"How do you feel?" he asked her gently.
"Better than I look, no doubt."
"Do you want to see anyone? Or wait until later?" His eyes darted back over his shoulder.
"I’m all right," Jenny said, half-turning to see who it was.
Tory and Jack were standing just behind Thomas. Jack was glowering; Tory was white with rage. When they saw she was awake, Thomas stood aside and Tory rushed in to crouch down beside the bed.
"He’s not going to get away with this," Tory seethed, hugging her friend.
"But there’s nothing to be done." Jenny sighed.
"Oh yes there is," said Jack, reaching down to help Tory to her feet, and slipping a supportive arm around her. He probably didn’t even realize the tenderness of the gesture, it was so instinctive. "Come into my office, when you feel well enough, Jenny. We’re going to put a stop to this."
She sat up as they went out and found herself dressed only in her chemise. She scarcely remembered getting out of her clothes last night. But she remembered Thomas sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking her unbound hair until she fell asleep. She never dreamed, so she could only pray that what she remembered from last night was real. At least as real as her swollen, encrusted eye and her throbbing cheek. When she chanced another glance at Thomas, he was standing at the foot of the little bed with a thick length of fabric folded over in his arms. The look in his eyes as he gazed at her told her all she needed to know. Peering past him, she saw a blanket thrown over a couple of folded painting tarps on the floor, where he must have spent the night. Then he smiled and held out the thing in his hands, one of his old paint-splattered smocks.
"Put this on for now," he told her. "We’ll sort out the rest of your things later."
When Jenny had made a reasonable attempt to wash up and pulled on the canvas smock over her chemise and nibbled at a bun and some coffee Thomas had procured for her, she let him escort her down to Jack’s office. Jack was sitting behind his desk with Tory perched on the arm of his chair. Alphonse Belair and a thin gentleman Jenny did not recognize sat at one end of the broad desk. They motioned her to a chair opposite Jack and Jenny braced for their pitying stares. But Mr. Belair was all business.
"Mrs. Kennett, allow me to introduce Mr. Dalton. He is a licensed conveyancer in the office of our solicitor."
"It is my business to write up legal deeds," murmured Mr. Dalton, with a nod. "At your service, Madame."
"Alphonse has had a very busy morning," Jack explained to her. "He believes there is a legal solution to your problem."
"If it is not too distressing, Mrs. Kennett," Belair went on kindly, "Can you tell Mr. Dalton who assaulted you?"
Jenny glanced again at Jack and Tory, surprised, but she turned to Dalton. "It was my husband, Charles Everett Crowder."
"You saw him clearly? There could be no mistake?"
"None."
Mr. Dalton scribbled something on a paper before him.
"There are very few grounds upon which a wife may sue her husband for separation," Alphonse said to Jenny. "Life-threatening cruelty is one of them."
Jenny slumped back a little in her chair. For a moment she had almost dared to hope.
"If you can prove it," she sighed. "If you can convince a judge it was not earned by bad behavior."
"Nobody 'earns' such punishment," said Tory.
"I have the deposition of several witnesses in this room as to your condition," said Mr. Dalton. "Mr. Ashbrook is quite specific as to the time of your appearance at the theatre last night. And we have this."
He withdrew from behind the desk a sheet of parchment about the size of one of Thomas’ sketchbooks. It was another charcoal drawing of her battered face, like the one Thomas had sketched last night, but without the addition of the colored chalks. The conveyancer brought it closer so she could see that the page had been dated this morning and bore Dalton’s signature, as a witness. She glanced at Thomas, standing beside her chair.
"I made another one last night, while you were sleeping," he told her.
"We can have you up to Doctor’s Commons in London by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, looking exactly as you do, now," said Jack. "Once you’ve obtained a matrimonial citation against so distinguished a person, a very public court hearing is guaranteed."
"But he will only sue me in return for my adultery," Jenny’s eyes fell, " . . . my . . . abandonment."
"In which case," Tory suggested gently, "You will be free of him. If he wins his suit."
Jenny frowned up at her. She had asked Crowder often enough to dissolve their union in court.
"But he won’t win," Jack added. "You will. As soon as we have this drawing published in every newspaper in London."
"God’s blood," Jenny whispered aghast. "He would murder me."
Thomas put a steadying hand on her shoulder as Mr. Dalton made another private note.
"I don’t believe it will come to that, Mrs. Kennett," said Belair. "Do you not think Mr. Crowder would do everything in his power to avoid such public litigation?"
She nodded warily.
"Mr. Dalton suggests a deed of private separation drawn up between yourself and your husband. A mutual agreement of terms to be written up by Mr. Dalton himself. It is as binding as a judicial separation obtained in court, but far less public."
"But . . . he will never consent."
"He must," countered Belair, "or face the humiliation of a very public trial at the court of King's Bench. From which, win or lose, he can only emerge as a monster. In either case, as Victoria says, you will be rid of him."
Jenny had never even dared to imagine what her existence might be like without the ominous weight of Charles Crowder crushing the life out of her. Even during her early stage career, he was always there, occupying the barren part of her heart, blighting her hopes.
"What sort of terms?" she asked.
"Whatever you like, Madame." Mr. Dalton folded his hands and leaned forward, a model of discretion and efficiency. "In the most usual cases, the gentleman is freed from responsibility for his wife’s debts while the lady receives an annual allowance to maintain herself — "
"I don’t want his money," Jenny declared.
"No, indeed?" Dalton looked astonished, but only for an instant. "Why . . . in that case, there should be no great impediment to a satisfactory conclusion. We shall ensure that he relinquish all claim to your person and your possessions, of course."
"And he must keep away from her," Tory put in. "He can’t be allowed to hound or harass her."
"No contact," noted Dalton. "That can be arranged."
"May I . . . " her voice came out so husky, Jenny swallowed and tried again. "May I ever see my son?"
But she knew the answer from the silence that followed.
"I am very much afraid," murmured Dalton, at last, "that paternal rights are always upheld in court. Even in cases where the husband’s adultery or cruelty are proved, his rights over his children are inviolate. And when a mother has been . . . long absent . . . unless you can persuade your husband to agree . . . "
Jenny hung her head as a knife twisted in her heart. As evil and oppressive as Crowder was, he was her last link to her boy. And she was about to sever it.
"You will be free of him," Tory encouraged her.
Jenny nodded again and lifted her head.
"You might also wish to include a clause against future litigation," suggested Mr. Dalton, more briskly. "Deeds of private separation are sometimes overturned in court if either party reneges upon the terms of the agreement. But such a clause must be very carefully worded. If, for example, you request that your husband not interfere with any of your future arrangements of, ah, a personal nature, a conservative magistrate might choose to overrule the entire deed on grounds that it encourages immoral behavior."
"You shall still be legally married," Belair translated. "You may not attempt to marry again, if the deed is to remain legally binding."
"One marriage in a lifetime is more than enough," Jenny agreed.
"And who shall act for the lady?" asked Dalton.
Tory frowned. "She will, of course."
"But such a thing is not possible, Madame. A married woman who chooses not to live under the protection of her husband must name a gentleman as trustee to act in her behalf and sign all the necessary documents."
"She is not allowed to sign for herself?" Tory gaped.
"I will serve as trustee," Jack broke in, before Tory could say any more. "With Mrs. Kennett’s permission."
"Thank you, Jack."
"Well, then, it will be no great matter to draw the document up," said Dalton. "How soon may we obtain the signature of the other party?"
This was met with uneasy silence, the others all glancing fitfully at each other.
"We do not know at present where he is," Belair admitted.
"I know where he was last night," Jenny sighed. "Although it is unlikely he would stay there after Kit and myself . . . " But she stopped abruptly. Kit. She had last seen him being led outside the tavern only a moment before Ben Marks had spirited her away.
"Kit!" she cried, looking desperately at the others. "Oh, God, if Crowder did this to me, what might he have done —?"
She had sprung up out of her chair before all the words were out, bolting for the door as if she might yet follow his trail, protect him, somehow from her maniac husband, if only she —
It was only Thomas catching her by the elbow that prevented her hurtling into a jaunty figure just coming in the doorway.
Kit was dressed in the same pearl grey suit he’d worn the night before, but dark rusty patches stained his cravat and shirtfront and the cuff of one jacket sleeve. A bit of white plaster was taped entirely across his nose and there were dark purple shadows under both eyes, but he was grinning like a boy as he stepped into the room. Until he saw Jenny.
Jenny was too overwhelmed with fear and relief and shock at the sight of him to take another step, grateful for Thomas’ support. They could only stand and gape at each other for a moment. Then Kit closed the gap between them with one long stride and drew her into his arms.
"They told me you’d run away," he said, pulling her close. "Jenny, I had no idea —"
"I did run away, sparing not a single thought for you, my dear."
"I should never have left you alone."
"It’s my fault. Oh, Kit, your poor face!"
Kit lifted her chin very, very gently with his delicate fingertips. "Look at what is calling the kettle black!" And he kissed the top of her forehead. Then he held her out at arm’s length. "And what is this . . . object . . . you are wearing, Kennett?"
But he could tell by the paint splotches what it was. And he darted a curious and critical glance at Tom Ashbrook.
"Come sit down, lad," Jack said to Kit, nodding toward the chair he had vacated and brought round to the front of the desk, next to Jenny’s. "We’re discussing the future."
"I’m afraid we’re a fine pair of gargoyles for your playhouse, Jack," Kit sighed, taking his seat. "We shall have to play masked, like the Greeks. Although I expect a broken nose may give this face a more rakish character."
"They broke your nose?" cried Jenny.
"Oh, aye. But wait until you hear what I’ve learnt for my pains."
He told them how Billy had gotten him outside and punched his face against the wall, and how his friend Delaney had come along in the middle of it.
"Our Billy was hired to make away with me and leave me for dead, but he could not resist having his fun with me, first. Then when he saw what he’d done, he was so full of remorse, he repented in tears. What does it say about me, that my partners are so full of repentance? Well, at any rate, he confessed all, and Mr. Delaney and I had just marched him back to the Half Seas to find you when some other fellow comes clattering down the back stairs. Rugged-looking fellow with a mole on his cheek."
"Ben Marks," said Jenny.
"Exactly," said Kit. "'That’s the one as hired me,' says our Billy. So we thrust him out to intercept him. And Marks told him to fly away, that the lady had run off and the old boy was in a terrible state. We let Marks go his ways and stationed ourselves at both exits until Crowder himself finally emerged, muffled up and shrouded like Grim Death. We commanded Billy to disappear before I swore a complaint against him. And Mr. Delaney and I gave pursuit."
"But, darling, you must have been exhausted," said Jenny.
"Why, I was feeling a bit light-headed by the time we were done," Kit admitted. "But Delaney had a room nearby and kindly took me in. He’s been an amateur boxer in the merchant fleet; knows a very great deal about breaking and mending bones." He paused for an instant with a soft, reflective smile only Jenny would have noticed.
"But it was worth the effort, for the information we learnt," Kit continued, turning to beam at Jack. “We found the hotel where Crowder is stopping. And under what name."
Top: Doctors’ Commons in London, from Microcosm of London, Thomas Rowlandson, 1808.
Above: Court of King’s Bench, Westminster Hall from Microcosm of London, Thomas Rowlandson, 1808.
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