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“I am afraid it is not that simple,” she said with a weary sigh, pulling Lucinda out of the way of a cart laden with freshly-skinned rabbit pelts. “No matter how innocent, the woman is always blamed.”
“How could it be a woman’s fault if a man forced himself upon her?”
“Forcing is a difficult thing to prove unless there is someone to bear witness.”
“She was carrying a child. Surely that is proof a man had his way with her?”
“Being with child only makes it worse, for many believe a child can only be conceived if the woman is enjoying the act.”
“How absurd. That could not possibly be so. Take poor Mistress Travis, for instance. She bears an infant every year, yet her husband is a drunken, smelly mound of blubber and tannery sweat. No one could possibly find pleasure in the act with Bartholomew Travis, yet his poor wife falls with child as easy as sneezing.”
Her grandmother stopped and swapped her basket full of remedies from one hip to the other. “I did not say I agreed with the notion, only that it is commonly believed. The burden of shame always falls to the woman even though she is the victim. It is also possible that Mary made the story of the theft up. She would not be the first girl to have a sweetheart and keep it from her parents.”
“What sweetheart bruises his beloved’s wrists?”
A wry smile briefly crossed her grandmother’s face. “You would make a fine lawyer if you were a man.”
“I would make a better swordsman.”
“Perhaps...if you were a man. Thankfully for me, you are not.”
By now they were nearly back at Whitefriars reminding Lucinda of the problems she had left behind. But what were her problems compared to Mary’s? She was not hiding a terrible secret and bleeding all over the bed. She was not choosing to suffer in silence rather than risk bringing shame upon her family and ruining her reputation. There it was again.
Reputation. Reputation. Reputation.
“So keeping up appearances is more important than justice?” She had not meant to say it out loud, and Grandma Jones had very sharp ears. She stopped Lucinda in her tracks with one of her listen-to-your-grandmother looks.
“Yes. If it saves unnecessary suffering. No point fighting a fight you cannot win. You would do well to heed my advice.”
“What do you think will happen to her?”
“If she was indeed attacked, she will go on with her life looking over her shoulder for quite some time. If her parents are wise, they will not leave her alone again. This city is not safe for a young woman.”
“I run errands for you and Father all over London on my own.”
“You know how to look after yourself.”
“Only because Father taught me how to fight, which is why I need to practice, and yet he denies me the chance!” Her grandmother pierced her with a look as sharp as any rapier.
“Pray do not start with that again. I will countenance no more of your quarrelling. Your father does not want you to fight anymore because it could put you in danger.”
Lucinda snorted. “Seems to me I would be in more danger if I did not know how to fight.”
Her grandmother laid a warning hand on Lucinda’s forearm. “Do not go aggravating him. He has not been himself lately. Have you not noticed?”
“I have, and it does concern me.” More than she cared to admit. Her father had always seemed invincible. Even losing an arm in the Irish rebellion had not slowed him down for long, so his frequent lapses of concentration and staring into space were peculiar and baffling. There were times when he was physically present but did not seem to be aware of what was happening around him. It was occurring more days than not and lasting for longer. While he refused to acknowledge anything was amiss, it could no longer be ignored.
“So pray do not go and aggravate him by behaving like a strumpet. I saw what you were doing before we left, and it is a dangerous game you play. Keep dangling your wares under a man’s nose, and he may just help himself to the goods. You do not want to end up in poor Mary’s state. Do you?”
Indeed she did not. Somewhat chastened Lucinda held the large oak door to the fencing academy open and followed her grandmother meekly inside, the truth in her stinging warning prompting Lucinda to tug her neckline up. It was foolish to invite the wrong sort of attention, on that point Grandma was undeniably correct, but Mary’s fate only bolstered her determination to continue her campaign. Why shouldn’t a woman have the knowledge and skills to defend herself? She simply had to make Father see reason. But with Grandma’s stern eye firmly upon her, she knew better than to cause further provocation. She would bide her time, map out a plan, and in the meantime keep practicing on her own. He could hardly expect her to give up without a fight, she was a swordmaster’s daughter after all.
