Chapter Twenty-Four

A good three quarters of an hour later, Harriet descended the stairs with Mrs. S, who then, with the air of a proud mama presenting her daughter at court, escorted her into a small parlor. A fire burned in a wide stone hearth and a table had been set for two. This last was because, to Harriet’s consternation, Mrs. S had sent Theo off after his own wash and brush up and before she started on Harriet’s transformation, to eat in the kitchens with the delighted Marie-Hèlène. Something he was eager to do. He departed with her, before Harriet could say no, to the sounds of him practising his schoolboy French on the bemused servant. “Bonsoir. Je m’appelle Theo. Comment tu t’appelle?”

Which meant that Harriet was going to have to dine alone with Jack. No use complaining to Mrs. S. though, who seemed delighted to be pushing the two of them together, like some old-fashioned matchmaker who’d decided for herself they were meant for one another. Harriet was just going to have to endure the experience. She refused to acknowledge that a part of her, a tiny part only, was quite looking forward to eating with the handsome captain.

He was seated in a high, wing-backed chair by the fire when she came in, but he jumped up with alacrity, his eyes wide with surprise at the changes Mrs. S had wrought on his stowaway. She’d had no black dresses at all, she’d insisted, and Harriet would have to put up with wearing either a prettily sprigged muslin gown or go back to her breeches and shirt. The lure of the gown had won. “Tres bien,” that lady had said with delight, reverting yet again to French. “Parfait for dinner with a gentleman. A shame to hide your beauty in dull black.”

Clearly remembering his manners a little late, Jack swept a flamboyant bow. He’d not changed the clothes he’d been on board ship in, but the flickering firelight bestowed on him an antique glow that was not unpleasing. His dark hair glimmered as though gilded, and those almost golden eyes… well, she’d best not look at them too closely or it might be hard to tear her own eyes away.

“Now,” Mrs. S said, with even more satisfaction. “Your new young cabin boy is eating in the kitchens with my servants, so he won’t be disturbing you. I’ll have Gaston serve your dinner, and make sure young Master Theo goes up to bed when he’s finished eating, although as he’s a boy, that should be a while from now. My servants know how to feed a growing lad.”

Jack gave her a small bow. “Thank you for that.” Then he turned to Harriet. “Won’t you sit down?”

As Mrs. S, with an elaborate wink aimed at which one of them Harriet couldn’t work out, departed, Jack held out one of the two chairs. Harriet sat down, arranging the skirts of the gown Mrs. S had lent her with care.

Jack took the seat opposite and poured wine into two fine cut-glass goblets. He held his up. “To smuggling and all it brings us.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows but lifted her glass. “To not getting caught while Theo and I are on board.”

He clinked his glass against hers. “An admirable sentiment to which I would add—to not getting caught, ever.”

She took a mouthful of the wine, which was full-bodied and strong, not at all like the watered wine Ben had insisted was all she could be trusted with. “I gather the punishment for smugglers is severe. I saw what remained of a few of them as a girl. They’d been hanged then tarred and left up as a lesson to passersby not to follow in their footsteps. It’s a wonder you’re prepared to risk your life and liberty when you already have a fine house and all you could wish for in the way of possessions.”

“Ah, but I don’t do it for the money.”

She took a second mouthful of the wine, savoring its fruitiness. With her present impecunity, some time had passed since she’d drunk wine of any sort, even watered wine. “So, you see yourself as the gentleman smuggler doing it for the good of others?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “I might.”

“Or is there another reason for the trade you carry out?” Goodness, she was feeling bold. Perhaps it was the wine talking. In case it was, she took another long sip to fortify her nerves, liking the effect. The midday meal on board The Fly being a long time ago, the alcohol brought a pleasantly warming glow to her empty stomach, which she also liked.

He smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I do it for the excitement?”

She set her wineglass on the table, and he topped it up for her. She’d have to be careful not to drink too much, but it was exceedingly pleasant and at the same time gave her the courage to speak her mind. For once. And, unlike Ben, Jack didn’t appear to be too shocked or angry that she was questioning him. In fact, it was fun to question him. To spar with him like a fencer with an epée. Much as she’d felt Fitz was sparring with her. Only she preferred Jack as an opponent.

“I think I would,” she said, picking up her glass again, partly to give herself something to do with her hands, which were bare, as Mrs. S’s wardrobe had not run to gloves.

“Then that is what I shall tell you.” He drained his own glass and refilled it, and the door opened to emit a stout man with a large tray on which resided a large platter. Of snails.

“Escargots, M’sieur,” he said, with a flourish, as he laid the platter on the table between them. “Spécialité de la maison.”

Snails. Harriet’s nose twitched at the inviting aroma of garlic butter. But snails? Of course, she knew, as any child who’d learnt French from a tutor or in school did, that the French typically ate snails and frogs’ legs. But to be presented with them? In this quantity? There must be two dozen of them occupying their neat little shells all sitting in little recesses on the pottery platter as if it had been specially made for them. What if the main course turned out to be frogs’ legs themselves? M. Bulot had said they tasted like chicken when Theo had asked him, and Theo had wasted no time in informing both Lydia and Harriet of this delicious piece of information. But he hadn’t been clear on what snails tasted like.

Jack picked up a little pronged fork and prodded it into one of the shells, lifting out the occupant, cooked and covered in garlic butter. With an air of nonchalance he popped it into his mouth and mopped up the excess butter with a slice of crusty bread. Harriet watched him in fascination. Had Theo eaten snails in the kitchen, or were they reserved for those in the parlor?

“Don’t you like snails?” Jack asked, taking a second. “Don’t think of them as that. Think of them as shellfish. We Brits have little trouble eating oysters, so why should snails be any different?”

“I’ve never tried them.”

“That means nothing. They’re an epicurean delight. Are you woman enough to try them?”

She took another reassuring gulp of her wine. Why not? When in France… Using the tiny fork, she prodded it into the nearest shell until she’d attached it to what was lurking inside. Lifting it out, she paused a moment, the melted butter dripping off the snail. Best close her eyes. She popped it into her mouth and swallowed without chewing. But the taste lingered and… wasn’t at all bad.

“Not quite how I’d imagined,” she said, and took a second one.

To her surprise she managed to eat half a dozen to Jack’s much larger portion, which was enough for her. She’d have to tell Theo later that she’d been brave enough to try snails. If he hadn’t been offered them himself, he’d be fascinated.

“Peasant fare,” Jack said, wiping his mouth. “But too delectable to ignore. Mrs. S is an accomplished cook and thinks nothing of borrowing the recipes of her less affluent neighbors here in Brittany. A lot of peasant cooking over here uses the cheapest and most easily accessible ingredients and turns them into culinary delights.”

What a surprise that Jack was turning out to be some sort of connoisseur of French food. Harriet dabbed at her lips with her napkin and managed a smile. Really, the wine was making her feel quite mellow and relaxed. A smile came readily to her lips and this time she didn’t chase it away. “I wonder why our own peasants don’t also dine on snails? Perhaps they’ve never thought of it. Or perhaps they do, and we’re just ignorant of their eating habits.”

Jack topped up their wine again. “Mrs. S has come up trumps with that dress.” His eyes ran over her outline before reverting to her face, and, for once, she didn’t feel as though she wanted to curl up in a ball and vanish. No wonder Ben had never let her have more than one glass of watered wine and banned her from drinking it while he was away from home. “It is rather pretty.” She stretched out her arm to admire the delicate puffed sleeves. “Such a lovely color.”

“And so becoming to your complexion.”

She felt heat swarm up her cheeks but this time it wasn’t embarrassing. The wine was depriving her of her inhibitions as well as giving her confidence. “Thank you.”

He grinned. “Although I have to admit you made a pretty boy.”

“I was in fear of having to return to Cornwall still clad as a boy. Mrs. S has kindly said I might keep these clothes until the next time you are here.” She pursed her lips. “Which I imagine will be quite soon as you claim to be a man who is fond of the excitement of the trade.” She wouldn’t think of the familiar glance Mrs. S. had given Jack on their arrival. She just wouldn’t. Could she be jealous? Drat it, she was thinking about it when she’d just sworn not to.

“It will indeed be quite soon. There are always goods to be taken back and forth, with the exorbitant taxes both our governments levy. But at least they don’t match one another, which makes it easier for us to take over goods the French pay high duty on and bring back the ones our government charge high duty on. It works well for both sides.”

Gaston reappeared along with the tray. “M’sieur, Madame.” He swept up the platter of empty snail shells and set another bottle of wine and two fresh glasses on the table. “Je reviens, tout d’suite.”

True to his word, he was back in a moment with the tray freshly filled with two plates of some kind of rich chicken stew. “Coq au vin, madame.” He set Harriet’s plate in front of her with a flourish. Steam rose from the hot concoction to waft the enticing aroma into her nostrils. At least no frogs legs were in sight. She waited for Gaston to leave before taking a forkful of the tender meat. Delicious.

They ate for a while making only small talk, but eventually both their plates had been emptied and the bottle of red wine held only the dregs. Harriet was replete with good food and glowing from the effect of rather too much of the wine. What a good thing she’d eaten enough to soak some of the alcohol up.

“Gaston will bring us coffee shortly,” Jack said. “While we wait, come and sit beside the fire a while.”

Surprised by her own lack of fear, she let him take her hand, feeling a little light headed as she stood up, but covering it well. Three steps took her to one of the two fireside chairs, and she sat down a little heavily. If he were to importune her now, she’d have no defences, and what was more, she probably wouldn’t care. What a disturbing thought that was. She hiccupped.

*

Jack regarded his companion with a wary eye. She’d rather guzzled the wine, but he’d been powerless to prevent her. Besides, it hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t be used to it until it was much too late. And a little inebriation suited her well. In vino veritas, his mother was wont to say, and she was right. The reclusive Mrs. Penhallow was emerging from her shell with a vengeance, and he rather liked it.

Gaston arrived bearing the coffee with young Marie-Hèlène in tow to clear the table. He drew a small circular table to between the two fireside chairs and set the coffee tray on it, before stoking the already blazing fire. With a discreet cough, he and the girl departed, Gaston having fielded a sizeable tip.

Harriet shifted in her seat and stretched, like a cat. “Goodness, I haven’t eaten so much in a long time.” She frowned. “Not since I was a girl after a day’s hunting, I don’t think. Ben told me I’d get fat if I ate what he said was too much. He told me didn’t want a fat wife.”

Nice of Ben. Jack was himself fond of a girl with curves in all the right places. “Nothing to stop you eating whatever you wish now.”

She nodded. “He wouldn’t let me drink, either. Nothing more than a single glass of ratafia, watered, of course.”

So that was why she was so pie-eyed now. The temptation to lean forward and take her in his arms had never been stronger. Instinct told him she would probably offer little resistance. To tell her she was quite safe now and she could do whatever she wanted all the time. But of course, he didn’t. How ungentlemanly would it have been to have taken advantage of a woman in her condition.

However, she took him by surprise by leaning forward herself. “Ben was very particular about what his wife was allowed to do.”

“He was?”

She nodded. “Very. He didn’t like it if I crossed him. He said I did it on purpose, but I didn’t.” She screwed up her face at the memory as if straining to recapture it. “I never meant to be a bad wife. To do the things he said were what bad wives did.”

“How did you meet him?” Jack asked, avoiding asking the question he wanted to ask—what the departed Ben’s definition of a bad wife was. Probably not the same as his own. If he wasn’t about to take advantage of her virtue, he had no scruples about questioning her while her guard was down.

She sat back in her seat, legs stretched out towards the fire, and kicked her shoes off. She had dainty, fine-boned feet. The longing to lift them onto his lap where he could massage them swept over Jack, but he resisted.

She frowned. “At the assembly rooms in Truro. He was on leave from his regiment and was attending with some of his officer friends.” She pulled a rueful expression. “He was so handsome in his regimentals.”

Jack had seen enough of soldiers in all their regalia to understand why a young girl such as Harriet had been might get carried away by the sight of a young officer.

“He asked Papa for my hand in marriage the following week, and Papa agreed. He didn’t want to, because he thought seventeen was too young for marriage, but I told him I was old enough to know my own mind and he gave in, at last.” Her voice trailed away. “Ben was very handsome, you understand, when he was happy…”

But from what Theo had said, that wasn’t all the time. Not by any means.

“When did he begin to bully you?” Jack asked, determining to be blunt.

Her eyes widened a little. “Not straight away. After Lyddie came along… after I found out I was to have a child… then, he wasn’t quite so kind to me anymore. He didn’t like me being… fat and unattractive. We had rooms in London, to begin with, but when Lyddie was born, we moved to Bath to be near his aunt, Mrs. Bolitho, who has allowed us to live in Keynvor Cottage. She lived in Bath at the time and Ben would go to visit her when he was home from the wars. He never took me… although he did take Theo, once.” Her eyes clouded at the memory. “He never did again. He said Theo was a devil child and I was a terrible mother to indulge him so and that was why he was so badly behaved.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “That was the first time he didn’t stop at shouting, but struck me.”

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?