamp had been left on in the hallway emitting only a shadowy luminosity.  It was time to say good night.

             
“Susannah, your musicale was wonderful, everyone enjoyed it.  There will be a glowing review in the newspaper tomorrow, I have no doubt.”

             
She looked at him expectantly.  “And what about you, Jack?  Did
you
enjoy it?” she asked.

             
“More than you know,” he said, as he hauled her into his arms and gently brushed his lips against hers.  She did not protest.  He then gave the kiss all the attention it deserved.  His lips took hers again, this time with an urgent intensity that overwhelmed them both.  He kissed her and kissed her, his mustache chafing against her delicate skin.  She kissed him back, hungry for the caress of his lips on hers.  His tongue swept inside, hot and persistent, unrelenting.   His heart raced and his blood turned to fire.  Her wrap slid silently to the floor.  He pulled her closer to him and her arms went around wide shoulders. He was rock hard, muscular.  His large hands roamed to the globes of her bottom.  He squeezed and caressed as he pulled her to his groin.  She felt the unmistakable evidence of his burning desire.

             
“God, Susannah!”  With one hand, he continued to anchor her to him, the other hand moved to her bodice.  His kisses trailed from her lips, to the shell of her ear, along her throat, to the swell of skin above her full breasts, as he worshipped her.  She smelled of rosewater, her skin as soft as flower petals.  His whiskers and mustache chafed.  The sensations were overpowering her.  She kissed his cheek, his brow and she arched into the exquisite feel of his hungry lips above her breast, her skin tingling with sensation.  He slid his finger inside her bodice and teased her nipple as he continued his onslaught of kisses.  She felt it to the core of her womanhood, the pressure in her womb building, spiraling out of control.  “Oh,” she gasped.  She could feel the weight of his stiff erection, persistent, demanding.    

“Jack,” she said gently.  It was almost a whisper.  But he continued on, kissing the swell of skin above her breasts, his rough whiskers a delicious caress against her sensitive skin.  Feelings of yearning, of desire washed over her.  In another moment, she would be lost.  “Please Jack,” she said again.

“Oh my love,” he said softly.  He trailed kisses up to her chin, then found her supple and swollen lips again and claimed them once more with a gentleness, a tenderness, a regard that left her in no doubt of the depth of his feelings.

“Jack, we must stop,” she whispered.

“I am sorry,” he said.  Her pupils were dark, dilated.  His gaze lingered on her lips.  Her skin was warm and glowing, her sensitive lips swollen and ruby red from his urgent ministrations.  “No, I am
not
sorry.  It was time to lay bare the strong emotions I have for you Susannah.”  He couldn’t resist, gave one feather-light kiss on the tip of her nose.

“It seems that I have been equally exposed for my own affections,” she admitted.  She had behaved like a wanton, not the heartbroken widow still mourning her husband.  But wasn’t she also a healthy young woman, with yearnings and desires?  How could she possibly be both?  Her husband was dead.  Did that mean her heart must shrivel into a cold, hard knot?  No, she wanted to be desired, by him.  Didn’t she?

“I allowed myself to get carried away,” she lamented.  “I must remember that I am still a widow in mourning.”

“He would want you to be happy, Susannah,” Jack insisted.  “I am not ashamed of my sentiments, or for expressing them.”  It was true, he had desperately wanted to reveal all that she meant to him, having silently kept his emotions bottled up far too long.  It surprised him that they both allowed what began as a kiss to ignite such intense passion.  Now that he knew the direction of her sentiments, it was as though a great weight had been lifted from him.  Her acceptance of his kisses, of his touch, eased his conscience.

“Someday, Susannah, you will no longer be a widow in mourning, and when that happens I hope you will remember what passed between us tonight,” he said.  He reached up and gently followed the curve of her lips with his forefinger, leaned in and bestowed another deliciously light kiss.  His kisses were like a drug – she closed her eyes.  “Good night, Susannah,” he said.  He pressed a kiss to her temple.  And then he was gone.