Widow in White

Chapter Twelve: A Parting Gift

Jonathan Percival had a broken heart.

He didn't think anything would make that right ever again, and certainly it needed a stiffer drink than cheap French wine to dull the pain. He was on his second bottle, and the pain seemed only to have swelled and warmly softened within him. The sight of a dark-haired beauty cuddled in the lap of a brawny sailor by the bar threatened to bring him to tears. There was love. There was happiness. The dark-haired beauty kissed her lover and caressed his cheek. Soft words were spoken, too low for Johnathan to overhear. His heart ached to imagine what they might be. The sailor nodded his head towards the door that led to the rooms above. The dark-haired beauty drew back and shook her head with an adorable pout. The sailor said something, then the dark-haired beauty gave a snort of disgust, swung her legs to the floor, and flounced off, showing a great deal of round white calf beneath her cropped skirts. Percival had just enough time to feel heartbroken on the gentleman's behalf before the woman passed his table and said contemptuously no one:

"Frogs! Skinflints, the lot of 'em."

Her accent was distinctly cockney, and Percival, who had been in Paris two weeks and was homesick and heart-broken besides, did not think before speaking to her.

"I say, Madame," he said. "Are you English?"

The woman whirled, her skirts flying up several inches north of plump white knees. She flashed him a smile. "I am. Where 'bouts you from, m'lord?"

She sat down without invitation on the bench next to Percival, right about the moment that Percival realized, somewhat tardily, that she was no sailor's lover but a lady of the night. By then, of course, it was too late for Percival to ask her to leave. That would be rude. He swallowed.

"Manchester," he said, in barely more than a whisper.

"Oh, I never been there." The woman fixed her smutty blue eyes thoughtfully on his bottle of wine. "That's nearly empty."

Percival had not observed this fact. In fact, he would have argued that the bottle was yet half-full, if he had the spirit for arguing. But he didn't, so he made no protest as the woman called the garcon for another bottle and another glass with it.

"That's better," the woman said, taking a deep draught. "Warm in 'ere, isn't it?"

She fanned her chest — a task made much easier by the very low cut of her gown. Percival shifted uncomfortably on the bench and tried to think of Laura, only that started tears pricking in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" the woman asked in concern.

"I'm in love," Percival said.

"Ain't we all." The woman sighed heavily. "Well then, tell your aunty Nancy all about."

She was not much of an aunt, being several years younger than Percival, but she was a good listener. And after another bottle of wine, Percival forgot that he was talking to a fallen woman and began to feel quite comfortable with her. She was a clumsy little thing; it was a wonder how often her foot — bare, she wore no shoes — would run into his under the table, or how the slightest commotion at the rowdy bar would make her shriek and duck against Percival for cover. By the time they were on their third bottle of wine, she was beginning to sway, and it seemed wisest for Percival to keep his arm around his waist to steady her.

"But it's the saddest story I ever 'eard," she said sleepily, tracing her finger over his chin. "And you'll never see 'er again now. It's a right tragedy."

Looking into the woman's misty blue eyes, it was beginning to seem less of a tragedy. Perhaps the wine had managed to dull the pain after all.

And then, without quite knowing how it happened, Percival found himself kissing the woman. When he drew back, she had a strange, almost pained look in her eyes. Then it disappeared as she smiled.