Page 54 of The Cornish Widow

Jack froze. Not for one moment had he expected this.

She turned wide, candid eyes on him. “He was sorry afterwards, of course, but it didn’t stop him doing it again. And again. Every time he did it, he was always sorry, afterwards.”

Jack groped for words. That men beat their wives, he knew all too well, but that the man who’d been married to the beautiful young woman before him had done it to her was beyond imagining. “I didn’t know.”

She shook her head. “No one does. Not even Bertha, although I know she didn’t like Ben one bit, so perhaps she suspected. She didn’t like how much he drank. Nor did I, for the more he drank, the more likely was it that he would strike me.”

She told the tale with such equanimity, as though it was to be expected that a man would beat his wife, as though she took it for granted that he was right, and she was a bad mother and wife.

“No man should raise a hand to a woman.”

She blinked up at him. “You think so?” Her words were almost wondering.

He nodded. “There is never an excuse for violence like that.”

“But how does a wife learn to be better?”

What? He shook his head. “She doesn’t need to be. She’s her own person, and a man, her husband, should accept her for what she is.”

She frowned. “Ben said it was the right of a husband to discipline his wife and children and make them how they should be to please him.”

Jack sighed. This Ben had indoctrinated her well over the years they’d been together, since she’d been scarcely older than her own daughter. “That might be so, but it doesn’t make it the correct thing to do. The law is not always right, you know.” He paused. “I would never raise my hand to a woman.”

She was gazing at him with such intensity now he almost wanted her to drop his eyes. “You wouldn’t?”

He shook his head. “Never. I value women for their own importance. I value you, Harriet, for who you are, not who I might turn you into.”

“Oh.” She kept on staring at him.

Flustered, he poured the coffee, the thick black liquid trickling into the tiny cups. It might help to sober her up. He needed a little sobering himself. He handed her a cup.

“Did no one notice your bruises?” he asked, after he’d taken a sip of the strong coffee.

She shrugged. “He was careful not to strike me where it would show.”

“Good God.” He couldn’t help himself. “The man was an animal. Why did you stay with him? Were you not afraid for the children?”

She shot him a pitying look over her coffee cup. “I am a woman, Jack. Where would I have gone if I’d chosen to run? Where would I have taken my children? My mother was already dead when I married, and my father died soon after. My husband had taken the small inheritance they’d left me and gambled it away. Although I didn’t know this until after his death. He was an inveterate gambler—he could not turn away from a wager of any kind. He left me deeply in debt.” She gave herself a little shake. “I sometimes wonder if the report I had of his death was accurate or whether he died by his own hand instead of face the debtors prison.”

“Or someone he owed decided on revenge. Did you have no one to turn to? No friends?”

She shook her head. “He’d made sure of that. I was not allowed to attend social gatherings. All I had was Bertha, and I couldn’t reveal Ben’s behavior to her for fear of what she might do. For if she’d faced him with it, he’d have thrown her out, and then I’d have had no one.”

Before Jack could stop himself, he was on his knees in front of her chair, his arms around her pulling her towards him. For a moment she resisted, before he felt her body sag into his and he folded her against his chest. There was nothing predatory about his movement, and she seemed to sense it. He held her for several long and silent minutes, rocking her gently and breathing in the familiar scent of Mrs. S’s soap and the spray of perfume she must have applied to her protégé.

After about a minute he became aware that his shoulder was wet and her body was shaking, although she must be fighting to keep herself under control.

“Let it all out,” he murmured into her hair, the softness of her pressed close to his chest doing embarrassing things to his own body that he wanted to keep from her. “Cry as much as you want. No one’s going to judge you.” And cry she did until at last she quieted, her body ceased to shake, and she lay quiet in his arms.

His knees were aching with so long on the hard floor, so he shifted her around a little so he could see her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but she managed a little smile. “I-I’ve never cried like that before. I never dared to.”

Oh God, how close her face was to his and how badly he wanted to press his lips to hers and show her that a man didn’t have to be a bully. But common sense stayed him. If he did that now, it was tantamount to being as bad as the despicable Ben. Instead, he put up a diffident hand and stroked her cheek, pushing the few strands of hair that had escaped Mrs. S’s hairstyling back off her face. She was just so beautiful, so delicate, so vulnerable and yet she must possess a core of forged steel to have survived this far. Every part of him was shouting out that he wanted to keep her safe and never let anyone hurt her again.

But nothing lasts, and eventually she must have become aware of the inappropriateness of their situation. She extricated herself from his embrace and stood up. Jack climbed back to his feet as well, resisting the temptation to rub his sore knees.

“Thank you for your kindness, Jack.” She was all distant again. “I shall not forget it. But now I’m very tired, and I think I should retire. What time do you require Theo and I to rise in the morning?”

Hiding his disappointment, Jack managed a smile. “Mrs. S serves breakfast at eight. There’s no need to rise early, as we have M. Bagot’s gig to return us to The Fly.”

“Then I bid you good night.” And with that she was gone.

Jack sat back down. What had just happened there?