Chapter Three:
Small Crimes

Lead me out with the waste; this is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you
It's the wrong time for somebody new
It's a small crime I've got no excuse.
-Damien Rice "9 Crimes"

Clarke knew that Mary didn't sleep that night. In his mind's eye, he could see her lying in the trundle bed beside Charlotte, staring blankly at the ceiling as he did now within the solitude of his own bed. He imagined her thinking of her late husband, of all they had been through, and of all that lay before her. He wondered if she even remembered those days on the Charlotte when he had cared for her, or if she recalled that he had once been kind to her and her children not so very long ago.

Strangely enough, it did not seem preposterous to him that she should one day forgive him for what happened to William Bryant. After all, despite the hatred he had always harboured toward the man, Clarke was convinced that what happened was just and right. Bryant could have come quietly, like the other two, but no, he was too proud for that. Clarke almost respected him as he had read the ancient Samurai of Japan respected their adversaries who died nobly.

If there was anything Clarke knew for certain, it was that Mary had a very keen survival instinct. She had once been content with her role as his chaste mistress en route to Australia, surely with time she would grow accustomed to this life, as long as she and the children were cared for. If there was one thing he could believe, it was that the only thing that truly mattered to her was the well-being of her children and he intended to ensure that they wanted for nothing.

Yes, surely she would forgive him. Surely God would as well.
………………………………………………………………………………………..

The next morning, Clarke went into the kitchen to find Mary cooking by the hearth. She didn't so much as look up at the sound of his entrance, so he sat down at the table, foolish words like, "Good morning", and "How are you today?" thickening his throat and paralyzing his tongue. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but where could he possibly begin?

"I'll have your breakfast ready in about five minutes," Mary finally told him flatly.

Clarke's head shot up and he stared across the room to where she stood, minding her cooking. He could remember a time when he had watched soft words stop themselves on her lips when he stood near her, just as they had with him. Mundane conversation had been almost as cautious and as tender as sonnets. Now there was nothing in her voice, not even the sweetness he had always so relished.

"Thank you," he forced himself to say, feeling just as he had those first timid days when he brought her to his cabin. "Where is Charlotte?" he inquired.

"Still asleep," Mary answered, evading his face.

"She has had a trying time these past two days. She must be exhausted." When Mary didn't respond, he ventured further, "And so must you."

His observation never received a true reply, just the sound of pots clashing with stone and an angry hiss from the fire. He started and went to the hearth to see what had happened and saw Mary holding her hand, inspecting a growing red spot that blistered in the centre while the contents of their breakfast fed the fire.

"Damn it all," she winced, her frustration fairly outweighing her pain.

Wordlessly, Clarke reached down and brought her to her feet and pried the maimed hand from the clutches of her whole one to examine it. It was blistering quickly, as though it had touched the flame itself. Still not breaking the silence, he kept hold of her hand and led her to his bedroom.

He poured water into the basin and gently cleaned the burn with lye soap, soothing the sting with his breath when she winced. He didn't dare to look in her face, but he could feel her eyes upon him with every move he made. Did she still hate him? Or was she remembering that, once, she had almost loved him? Trying not to think about it, he carefully rubbed salve into her raw flesh and dressed her hand with a clean linen handkerchief.

"Breakfast," she murmured, making it him forget his resolve to avoid her face and look up to see how very pale she was and how tired her eyes seemed.

Clarke shook his head.

"I'll make it," he said. "I'm rather used to cooking." Sighing, he brushed her hair back. "Get some sleep, Mary."

She didn't respond, she just remained standing there as though she hadn't heard him, as though she were in some sort of trance.

"Mary?" he said softly, trying to elicit some movement to prove she was still alive.Instead, she began to swoon, making him catch her up in his arms swiftly to prevent her toppling to the floor. Cradling her like a child, he carried her to his bed and laid her down upon the tick mattress. Lying there, she looked so like the girl he had known on the Charlotte, the one he had watched sleep every night.

Where was this new proverbial ship taking them now?

Mary slept for two days. He had never seen her sleep so deeply, as though she were trying to remain as far away from this world and the painful reality it nurtured as she possibly could.

During the day, he kept himself occupied by caring for the children and making plans to for the house and grounds. He changed the bandages on Mary's hand; he sketched portraits of Charlotte sitting on the lawn and of Emanuel in his crib while he slept. He listened for any sound of stirring from his bedroom.

At night, Clarke made sure the children were safe and well within their beds, like the protective father he considered himself to be; then, as quietly as a mouse, he opened the door to his room and shone a candle upon the bed to find Mary still asleep.

Standing in the threshold like a sentinel, watching her with a bittersweet mixture of adoration, guilt, and bitterness swelling within his breast, he counted the times she had hurt him. First: when she left his protection on the Charlotte. Second: when she married William Bryant. Third: when she gave a fisherman a child. Fourth, and greatest of all: when she came to his home, to his bed, solely for the purpose of deceiving him.

Choking back the resentment, he culpably remembered all the times he had hurt her. First: when she told him of her unborn child and he tore away from, he left her so coldly and so harshly. Second: when he ordered the whipping of another because of the anger he felt towards her. Third: when he killed her husband.
It was so strange: how their small crimes against one another had escalated into such black treacheries. He wondered how they could ever hope for forgiveness, yet he prayed for it all the same.

On the second day, the Governor's wife called upon them. Clarke had been in the garden with Charlotte, teaching the child how to plant daffodils along the veranda while Emanuel slept in his basket beside them. Upon seeing her approach, the former marine felt a sudden apprehension. Somehow, he knew she would find some way to torment him for the past.

When she entered the garden, without invitation, he rose to his feet, instructing Charlotte to do the same, and stood coolly as she drew near.

"Madam," he said, bowing at the shoulders.

"Lt Clarke," Marleen greeted curtly. "Hello, Charlotte," she said, smiling and bending to kiss the girl.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Clarke inquired uneasily, keeping his hand upon Charlotte's shoulder.

"I've come to see Miss Parker," Marleen answered. "I've been teaching her how to read and write; I thought we would continue, with your permission, of course."

Clarke felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He had been the first person to undertake Mary's education and he felt a pang of jealousy at the thought that she had gone on without him, in every way.

"I'm afraid Miss Parker is indisposed at the moment," he was half-relieved to say. "Perhaps you could call back in a day or so," he suggested, ever the well-bred Englishman.

"Thank you, sir," the woman would not be thwarted, "but I would prefer to see her now. I'm sure she will not object to the company."

Knowing that the Governor's wife had left no room for retreat, Clarke let out a small sigh of defeat.

"Come with me," he relented, leading Marleen into the house.

He opened the door to the bedroom with no small amount of reluctance and allowed it to swing upon its hinges, revealing the sleeping form on the bed.

"This is your room?" Marleen stated, rather than asked, shooting a dagger at him with her eyes.

"She swooned," Clarke informed her justly, bristled at her insinuation. "I carried her to my bed because it was nearest at the time and have left her there because this is the room she is least likely to be disturbed. I have slept in the parlour."

Even as he spoke, he couldn't suppress the nagging feeling of hypocrisy as he defended himself to her. Yes, he had conducted himself honourably in this instance, but did he mean to make this woman think he had never touched her? Did he intend to presume that abstaining from Mary Bryant could redeem him for his other sins against her?

"When was this?" Marleen inquired.

"Yesterday morning," he replied.

"And she has not woken since?"

He shook his head.

"Go and make some broth and some tea," Marleen instructed, sweeping into the room and perching herself at Mary's side. "You do know how to do that, don't you?"

"I am quite adept in the fundamentals of cooking, ma'am," Clarke returned brusquely.

"Then go!" the little Dutch woman commanded, shooing him away.

Clarke bit his tongue to hold back his protestations against being ordered about in his own house, remembering that she was the Governor's wife, a lady, and a guest and marched into the kitchen to do her bidding.

It wasn't Marleen's presence that unnerved him so; it was because she had had the presence of mind to know what ought to be done, when he had not. It was because she seemed to have earned Mary's love, the love he was so jealous for. It was because he believed Mary would awaken at her coaxing, but never his.

When he returned to the bedroom with the tea and broth, he found the Governor's wife smiling into the face of a flushed and awakened Mary. Seeing her blue eyes flutter in the sunlight for the first time in days, caused his heart to skip a beat and he couldn't resist the old smile she had always been able to wring from him with the slightest ease.

"Come in, Lieutenant," Marleen's voice instructed, shaking him from his reverie.

Clearing his throat, he proceeded into the room, taking care not to splash the contents of his burden. He could feel her eyes on him again and he wondered if it would always be thus, but decided it was far better to feel her eyes watching him than to think that he may never see them again.

He set the tray upon the bed next to Mary and ventured to look down upon her now subdued face.

For a moment, they lingered, caught in each other's gaze. She seemed so complacent and quiet, while he felt as though a bird were bashing itself to pieces inside of him. How could still feel this way, after all that had happened?

"I am glad to see you awake," he finally stuttered.

Mary didn't respond and Clarke felt the tension between them increase tenfold. Once upon a time, she had looked up at him in gratitude and contentment while he spoon fed her broth. He had been elated to see her shining eyes, overjoyed to hear her speak of turning from wickedness.

It amazed him how different this moment was. He felt the same ecstasy he always had when looking at her, but it seemed to be forever tainted by the blood and tears between them. He had crossed oceans to find her, only to discover that the widest, deepest, and stormiest lay in the breath of air that now separated them. That its waves crashed over William Bryant's body, over his own pride, over her pain, and he didn't have a ship to cross it.
Sensing that he had long overstayed his welcome, he nodded politely, nervously, and made his exit.