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Marthe had no particular intention of sitting vigil for Janet Blyth until she finally returned home from whatever sort of debauchery she'd gone looking for after yet another argument. She was only awake when the woman who was now, ostensibly, her wife wandered in because she had become absorbed in a book of poetry lately given to her by a woman friend from the little salon which came to meet in her home. So she was seated beside the fire in her evening robes, poring over the verses, when Janet stumbled inside, presumably admitted by a nervous servant. Though Marthe's chair was faced away from the door and concealed her a little, the commotion made her turn her head and glance over it in Janet's direction. Clearly, she didn't notice Marthe; she'd stopped to lean her back against the doorframe, a fist pressed to her mouth as she bit down on it. In the silent house, Marthe could hear her breath hitching, and realized that she was crying.
She glanced back at the book in her lap, illuminated by firelight, wondering if she ought to stay where she was. There was an even chance that Janet was drunk, with how she'd come in. Perhaps she'd go up to bed on her own, and Marthe would wait to join her until she'd fallen asleep and let her set herself to rights in the morning without asking questions. Certainly, she'd done it often enough in the past, and let Janet have what she could salvage of her dignity simply by ignoring her. These nights were preferable to the ones when she didn't come back at all, having allowed herself to be wooed into spending the night with whatever man at the place she'd chosen to go drinking had taken a fancy to her appearance, or else thought she was far-gone enough to accept a proposition from him. It was, Marthe supposed, her own choice to put herself at risk—and it wasn't as if she lacked the capacity to defend herself—but there were moments when she did let herself feel something akin to worry. That she'd made it home meant there was no cause for concern, really. Speaking to her would only lead to a late-night drama which would be unpleasant for both of them. For a moment Marthe let her eyes drift back to the poem, and tried to ignore the pathetic little sounds coming from across the room.
The sound of Janet's voice interrupted her, a muffled, "Why won't it stop?" and all at once, she closed the book as her chest squeezed uncomfortably. When she stood, she saw that Janet was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up against her chest and head tilted back to fix her gaze on the ceiling; the low light caught the glint of tears on her cheeks. Her breathing was fast, not merely with crying but what Marthe now recognized as panic. The alcohol, it seemed, had hardly dulled it, which made her stomach swoop unpleasantly. Whatever had put her in that state must have been… severe, as Janet was quite practiced at numbing herself to the point where such things wouldn't happen—as Marthe was practiced at helping her, for the sake of her sanity. There were, she knew, only so many ways one might find peace in the world, and the solace Janet had leaned on for over a decade was so thoroughly corrupted that the mere thought of retreating to prayer or confession filled her with a palpable, corrosive shame. Small comfort in sin was something Marthe was willing to tolerate rather than let the woman suffer in the isolation of her own mind.
Because she did not wish to provoke her, and because she was for once at a loss for what to say, Marthe did not speak when she reached Janet, who looked up at her hazy and perplexed. She opened her mouth, but kept quiet as well when Marthe sat at her side rather than greet her. Janet shut her eyes, which made more tears spill, and Marthe took one of Janet's hands in hers without really thinking about it, running her thumb over the back of it. She spoke one word—"Breathe"—and did so herself, slowly and more audibly than she might have otherwise. It had been a little of what lay behind the poems she'd once recited with Frances Crawford as she lay shaking through the throes of opium withdrawal: the stanzas made space to inhale and exhale, the moments were prescribed evenly. Janet, she thought, would not be cured just now by poetry from her mouth. After all, she wasn't Lymond, and that remained her cardinal sin; to highlight anything the two of them shared now would merely be another wound.
Looking down at the hand she held, she noticed now that the flesh was hot and swollen in places, the knuckles bruised. For a little while, she waited while Janet's breathing settled to something shaky but gradual. Only then did she dare to ask quietly, "Are you hurt?" Not what happened, not who did you hit or why; it wouldn't do to bring up whatever had set Janet off in the first place again, and besides, she might not want to know the answer. Janet responded forcefully, her hand clenching under Marthe's.
"No. I mean… it's just this." She looked down at her own knuckles. "I didn't… I stopped him." Marthe waited, did not ask. Another span of silence followed, but Janet said, "I didn't want to go home with him, and he followed me and tried… I don't know what, but he was angry, and grabbed me—there was a dagger. He tried to make me hold still with it, but he didn't know what he was doing. So I hit him." There was a heavy, trembling sigh from her. "I hit him until he dropped the blade, and then until he stopped moving."
Marthe's breath caught, but she tried to keep her tone even. "I can't say I'm surprised that you won the day," she replied, "but I am sorry that the fool made the mistake of attacking you."
Janet shook her head and sniffled. "It's nothing worth…"—she gestured vaguely to her own face—"this. It was—I don't know, I haven't been in a fight like that in…" she shook her head. "It felt like I was fighting for my life, once he knew I wasn't going to give in, and it doesn't… fit together with this place." she made a noise of derision. "This isn't Tripoli or Gozo." No, Marthe thought, You weren't fighting for your life alone then. All she said was,
"Come to bed. I'll bandage this if you want me to." She stood, and after a pause, Janet followed hesitantly. Will she be able to sleep? Marthe found herself wondering. There were nights of tangled sheets and groaning, frightful dreams, after all. Then again, those were aided sometimes when Janet woke to remember that she had company; even if Marthe was not a husband in the truest sense of the word, she was at the very least not an enemy, or a face of war to Janet, which seemed to comfort her.
"Do you really want me there?" Janet muttered as she got her balance.
Marthe wrinkled her nose; she did smell of alcohol, to be sure, but there had been worse nights. Waking up next to Janet fully-clothed and breathing in the scent of wine and sex and men all at once had turned her stomach at first, before she remembered to master herself. "You are the lady of this house," she said at length. "You have your place there, always." Then, her hand laced once more in Janet's, she led her up the winding staircase, toward their bedchamber.