Scorned [ONC 2024]

Chapter Sixteen

A sharp gasp escaped my lips. Mr Turner smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, though the slightest movement looked like it hurt him.

"That bad, huh?" he asked. He winced as he spoke, the bruises across his jaw no doubt causing him a great deal of pain.

"That depends on your definition of bad." I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out one of the bandages. "You should be glad I thought to bring this, though Mrs Folkestone has only given me ten minutes before she sends Paul."

"Then we should get started. There's a bowl of water over there."

He lazily gestured to the dresser before backing up and sitting on the edge of the bed. Every movement pained him, and it was hardly surprising. I crossed the room and grabbed the bowl, carrying it across the room and placing it on the floor. My knees creaked as I crouched down to soak the washcloth in the lukewarm water.

Up close, the bruises were far worse. They were a splattering of different colours; fading yellows, light blues, and the deepest of purples imaginable. He winced every time he took a breath, and there was an imprint of something on his side. I wasn't sure what to do about the bruises, so I wrapped the bandage around his chest as carefully as I could, careful not to hurt him any more than he already was.

I used the cloth to clear away the blood from his face. One of his eyes had started to turn purple and there were long scratches across his cheek. Nothing appeared broken, though I didn't know enough about medicine to say for certain.

"I saw Miss Oleson," I said, removing the last of the blood. The water in the bowl had turned a pale pink colour, as had the once-white washcloth. "In the village. She showed me the letter you sent her."

"Before I came back?"

"Yes."

Mr Turner sighed. He closed his eyes a little and took a breath, wincing as he did so. "So you know about Miss Bolton."

"Did she do this to you? I saw bruises on her knuckles not too long ago."

He didn't respond. Mr Turner looked away from me, staring at the back wall as though afraid that I might judge him for what she did. For someone like Mr Turner, whose character was constantly scrutinised, I couldn't blame him for feeling embarrassed. People would judge him far more than they would her because he couldn't stop her actions.

"It's not your fault what she did. She needs to be punished for it. She assaulted you."

"No." He turned back to face me, his eyes wide. "No one can know because I shall never be able to live it down. Not to my parents, to my friends, more importantly to myself. They will think me to be weak."

"No, they won't. You haven't done anything wrong and you shouldn't blame yourself for her actions. No one will think any differently about you for telling the truth."

"I can't." Mr Turner's voice was barely above a whisper and I almost missed it.

"Then how are you going to explain the bruises? You haven't left this room in days and Paul knows you didn't get those bruises at the public house and you can hardly tell them you're a heavy sleeper."

"I'll just wait for them to go down."

"Lord Turner is considering taking the door off if you don't come out. You may not have a choice but to face them. You can either tell them the truth, or let her do it to someone else. She has bruises on her knuckles. Martha saw them too. They won't be easy to talk away."

His eyes met mine, a small frown in his eyebrows. Mr Turner looked more like a child than a grown man with a reputation. He wasn't the rake everyone made him out to be. Instead, a broken, beaten man who had been torn from the woman he loved sat in front of me. His reputation may have preceded him, and a portion of it was true, but the rest were fabrications.

They were fronts to hide the real pain he was in.

Each story, no matter how extreme it might have been, must have been Mr Turner's own way of hiding the pain he was in, covering up the struggle he faced. The bruises could be explained away in fights over women, or in public houses, and the rest of the stories just followed afterwards. I could hardly blame him for going along with it, especially if the shame he felt in himself was so strong.

He didn't deserve any of what he got, from the abuse to the rumours. All he did was fall in love with someone his parents deemed wrong for him. It wasn't a crime, at least not in the eyes of the law, and he should have been able to love whomever he wanted. If he had, none of it may have happened.

"You can't keep this hidden forever," I said after a few moments of silence. "They need to know the truth, all of it. If they don't, Lord Turner will keep pushing for the match." I locked eyes with him. "You don't have to do it alone. I'll go with you."

"Will you?"

I nodded. "I saw the bruises on Miss Bolton, and I caught her hanging around outside just a few days ago. If it fails, Martha saw the bruises on her knuckles and Bertie was witness to the state your chest was in after you went to the public house."

"Father won't believe any of it. He will say it is nothing more than a story to prevent the match. No one is going to believe that she did anything to me."

"Then we make them believe you. We can scream it from the rooftops if we have to."

Mr Turner smiled. He opened his mouth to speak, but a loud knocking stopped him. "Who's that?"

"It's probably Paul. I've been here for longer than ten minutes. I'll get rid of him."

I stood up, ignoring the creaking in my knees with the movement. Mr Turner turned his head away from the door to hide his face as I unlocked it and let it swing open.

"Well, well, well, this certainly is a cosy affair."

~~~

First Published - March 7th, 2024