Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 3

The afternoon came around after a series of fitful dozing and Clara's head worsened, leaving her trying her best not to vomit on the pristine linens under her. It didn't help that after she had set aside Haytham's cloak (for fear of ruining it) she saw that her dress had been replaced by a nightgown.

That wasn't what troubled her; it was kind of her host to have his maids change her into something more clean. But the bloodied dress was a reminder of her marriage, of her grief, and to have it taken away was painful in a form she couldn't properly describe. Perhaps she was delusional.

A quiet knock on her door shook her from her reverie. After it came a tentative female voice. "My Lady? May I enter?"

"Yes, please do." Clara called, struggling to keep her voice level.

A maid entered, mousy and petite. She kept her head down, but couldn't refrain from a few curious glances at the widow. "Master Kenway wishes for me to be your personal assistant, milady."

The girl was barely out of her teens, and Clara found herself smiling. It was pleasant to talk to another woman. "Please, just Clara. And what shall I call you by?"

"M-Mandy, mila-  Mrs. Clara." The younger woman stuttered.

"Would you be so kind as to help me dress and prepare for my tea with Mister Haytham, Mandy?" Clara requested, sitting up farther.

The maid hurried to assist her in standing, then went off to the closet and procured a simple, soft dress. Thank goodness, it had a light, flexible corset for comfort rather than appearance. The skirt wasn't ridiculously stuffy and large, and there wasn't a hint of lace to be found.

The widow slid on soft leather boots as well, with low heels. Either Haytham had a wife and knew exactly what he was doing for a relaxing outfit, or he had gotten advice from another woman. She was grateful nonetheless, and with Mandy's help, walked down the hall to the salon. It was slow going, what with the fogginess in the widow's head making her footsteps shaky, but that soon cleared after she moved around a bit.

Haytham was there, looking crisp and immaculate as ever, save the tricorn and coat, the latter of which was grasped loosely in Clara's hand. He was looking over papers, brow furrowed in concentration. "Thank you for the clothing." She said.

At her tired voice, he looked up with a small smile. "Of course. Am I correct in assuming you came for tea?" He asked, setting the papers aside. She nodded and sat across from him, a small table between them. "Excellent. It should be out any moment now."

Clara handed him the coat, which he accepted. "That would be another thank you for lending it to me, I believe." She said. "At this rate, I'll be indebted to you forever." It was meant as a joke, but only to an extent. She owed him quite a lot. Her life, to begin with.

He shook his head. "You have no obligation to return any generosity you receive under my care. Everything I do I do of my own violation and will."

She mulled over what she wanted to say in response for a bit before speaking. "Not by you, perhaps. But I am grateful, and it would be against my moral beliefs to not return the favor. Should you ever be in need, you are welcome to visit myself and my estate, be it to enjoy tea or discuss business."

"Then I suppose we are both helping the other out of choice. How interesting." He was studying her quietly, but his intense gaze was drawn away when low tea came in rolled on a cart.

When the snacks were settled on the table and the tea was poured, Clara lifted her cup to her lips, but paused before sipping it. "Is this Earl Grey?"

Haytham looked mildly surprised. "A keen sense of scent, I see. Yes, this is Earl Grey."

She smiled and took a small drink before setting the cup back down. Her nausea was gone for the time being, but she still couldn't bring herself to eat or drink much.

When the thought struck her that her husband was dead, his body rotting on the floor in its own blood, and she was enjoying afternoon tea with a man she'd only met the day before, she felt sickened with herself.

Haytham looked startled when she abruptly stood. "I'm sorry, I can't - I need air."

She rushed outside, her stomach churning. The headache was back in full force, like a nail digging into her temple where she'd hit her head on the stairs.

She couldn't have seen it, distressed as she was, but those slate grey eyes of Haytham's were filled with concern. He ordered Mandy to follow and make certain Clara was safe, then sighed and leaned back. So much for a relaxing low tea.

The woman was obviously traumatized and hardly in any shape to write about seeing to her husband's body. So he sat down at his desk and began sending correspondence to the various people necessary to start on setting her life back. His personal courier set off just before the evening meal, the horse's hooves kicking up dust.

Clara came in a few minutes prior to that, shaken deeply. She looked guiltily at Haytham when she came in, but he forestalled her apologies. "What you did was perfectly understandable. Are you feeling better now?"

She nodded, then shook her head. Her eyes were glassy. "I should get to informing the undertaker and the others of his death. It needs to be done soon or -"

Her voice hitched and she left that statement unfinished. Haytham stood, giving her a reassuring smile. "I've already sent word.

If you asked either of them later, they couldn't say who moved first, but Clara found herself crying into his immaculate white shirt, and Haytham found that he couldn't care less.