Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [73]
He looked puzzled.
She hurried on before he could say something that would make it impossible for her. How on earth could she do this without sounding awkward, humorless, and incredibly arrogant? The only recourse was to be honest. She looked at him steadily, seeing in his face both the intelligence and the capacity for pain. “I’ve been behaving as if I were not married, and I am,” she said quietly. “I’m very married, and I love my husband. I just miss him a great deal when he’s away, and I’ve forgotten how to behave properly. I owe you an apology for that, and I am sorry.”
The color bleached from his skin, leaving the freckles standing out. “I see.” His voice was husky. “Yes, of course you are . . . married, I mean.”
She knew she had hurt him, and despised herself for it. How incredibly, contemptibly selfish. Whatever Ben felt for her, it was mild compared with the disgust she felt for herself.
Mrs. Bateman returned with the large chocolate cake. “There y’are, Miss Hannah. You tell Mr. Joseph it’s the best Oi’ve got, an’ it’s on the house.”
“I can’t do that!” she protested. “I’ll . . .”
“You’ll take it,” Mrs. Bateman said with a satisfied smile. “If Mr. Joseph won’t accept it from me, then let ’im bring it back an’ say so to me face. He’ll not do it, Oi’ll wager. Whole village thinks the world of ’im, Miss Hannah. You tell him that. Now, Mr. Morven, what can Oi get for you, sir?”
Joseph accepted the cake. He knew Mrs. Bateman had an excellent kitchen, and it was her pleasure to give away the best now and then. It was her way of marking her respect for certain favorites. It would hurt her to have refused.
It was a warm, comfortable evening. Hannah said nothing, but he knew from the direct gaze she gave him, and the very slight, rueful smile that she had faced her problem, and dealt with it.
But later, alone in his room, he lay awake, conscious of how abrupt he had been with her, and how sure of himself when he had not even considered what might lie ahead for her. What if Archie were one of the thousands who would not come back from the sea?
She had accused him of being pompous. Was she simply lashing out with the charge she knew would hurt him most? Or was she right? Was he a hollow man, criticizing where he had not walked? How much life and love was there inside him? Was he judging a passion he had forgotten how to feel, a warmth and a hunger he had lost?
He had been so busy trying to answer other people’s needs that he had stifled his own. And without that ache of life, the vulnerability to hurt, what understanding did he have of any of it? Or of anybody who had the courage to be all they could, to be hollowed out by joy and pain into a vessel big enough to hold all of life?
Coward was a terrible word, the ugliest known to a soldier—and perhaps if they were honest, anyone at all. He was accustomed to the reality of courage in the trenches, what it cost a man to face misery daily, to see his friends blown apart and so much torn flesh they were barely recognizable as having once been men. And he had seen them do it with dignity and quiet, self-effacing humor.
What courage had he? The courage to face other people’s wounds, but not to risk sustaining them himself?
No, that was unfair. He was hurt by their pain. He realized with shock just how much he dreaded going back to Flanders. For over a week now he had avoided even thinking about it. His mind had been filled with the need for him here, among his own people, in the village where he was born, and the incumbent priest was useless.
He fell asleep still troubled, not liking himself much.
On Saturday Joseph was invited to dinner with Shanley and Orla Corcoran. Hannah had been invited also, but more as a courtesy than with the belief that she would come. She had a previous commitment to take the children to a party in the village.
“I have no way to get to you,” Joseph protested.
“Lizzie Blaine will come for you,” Corcoran replied. “She has a friend to visit a mile