XXI – Interlude

Steam lightly rose off of the water in the wooden washtub – tight, spiraling tendrils that wisped away into nothing and vanished.

Yet Yvonne gazed through them without seeing them, her arm crossed slightly over her chest and her hand holding a sponge against her shoulder. So deep was she in thought, that she had forgotten to follow through with the repetitions of washing away the dirt and grim from her pale skin.

The truth was, there were no maidservants on the Daydream to assist her, and after all that had happened the past couple of weeks, Yvonne found that this task – this singular task which should have been so tremendously simple when compared to escaping Adet and Chauvelin – was just the opposite. She felt sluggish and lost, and she wished she could have someone do it for her. Someone who could gently rub the soft sea sponge over her delicate, porcelain skin, massaging and easing away the tension that had built in her muscles, so that all she would have to do would be to lean back and relax and...

Think.

Yes, that was the exact trouble. There were too many thoughts whisking through her mind, racing 'round and 'round, to allow her to do two things at once. In fleeing France with Sir Percy, his League, and her husband, there had been no time to think. Until now. Until this one moment in which she was alone, in a small yet comfortable cabin upon milord's yacht, trying to wash herself.

She was bitterly reminded of Adet's words so many years ago – that she could never wash him away. Was he still right? Was he still haunting her?

And worse, there was the nagging sadness in the back of her mind, hovering at the edges of her vision and threatening to overcome Adet's memory: the fact that her father was dead.

She blinked back the tears against her lashes, swallowed a small sob, and clenched her arms more tightly over her chest.

Her father was dead. Adet had managed to exact his revenge, even partially. She was still alive, but her father was dead. Her father was dead.

There was suddenly a soft knock upon the door of her cabin, and Yvonne gasped. The sound brought her back to reality, out of the awful truth that was threatening to overwhelm her. She quickly composed herself and called out in a trembling voice, "Qui est-ce que c'est , s'il vous plaît?"

"Votre époux , madame."

She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh, relief flooding her at the wonderful response in her native language. Her husband.

Composing herself again, she bade him to enter.

He came into the cabin quickly and turned to bolt the door behind him, to ensure they would not be interrupted. To her further surprise, he carried fresh, warm towels – obviously heated somewhere upon this lovely ship – and wore simple breeches and a billowing, linen shirt. It was strange attire on him, but she rather liked it when she thought of the brilliant satin ensembles he had worn throughout their courtship at so many parties and balls and dinners. This was real, simple, less confusing. It required less thought, and she was quite tired of thinking. So tired of thinking that she did not even care that she was nude before him, when she was vulnerable in so many other ways as well.

He paused and looked at her – not a lustful, hungry look – but one of intense worry and sadness. She immediately diverted her eyes, unable to see him with such an expression. But before she knew it, he had gently placed the towels upon the floor, and knelt beside her to take the sponge from her inert fingers and begin her task himself.

Yvonne could not help it; the gesture was so unlike anything she had expected from an Englishman that she simply burst into tears, and the moment she did, Tony's arms encircled her tightly, his shirt becoming soaked from the water upon her skin. His lips were beside her ear, whispering over and over in French that he was right beside her, even though he had failed her and she had every reason to think ill of him, to hate him for what he had allowed to happen.

Between sobs, she realized what he was saying. That he blamed himself, when he was not to blame at all. She tried to insist, desperately, that she did not think ill of him, that he had failed at nothing, and that neither of them had been expected to suspect her own father.

Her father.

The thought of her father sent her into tears again, and it seemed a long time later when she finally managed to regain control of herself and remember her surroundings. With her fingers clenched in his wet shirt, she lifted her head and whispered, in an almost too-calm voice, "My father is dead, Anthony."

There were tears in his own eyes. "Yes," he whispered back. "I know, darling."

They released each other together as if by a mutual understanding and, as if trying to find something to keep him busy, he lifted a large jug of water from the floor to rinse her hair.

As he poured the warmth gently over her head, he said quietly, "Do you remember Jean-Marie, dearest?"

Wiping her eyes, she found herself startled by the memory. "Yes. He was my coachman when I was a girl."

"He was the one who took your father's body from me, and he promised me that he will ensure your father is buried in hallowed ground with proper rites. He asked that I tell you... so that you will not worry for your father's soul. And he sends his wishes for your eternal happiness."

"I will always be happy if I have you, Anthony" she said shyly. "Even if I am struggling now. I will be well soon enough." And, with a soft sigh, she started to wring her dripping hair. "I will rest easier though, knowing dear Jean-Marie has taken father's eternity into his hands."

"And now, you should have a long sleep," he said gently, helping her rise from the washtub, and then wrapping her in the soft towels. "For your father has been tended to, and there is nothing more we can do for him. God will take his soul." He gazed into her eyes and added, "We may stay aboard the Daydream as long as we wish, my love. Once we lay anchor in England, Percy advised that he would see to having proper attire fetched for you, but only when you desire it."

She nodded, like a child, and allowed Anthony to dry her – standing still and quiet, as she had when she had been a child, and allowed her maids to do everything for her.

He reached into the pile of warm towels and tugged out a clean shirt, which he pulled over her head – one of his billowing linen shirts, for she recognized the familiar, comforting scent. Then he helped her towel her hair beside the small lamp, until it was nearly dry, and went to tuck her neatly into the cot as she twisted her legs and climbed beneath the think blankets.

But Yvonne stopped him before he could go, grasping his wet sleeve in her fingers and meeting his eyes imploringly.

"Will you please stay with me? Please?"

He paused, but it was only a fraction of a second. Then he immediately stripped out of his shirt and breeches and crawled into the cot with her, as though he had been desperately hoping she would allow him to sleep with her. Yvonne felt as though it were necessary, for by allowing him to remain, it was almost a tangible representation of her "forgiveness", if he felt he needed such, which he didn't, for she still loved him as dearly as she had the day she had married him. His body was burning and she curled into him happily, her exhaustion carrying her to sleep, as Anthony held her close.