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“Perhaps this witching hour,” he said softly with a resigned smile, “promotes in us confession. For my wife, you must understand, Miss Griffin, deserted me for a highwayman.”
It carried the air of a comedic play, yet her employer’s shoulders were taut, lines bracketing his lip, no amusement to his profile.
She’d conjured images of a loving marriage, her employer so very content, a wife easing his fighting pains and cheering him on, only to succumb to the lung disease or a tragic accident like her parents.
“Is she…is she still alive?”
A shake of head and he prowled towards her, proffering the glass. “No. One year after she left us, Bow Street caught up with the highwayman; there was a pistol exchange and she was caught in the crossfire.”
“I-I’m so sorry.” She took the glass and sipped, its burn gliding down her throat to aid the cold in her chest.
His lips curved to a grim smile. “I mourned her the day she died just as much as when she left me. Does that make me a fool?”
“No!” And without thought, Matilda laid a hand upon his bare forearm, felt heated skin, wiry hair and the thrum of muscle. “It makes you faithful and constant, and any woman would be blessed to have such devotion.”
And she meant each word.
Ever since her first day of employment, she had considered Mr Hawkins a balanced, secure man, one satisfied with life. But she supposed everyone had their sorrows – it was just that some were better at hiding them.
“My wife left us while I was training. Abandoned a six-year-old Chloe with a letter and a penny doll as substitute.”
“How awful.”
But Mr Hawkins shook his head and rubbed his nape.
“I grew up in the Rookery, Miss Griffin. A cruel place where fists rule and the only law is survival.” He grimaced. “Being a fighter who’d won a few minor contests, girls paid me attention, but Samantha was like a bright star within that squalor – yet didn’t she know it, knew how to twist the lads around her finger with a wink. In the throes of raw youth, I pursued her, and she gave of herself freely, but I was the one caught. You think your Ton world strict? Try explaining a kiss away to an Irish mother with an iron skillet.”
“You married?”
He shrugged. “At scarce seventeen, neither of us knew any better, quite frankly. And we were both…browbeaten, for want of a better word. Maybe I could have refused, but…”
“You loved her.”
He nodded, gaze flat and empty. “I loved her vivacity and generous nature. I loved her beauty and she made me laugh. I wanted her and so I had her. Samantha was fond of me enough, said she loved me.” The contents of his glass were slugged in one. “I promised her I would get us out of the Rookery. Together.”
Matilda’s hand tightened upon his forearm, and he abruptly stared down as though unaware she was still clutching him. He’d been lost in a far-off world – of youthful dreams and a future all planned.
With a soft inhale, Mr Hawkins gazed up. “But… We hardly knew each other in truth. Samantha… She viewed the fighting world as excitement and roaring crowds, medals and adulation, whereas for me it was a way out. I wished to save every penny, she wanted to spend. I needed to sit in at night and recover from my busted ribs, she yearned to dance in the ale-houses. I was dead with exhaustion and she was so full of life.”
“You are making excuses for her.”
“Perhaps. But we just saw life so differently. Each time I took a fist in the face, I thought of our poverty, of how we had to escape. Then Chloe came along so soon, and I fought for us all and yet… Samantha still seemed to think the glory more important. That we should be celebrating when we won meagre coppers. I fought more matches and trained harder to get us out. I can’t say that as a young man I didn’t enjoy being with the lads on fight days, the adulation of the crowds, but then I was never home and…”
“And then she left you…”
“Yes, she left me. She left us. The worst is that I could see it coming, the end of our marriage. It was like a lingering illness, so the loss of Samantha wasn’t a sudden end for me. It had been happening for months. The slow tearing off of a limb, leaving nothing but sorrow for a piece of me lost.”
Matilda caressed his forearm, swallowed the lump in her throat. “Your wife chose her own path, as we all must do. And you have Chloe – for comfort and purpose. You’ve raised a fine girl, Mr Hawkins, who will become a fine and genteel lady…if she so wishes. She worships the ground you tread.”
His hand covered hers, a smile that bespoke his pride and true joy.
“You do realise Chloe adores you also.”
“Really… Oh. I’ve never been adored before.”
An inveigling warmth spread through her, dissipating some of the sadness within, but equally a fire spread up her arm and Matilda peered down – no sign of her slender fingers beneath that broad smothering hand.
Permit never clandestine attachment –Miss Appleton’s words insidiously whispered within Matilda’s ears but the lady was doubtless correct.
