“Well—they are taking care of her at all events. Many would write off a by-blow, particularly after she was married.”
Anne grimaced. “Yes, but to be beholden to people—blood relations—who resent your existence, who ignore or belittleyou… No, whatever she may or may not be, she has my pity for that.”
“That’s true,” Caroline admitted. It was something of a relief that Anne did not find Mrs. Scott verboten. Caroline really should be able to predict Anne’s counsels by now, but she still guessed wrong. It was difficult to know which quality of moral and societal good would be uppermost in Anne’s mind. Compassion? Duty? Preservation of moral society? Condescension—in a benevolent and kind way—to those beneath her? Caroline was still far from a holistic understanding of Anne, even as they spent hours and hours together.
Anne sharedCaroline’s suspicion with Wentworth when they were alone in their cabin.
“Ah, do you think so?” he asked. “Mrs. Scott doesn’t have the look of Marston—at least not that I can see—but I’m a dunce at faces.” He dumped his wash-water in a pail and poured about a half-cup for her. They were far more careful of water on the ship than they had ever been on land.
“Yes, but I wonder why they brought her on this trip,” Anne mused. “Surely, if Sir Mark feels she has some claim on his support, he could offer her a pension and not flay Lady Marston’s feelings. Or Sophia’s.”
“Sophia?”
“Mrs. Scott.”
“Oh, yes, that is true. But not every husband is—er—concerned with his wife’s sensibility.” He kissed Anne’s head as he traded places with her deftly so that she might wash.
“Yes, but don’t you think—between the two of them—that Lady Marston is the more decisive character?”
“Now you mention it, yes. She definitely rules the roast, to put it bluntly.”
“Exactly.” Anne’s brow furrowed. “That makes me concerned for Sophia. There are people who enjoy having someone nearby to—heap censure on, if you know what I mean.”
“Hm, a whipping boy of sorts? But there is no one who needs a scapegoat.”
“No, but some people enjoy criticism, the same way some enjoy their own ill-health or misery.” She thought briefly of her sister Mary and said a quick prayer for her future. “Have you noticed how short Lady Marston is with Sophia?”
“Yes, but then I’ve never heard her rake her down. She barely speaks to her.”
“That is true, but I heard raised voices last night when I lay awake. I couldn’t hear the particulars, but it was Lady Marston and Sophia.” She ducked under his arm to get to the small cabinet in the wall. “I know there is little I can do; but I hope to befriend Mrs. Scott, at least.”
“I think you’ve done that already.”
“In a way; but she keeps me at arm’s length. I suppose it is to be expected; she may not wish anyone to commiserate with her.”
“What do you mean commiserate?” he said with mock displeasure, moving around her with precision. They were quite expert at navigating the tiny room without collision now; it was almost a dance. He poured out her water now that she was done washing, and she leaned to the side while he stretched out his arms to take off his white, high-collared shirt. “I hope you have no current misery tocommiserate with.”
“Of course not. I meant sympathize—you know.”
“I do.” His nightshirt was waiting in her hand when his shirt was off. She was—needless to say—still not accustomed to looking at him bare-chested, with only breeches, but in these in-between moments before his knee-length nightshirt went on, her eyes were often drawn to the scar that interrupted the plane of his chest. It was left-over from a bayonet wound; it was“hardly more than a scratch.” Yet it ran from the bone that jutted out near his shoulder toward his navel and disappeared into his breeches.
He paused in pulling on his nightshirt, his eyes warm. “See something you like?”
“Don’t tease,” Anne said, blushing. “It is that terrible scar. I can’t see it except I think how you might have been lost.”
“It still hurts on occasion,” he said.
Her eyes flew to his. “You never told me that.”
He tried to remain grave, but his lips twitched. “Perhaps a kiss would make it all better.”
Anne laughed. She traced it lightly with her fingers. “Butdoesit hurt?”
He seemed a little short of breath. “Twinges at times.”
She pressed a kiss to the top of the scar, then a little lower. “That’s a shame.”
He exhaled shakily. “I don’t deserve you.”
