Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 4

So maybe two broken people gravitate to one another when they share heartbreak and feel rather lonely. Go figure.

When dinner came around, Clara barely ate. She said she was just tired, but still the owner of the house worried. He knew such things as her husband's death could be traumatizing - he knew better than most anyone else, actually.

He had been pondering the topic of her curiosity. She was bound to discover that he was a Templar sooner or later, and he hasn't missed the spark of recognition when he introduced himself. The circumstances of her husband's death still nagged at him. He wanted to know quite badly, but also knew that she was nowhere near ready to tell him.

They continued this friendly, albeit distant relationship for the next week, when Clara began to show definite signs of improvement. She mourned her husband, though not as much as most widows might.

Haytham never asked why.

The night after the funeral, she was sitting quietly at the dinner table when she spoke up. "Forgive my intrusion if the topic is a sensitive one, but where is your wife?"

The question caught him off guard completely. He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Excuse me?"

"This ordeal has given me a great deal of perspective, and I had wondered why I have not seen your wife. You wear a ring, but keep no pictures on the mantle." She continued, growing a little more brave.

Haytham let out a chuckle and she soaked in the sound. "How observant of you. The reason you've seen no woman of the house is because there isn't one."

"You are a widower, then?"

"Hardly. I've yet to marry, if ever." He scoffed, taking a sip of wine.

Clara's curiosity grew with every word. "You've yet to marry? You're fairly well off, and there are far less attractive men in the world. Surely it is not a shortage of suitable women that has stalled you."

"It is, actually. A compliant housewife that sews and reads all day every day is not the kind of woman I might fancy." He remarked, thinking of Ziio. His mind often wandered to what they might've been like together, although lately it had been less frequent an occurrence. A relief for the Grand Master, to be sure.

"You and my husband couldn't differ more. He always - well, never mind that. It matters very little now. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead." She cut herself off, a masked expression on her face.

Haytham gently pressed her to tell him with a, "I am willing to listen, should you care to tell."

Her eyes met his, and anger burned in them. It was not directed his way, however, and he was thankful for that. She was barely controlling her mild venom when she said, "He valued me more as a trophy than an equal. His image of a perfect wife was exactly what yours is not; a dainty woman who is content to live out her days bearing children and sewing embroidery."

"And you? What did you want?" He asked, leaning back in his chair.

"My opinions didn't matter." She glared at her plate, and he was surprised it didn't crack in fear.

Haytham's voice was low and earnest when he spoke next. "Not to him, perhaps, but they matter to me."

She looked up at him in shock, and seeing the sincerity in his eyes, she thought on her answer. Her response came a minute or so of silence later. "If I had the choice, I would never sit idle and become a porcelain doll. At least now I have no obligation to remarry a man like him."

Approval shone in the man's eyes. "Your honesty continues to impress." He said, and she smiled a little.

Their little routine of peace that had been going strong was shattered as soon as a servant hurried into the room.

He carried a letter in on a platter. Haytham looked up at him, unamused. "Any news for me can wait until after I've finished my meal."

"Pardon me, sir, but it's from Master Birch," The messenger stuttered. "on the topic of one Jennifer Scott."

Instantly Haytham changed from relaxed and amiable to terse. He opened the letter and skimmed it briefly. His jaw clenched and he carefully folded it again, not looking at the courier or Clara as he ordered, "Prepare a carriage to Boston and arrange for a journey to England. I leave tomorrow morning at the latest."

The man nodded and scurried away. Clara looked at Haytham as he stood and turned to her. "I have to go. You may stay as long as you desire."

He started walking out at a fast clip. The widow was stunned for a moment, but quickly followed him. "Mister Haytham, wait!" She picked up her skirts and jogged to catch up to his long strides. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can rest and recover." He replied shortly.

"But -"

"This is no concern of yours. Don't ask again." He snapped.

She stopped short, hurt in her eyes that soon hardened to anger. "Very well, Master Kenway," she spat. "You won't find me in your way when you wake up tomorrow."

Perhaps if he'd truly thought it through, he would have stopped and apologized; they both would've. But he said nothing, leaving her to an empty hallway and the memory of his retreating form.

True to her word, she was gone the next morning. It had taken an hour or two and several bouts of nausea at how hard she pushed herself, but she was back at her empty manor. There was no blood on the stairs, and a new carpet had replaced the one her husband bled out upon.

The sight itself made a conflicting mix of emotions writhe in her chest, but she pushed it down. No use crying over it when it changed nothing.

Her resolve to seek vengeance was far from gone. In fact, the spat with Haytham rekindled it. She would track down the killer and make sure she paid. Her husband may not have been perfect, but they'd loved each other to a degree.

Later that day she looked in the mirror. Her pale complexion and long hair greeted her. She was by no means heavy, but far from lean and muscled. That would change, she vowed. But first, to be rid of that long, annoying mess of hair she only kept because her husband liked it.

A look of hard determination was seared on her face when the shears clicked, and the hair fell at her feet.