Another one of those occasions when I am pressed for time, and so post a story from my back catalogue, mostly ones that are not very good. This is called “Red Thumb” and I’m pretty sure it was published somewhere or other, but damned if I can remember where.
Enjoy, or not, as the mood takes you. There’ll be a collection when you leave. Please give generously to the men dressed in black and standing by the EXIT. The guns are real.
Many years ago she had found happiness in the arms of Sir Henry’s younger brother, but the faithless Cuthbert had abandoned her without even a word of farewell.
Lady Anne is reconciled to her fate. Grown old and bitter before her time, she is trapped in a loveless marriage to a man she despises. Her only joy in life comes from the prize winning roses that grow in her private garden.
Sir Henry cares nothing for Lady Anne’s affection; so long as she adequately performs the duties required of a wife he is content.
It was not always so though, and sometimes, as he watches the Lady Anne tend to her flowers, Sir Henry smiles. He knows whose blood and whose bones enrich the soil where her choicest blooms have taken root.