The way her frosty exterior had gradually thawed to allow him to see her vulnerability spoke to his heart. There were still walls to be broken down and part of him was of a mind to cast off every shackle of the past and stay with her until he had learned every secret, every hope or thought she possessed.
The word that edged around his consciousness was love, but he was reluctant to speak it out loud.
But the cross...
That secret made him hot with anger as he thought of it. She had it and had done so all along. If Nevez had not mentioned its existence would she ever have told him? He needed to understand why. He needed to find out what it could reveal—if there was anything significant, he couldn’t stay with Blanche.
‘When you travelled with me before, you were trying to reach England,’ Nevez said. ‘I shall be leaving four days from now once my first mate has joined me, and sailing to Roscoff as planned. If you wish to come, I’ll be glad of your company.’
‘I have no means to pay,’ Jack admitted.
‘You paid your passage already. I would not charge you twice. You can work as a crewman until Roscoff and I’ll pay you. When you reach England, you can persuade your associates to buy my wine on generous terms.’
Jack nodded in agreement. He could find a ship to take him to England from Roscoff.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.
‘Here.’ Nevez gestured to the inn they were sitting in front of. ‘If you wish to join me, I shall be leaving on the morning tide four days hence.’
Jack shook hands. He collected his horse and rode back to the castle at a slow pace. He burned to discover what secret the cross held, but part of him wanted to delay the moment he must face Blanche and confront the betrayal he was sure she had committed.
* * *
Blanche was waiting outside Jack’s door when he arrived, sitting on the stool the guard had once occupied. She dropped her head when she saw him. He cocked his head, walking past her. She edged into the room behind him nervously. The mannerism was uncharacteristically meek and made Jack more anxious to see the change in her and he wondered what he was about to discover.
‘Do you have the cross?’ he asked.
Blanche held out her fist. Between her fingers he could see a glint of gold. He was reluctant to take it, fearful of what it might tell him, terrified in case it told him nothing.
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked.
Blanche’s eyes flickered and she dropped her head. ‘It was round your neck when I first came across you on the beach. I thought you were already dead.’ The implications struck Jack with the force of a hammer to his skull.
‘You stole it from me!’
‘I was worried the men would take it and it would get broken up and shared as spoils. It was too beautiful to let that happen so I took it to keep it safe. I thought you deserved better than that. I hid it before anyone saw.’
A noble motive, but she hadn’t returned it when she knew he was alive. He folded his arms and looked at her coldly.
‘You’ve had it since then? Before you reclaimed the box from Ronec? You could have given this to me at any time, but you kept it secret from me. Why?’
‘You were so weak. So ill.’ Blanche sounded flustered. ‘I didn’t know what it would mean to you and thought you needed time to heal. When the box told you nothing of use you were so disappointed. So hurt. I didn’t want that to happen again.’
‘It wasn’t your decision to make,’ Jack said. Blanche flinched and he realised he was shouting.
‘I know.’
‘Give it to me.’
She held her hand out and pressed something into his hand. Jack looked down. It was a delicate cross on a long chain. Not a style he thought a man would choose. He let the chain fall and held the cross between thumb and forefinger, turning it around. The letters J and M were engraved on the surface of the back. He traced their familiar shape, then rubbed his thumb over the small red stones set into each point of the cross. Once again he was struck with the overwhelming sense that had filled him when he looked at the box. He knew this object. The J stood for Jack and the M for...
Without him understanding why, his eyes filled with tears.
‘What does it tell you?’ Blanche asked.
‘I’m not sure. I need to think.’ Jack clutched the cross in his fist, swallowing it from view as an immense sense of loss filled him.
Blanche was looking at him sorrowfully. She put her hand to his cheek, but stopped a finger-length away as he glared at her. He yearned to fall into her arms, comfort himself and drive out the pain that filled him, but another voice was whispering in the back of his mind that she was to blame.
With trembling fingers he put the chain around his neck and let the cross drop down beneath his shirt, against his bare skin where it belonged. This was the presence he’d been missing. The nagging feeling that something was wrong righted itself. With it came tumbling a tumult of sensations and memories, and with it a single word.
Margaret.
‘What did you say?’ Blanche was looking at him with concern on her face.
Jack hadn’t realised he had spoken.
‘Margaret,’ he repeated in a voice crusted with pain.
He drew the cross out from beneath his tunic, clutching it tightly until the garnets pressed into his palms, causing discomfort. He looked at Blanche, but she swam and blurred before his eyes. He was weeping and the grief was swelling up inside him, consuming him with unbearable, agonising memories. His knees buckled and he staggered back against the wall to stop himself from falling.
‘My wife. This was hers.’
‘You’re married?’ Blanche’s voice was a devastated whisper.
Jack covered his eyes with his hands, feeling tears spilling between his fingers. He knew who Margaret was. Knew where she was now.
‘Had.’ He looked at her bleakly. ‘I had a wife,’ he repeated.
He looked again at Blanche whose complexion was ashen. She had a hand out, poised to touch him. To offer comfort to him? To seduce him again?
‘What can I do to help you?’
He jerked away. Kindness would end him now. Consolation from Blanche would destroy him more completely than from anyone else.
‘Get out.’ He flung a hand towards the door.
‘You shouldn’t be alone,’ Blanche protested.
‘I want to be.’ The grief that was welling up inside him was close to flooding out. He was close to breaking and refused to show his pain in front of the woman who had kept the means from him to discover the truth.
‘I could have discovered this a week ago, but you kept it from me. If I had known, I would never have made love to you.’
He glared at her. ‘Is that why you kept it? So I would bed you without realising I was being faithless to her memory?’
‘No! I thought both initials were yours. I knew nothing of her until you spoke her name and confirmed it.’
Blanche looked as if she was going to weep and the sight made Jack furious. What reason or right did she have? His stomach twisted. What was it to her if an unknown woman had died?
‘Out!’ he bellowed. ‘I don’t want to see or speak to you.’
She didn’t protest, but practically ran to the door and fled up the stairs. Jack slammed the door and, feeling his strength begin to ebb, leaned against it, head resting against the wood with his arms limp at his sides. He felt his tears soak into the oak and lost all sense of how long he remained there. It could have been a heartbeat, it could have been a day.
Blanche didn’t return. Finally, Jack slumped on to the bed, holding the cross against his heart as memories of his wife rolled over him: a mist of fine golden hair, blue eyes and a sweet, smiling rose of a mouth. Girlish laughter filled the empty room. He gave himself over to mourning afresh. Now he understood why he had the deeply rooted
inclination to let his life end if that was his fate. Existence had become so unbearable without Margaret’s company. It was too cruel that he had forgotten the memory of her life, but a blessed respite that for a short while he had been released from remembering her death.
Chapter Fourteen
For the rest of the day Jack remained silent, sitting by the window or pacing about the room and grieving. His tears dried, leaving him with a dry hollowness in his chest where the pain had been greatest. He didn’t eat, though occasional knocks at the door, followed by the sound of something being placed outside his room suggested someone was bringing food. He ignored both.
He slept fitfully and woke late in the day, but with a greater sense of peace. The shock of the return of such dreadful memories had apparently jarred something in his brain, like a stubborn door finally giving way to a firm kick. They were still insubstantial and half-formed, but with the sadness had come more memories, and now he had an image of a house and a bedchamber as well as his wife. He would recognise the house if he saw it and was convinced now that he would be a whole man again once he returned there.
When there was a lull in activity, he could hear the waves crashing beneath the castle rocks and his soul and heart pulled him towards the sea. England and true understanding beckoned enticingly. Two more nights, then Nevez would be sailing for Roscoff. Jack intended to be on board.
By nightfall, he knew that his seclusion was verging on becoming self-indulgent. He began to notice his hunger and thirst and resolved to deal with those practical matters. He hesitated before leaving his room, remembering how he had thrown harsh words at Blanche. He didn’t want to see her. His fury had been reasonable but his conduct insufferable, and dealing with the tangled emotions was a trial he preferred to delay until he had eaten.
Jack waited until the sun had slipped beneath the horizon and the orange glow over the castle walls were consumed by shadows of purple and grey. Once the shadows were black and the building was quiet, he felt safe to slip down. When he opened the door, he tripped over a figure on the stool where the guard had sat on his first days in the tower.
Anger and resentment rose in him. He hadn’t been guarded since the first day he had emerged and he thought enough trust had been built between him and Blanche that she no longer felt such a precaution necessary, especially now he had a greater understanding of who he was. His wrath and the way he had spoken to her must have caused her to reconsider. He didn’t blame her for that.
All this flashed through his mind before the figure grunted and looked up from the book in her lap. It was Blanche herself who was sitting there.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jack asked stiffly.
She closed the book and placed it at her feet before standing and facing him. The flame in her lantern danced, fingers of shadow caressing her cheeks. ‘Waiting for you to come out.’
She was dressed in a plain brown gown that looked crumpled as if she had been sleeping or sitting in it. Her hair was loose, falling in tangled waves halfway down her back. He folded his arms and glared down at her, still resenting her betrayal.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since dawn. Andrey insisted I left at midnight last night and slept a little. He took my place in case you came out.’
Her eyes were shadowed with deep purple rings. She didn’t look as if she had slept much. On the floor beside her was a tray with a half-eaten pot of stew and some chicken bones. Jack’s stomach growled.
‘You must be hungry,’ Blanche said. She looked at him warily, clearly uncertain how Jack would behave. ‘Shall I bring you something?’
‘I’ll go myself. That’s why I came out,’ he admitted.
She picked up the lantern and beckoned him and led him down the stairs, motioning for him to draw back the bolts on the door. They crossed the deserted courtyard to the kitchens in the outbuilding. The evening meal had finished but there was still the scent of the stew Blanche had eaten. In the kitchen she found a clean bowl and ladled him out a large portion.
‘I’m afraid it has gone cold and this is all that remains. This was going to be for the dogs.’
Her voice was matter-of-fact and reminiscent of when they had first met and he had been an imposition: an indication that they were no longer friends. Jack’s heart squeezed with loss. He took the bowl from her.
‘Thank you, this is enough.’
He sat at the table and moved various utensils out of the way to make space. Blanche brought him an earthenware cup of cider. Jack viewed his meal morosely. Now he was faced with food, his appetite had diminished.
‘You should eat,’ Blanche urged softly. ‘Even though the food tastes like wood and sticks in your throat like ash you have to force yourself.’
The description was apt. Jack picked up the spoon and toyed with it.
‘The grief feels too big for anything else to fit, doesn’t it,’ Blanche said.
‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ Jack said curtly.
He glanced at her and met eyes full of gentle empathy that made him melt. She’d lost two husbands and had grieved for them. She understood. He was being unforgivably rude and he loathed himself for it. What kind of mewling lump of self-pity was he?
‘Will you join me?’ he asked.
She pulled up a stool and sat a little way from him—hesitant in his company, which was hardly surprising given the way he had screamed at her to leave him. He began eating. Blanche nodded encouragement. He felt like a child being praised by a mother, which was a sensation he didn’t want to associate with Blanche in the slightest.
‘I should have given you the cross sooner,’ she said. ‘I thought it was for the best but I was wrong. It wasn’t my decision to make. I’m so used to being in charge I forget sometimes how to let others make choices.’
It was a simple apology and Jack felt more ready to accept it. His heart opened up a little more at her inadvertent admission of loneliness. ‘You should trust others to make decisions. You don’t have to rely on yourself all the time. You have friends and if they care for you they won’t make bad choices for you.’
Blanche looked doubtful. She poured herself a cup of cider and drank it as Jack ate. They sat in silence but it was a slightly easier atmosphere than it had been at first. He did feel better now his belly wasn’t empty. The cider started to make his head a little fuzzy and a warm feeling spread over him. Blanche’s quiet presence was comforting too and of course she would understand better than most what he would be feeling. He laid down his spoon and poured them both a second cup of cider. He looked at her in the flickering lamplight.
‘My wife was called Margaret,’ he began.
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Blanche said, gripping his hand and shaking her head.
‘I’d like to. I want you to understand,’ he said.
She withdrew her hand and put it in her lap.
‘Her name was Margaret. She died.’
‘In the shipwreck? Oh, Jack, no!’ Blanche’s face twisted and took on a look of complete horror. ‘If I had known, we could have searched.’
‘Not then,’ Jack answered. Seeing her earnestness confirmed anew that Blanche could have had no part to play in any such brutality. ‘She cut her hand while spinning wool and her blood became poisoned. The physician said there was nothing he could have done to save her.’
He took another swig of cider to try fortifying him. He looked at Blanche who gave him a sad smile. ‘I wasn’t there. I was in France. When I returned, all that was waiting for me was a grave. Her mother told me what had happened. She had been gone three weeks by the time I returned.’
‘I left England again. There was nothing for me there. We have no children, thankfully. We’d only been married a year or two I think.’
‘You think?’
Jack wrinkled his brow. ‘The memories are still hazy. I can remember her face,
the sweet smile she had and her hair. It was like sunshine on a spring morning.’
Blanche touched the end of her raven locks. He wondered if she was aware she was doing it. She and Margaret were different in almost every way but he was as drawn to Blanche as deeply as he thought he had ever been to his beloved wife.
‘How did you bear the pain when your husbands died?’ he asked.
‘I had to live. To survive. At first that was all that mattered, but then I found a purpose and gradually I felt myself caring about the world. You will, too.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Jack said. The impulse to end his life made sense now. A heart filled with grief that had been too heavy to bear. It was a wonder the weight had not dragged him straight down into the depths of the sea. He was past that stage now, at least.
He bowed his head and put his hands to his face. He heard the stool scrape on the floor then felt Blanche’s arms come about him from behind. He tensed then relaxed his shoulders, easing himself into her embrace. She gave him strength. This was what he should have done all along rather than hurling anger at Blanche, but taking comfort in the arms of another woman had felt like a desecration of Margaret’s memory.
Blanche leaned against his back, resting her cheek against the back of his neck. He felt her draw a deep breath and he shuddered as the softness of her breasts pressed against the broadness of his shoulders. She wrapped her arms tighter around him.
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