Something Borrowed By Nigel Byng

Something Borrowed (A Hotel Masticadores Halloween Special)

By Nigel Byng

PART ONE

I had planned our escape down to the last detail. It was the eve of All Souls Day, and it was a foolproof plan. But then fate decided that she needed to stick her pampered, powered nose in my bloody business. Fate, in this instance, was the good-looking, neighborly, and Sunday mornings-only Christian, Genevieve Bartholomew.

I had a stagecoach waiting for our getaway. Just the two of us. I had helped myself to some of her jewelry, and I brought the lovely silk handkerchief Leon had bought me a week ago. But she had to turn up, at the most inappropriate time, to complain to the well-to-do family of Leon Abernathy. Why was she here, today of all days? To make an intercession she said, an intercession in the interest of the two families. They were to be her last words.

Leon was my heart. We had promised ourselves to each other, I more so than him apparently, over many a tryst in his cattle shed. We were going to get married. But the appearance of Genevieve had derailed all of that. Served me right for dreaming. Apparently, the love of my life had been selling the same lines to the sixteen-year-old daughter of Mr. Bartholomew.  Her delicate situation would be best shielded from the judgmental eyes of 18^th Century Carolinas, with a hasty marriage. There was nothing delicate about how she got into this said predicament. But apparently, I was the only one asking the obvious. After all, that’s what love-struck teenagers do, and no one likes getting in the way of Cupid, or sullying a good family name.

I’ll admit that my response was a bit hasty. But heck, you probably would’ve done the same if you were in my shoes. I harnessed a wagon, and several bales of hay, and set the fields ablaze, like Samson and them darn foxes in the Bible.  Then I set the palatial home of Leon Abernathy on fire, with the entire family inside. In my attempt at a hasty escape, I stumbled and fell into the cellar. I would have died, if it had not been for the floor above me, collapsing. It saved my life, but I paid the most horrible price imaginable. Anger doesn’t leave much room for common sense.

A few hours later, and about a mile south on the hill overlooking the town, I sat on a gravestone nursing my wounds. A gelatinous clump of melted flesh stuck to the side of my face, like the dwarf mistletoe that we had to cut last spring. I had suffered nasty burns on my legs and back as well, and I could smell the smoldering skin, like the time my brother roasted a raccoon, saying he was living wild. I was probably going to die here. Seventeen years old, and disfigured, no man would ever want me now. But I was not one for self-pity, and my daddy didn’t raise me to be a shrinking violet.  

The stranger appeared out of nowhere, sat down next to me, and scared me so bad I had a little accident there on that gravestone.

“There’s no need to cry, little lady.” He whispered.

“I am not crying, mister.”

He had the top hat with the plumage, the cane, and the smooth demeanor like Mr. Castle who sold those homemade elixirs and potions from his jackass on weekends. I didn’t trust that idiot either.

Another type of woman would have run if she encountered a man in the middle of a cemetery at sunset. Not I. Quite frankly, the pain on my back and legs was so excruciating, I was glad that this mysterious man had showed up.

Without asking my permission, he touched my fractured wrist, and set it back in place. There was not even the slightest discomfort whatsoever.

“Life can be so unfair.” He sympathized and his eyes penetrated my soul. There was a tenderness to him, accompanied by a devilish, playful, whimsical grin.

“You can say that again Mister…”

“People call me Bob, for short.” He tipped the brim of his hat.

“What’s the longer version of your name?… Robert?”

“Well, we aren’t friends just yet, are we? But that could change very quickly. You seem quite an affable, and ambitious young lady. With more than a little fire in your soul. My type of gal.”

His smile was broad, and his hands lingered on my wrist.

“I assure, a lady I am not, Bob. But you can kindly keep your hands to yourself.” I pulled away, wincing as I did so.

“You will need to be tended to.” He helped me up. “If not, I dare say that you won’t survive the night in your current condition.”

“I don’t care if I don’t. I have already made certain of my destination and made doubly sure that I would have my own welcoming committee.”

His giggle was hearty, deep, and resonating from his belly. It reverberated off the sepulchers in the quiet graveyard.

“Ah yes. The Abernathy household. They had it coming.”

Author’s Bio

Nigel Byng is a freelance writer, living in the USA. He recently contributed to Happiness in Unexpected Places; an anthology of stories compiled by authors and media professionals from across the globe. His writing can be found on Signs of the Times Australia; MasticadoresIndia, or on his personal blog www.hytsdaily.com where he displays his love of fiction and poetry under his pen name, Jerome Kenrick.