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not seem to bother her.
    We now reside at the other side of the continent from the Beast, she wrote in her elegant handwriting. Therefore, the chances of my being found out and prosecuted as a bigamist are very slim.
    She had, it seemed, taken great pains to tell Mattie that a bolting horse had killed Ned Beasley. Thus leaving her free, as a widow, to marry again.
    She had even typewritten a letter to herself in the public library, ostensibly from a Vancouver law firm, explaining in detail how this demise had occurred.
    “Clever wench, and so devious,” April said to Spice, shifting his considerable weight from her leg as she did so.
     
    I have chosen a peach silk dress for the big day. Which, is to take place on the first Sunday of June. While Mattie, although I have given her an extra allowance for suitable clothing, continues to pout her displeasure. So determined is she to keep our present status unchanged.
    Jeffrey is a virtuoso between the bed covers. A thoughtful and experienced lover, who delights in bringing me right to the precipice of fulfillment, then pulling me back at the last excruciating moment.
    He has a large florid-headed cock that is long enough to bang against my womb as he quickens at the final moments of bliss.
    I am well satisfied with the choice I have made. Not only will my new husband be of great satisfaction to me sexually, but financially, and I will be secure for life.
    And while it is true, that with the investments Jeffrey has made with my own money I would be comfortable, as his wife we will be downright wealthy.
    There is also the improved social status to celebrate as well. The wife of a successful stockbroker holds an infinitely more elevated position in society, than a widow trying to supplement what small resources she has by taking in other people’s sewing. And my sorely pricked fingers and tired eyes rejoice at the reprieve.
    As a blossom dappled May draws to a close we spend idyllic days in the garden, followed by sizzling nights in Jeffrey’s bed.
    One of his favorite positions (and now mine also) is A la Negresse––from behind. So with the oil lamp burning low in the corner and the hypnotic clip clop of horses’ hooves echoing from the street below, I kneel with my hands clasped behind my neck, and with my breasts and face resting on the bed.
    When Jeffrey kneels behind me, I hook my legs over his and pull him to me with them. I hear his deep moan of satisfaction and my nipples tingle with excitement. He then puts a hand on each of my shoulders and presses down. This is a very deep position and as such wholly satisfactory. However, there is one aspect of it that is mildly disconcerting. Being deep in nature, it is also inclined to pump one full of air, which escapes like a volley of little farts––without the odor––at the end of the session.
    For many days now, I have been watching the activities of a red-tailed hawk, a most majestic looking bird with an exceedingly loud voice. He has taken to sitting for many long hours in the branches of the cypress tree, and then suddenly soaring in swift flight to surprise a squirrel, lizard, or other ground dwelling prey.
    Jeffrey tells me this bird is an unusual find indeed in these parts. This makes me all the more appreciative of the moments I spend spying on him through my field glasses.
    The weather remains warm with a cooling breeze as soft as angel’s breath. And as we picnic in the meadow on crisp fried chicken and peach pie, I lift my dazzled eyes to the heavens and exalt in the sheer unbridled joy that god has seen fit to bestow upon me.
     
    There is then a long period of silence from the elated Hannah. And, as April thumbs through the fragile pages looking for the next entry, she feels the icy hand of foreboding clutching at her heart.
    And here it is. Dated November thirteenth.
     
    As the gloom of another wet day draws to a close, I pull the draperies across the rain-glazed windows and poke at the fire in the