Chapter Sixteen A Respectable Marriage #2
“Then false,” he said impatiently. “But it was already in circulation. Nothing I did created it.”
“What did you do?”
He moved away from her, toward the windows.
Mary Beth followed. “What did you do, Benedict?”
“I allowed a man connected with the paper to understand that the county had reason to discuss your conduct.”
“Allowed him.”
“I did not dictate an article.”
“Did you pay him?”
“No.”
“Did someone working for you pay him?”
His silence returned.
Mary Beth closed her eyes for one moment.
When she opened them, Benedict was watching her with something close to frustration rather than shame.
That told her more than any confession.
“You frightened the merchant.”
“I advised a business acquaintance that Blackthorn might soon undergo changes.”
“You interfered with the bank.”
“I asked a reasonable question about future management.”
“You obtained my private letters.”
“To prevent worse use of them.”
“And when I refused you, pieces of them began arriving at my house.”
“I told you I did not send them.”
“But you made them available.”
His temper finally broke through. “Because you would not listen.”
The words rang in the room.
Neither of them moved.
Benedict exhaled, then lowered his voice. “You would not listen to what was happening around you. You treated every consequence as proof that society was wicked and you were therefore required to defy it. I wanted you to understand that independence has limits.”
Mary Beth regarded him.
He heard himself too late.
Benedict rubbed a hand across his mouth. “That was badly said.”
“No. I think it may be the first clear thing you have said to me.”
“Mary Beth, I have tried for months to save you from becoming a spectacle.”
“You needed the spectacle.”
“I needed you to see what refusal costs.”
This time he had said it plainly enough that neither of them could pretend otherwise. He came toward her. “And now you do.”
Mary Beth stepped back, and Benedict stopped.
His voice softened. “Marry me. I will end it.”
Mary Beth could hear the carriage clock ticking in the hall beyond the closed door.
He went on carefully.
“By tomorrow I can have the York merchant’s terms restored.
The bank will cease worrying about management.
My mother will receive you publicly again.
The hospital committee will rediscover its courage.
The letters can be purchased outright and burned in your presence.
I can put solicitors against any paper that prints another word. ”
“And Ambrose?”
Benedict’s mouth tightened. “Tavener has already left.”
“That was not my question.”
“He remains unsuitable.”
“To whom?”
“To the life you have.”
“The life I have seems remarkably crowded with men deciding what is suitable for it.”
“This is not about jealousy.”
“Then you will have no difficulty answering. If I married you, and Ambrose Tavener came to the front door of Blackthorn, would he be admitted?”
“No.”
The directness almost hurt.
Benedict continued before she could speak. “I will not pretend otherwise. I will not have my wife maintaining a friendship with a former lover under her own roof while the county laughs at me.”
“He is not a former lover.”
Color rose along Benedict’s cheekbones.
Mary Beth said, “He is the man I love.”
Benedict went still.
She had never told him.
For a moment the room held only the quiet crackle of coal in the grate.
Then Benedict gave a small, humorless laugh. “You love him.”
“Yes.”
“A quarryman’s son.”
“Yes.”
“A contractor who slept in your guest room while taking money from your estate.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe that will end well.”
“I don’t know.”
That answer surprised him.
Mary Beth continued. “I know he left without giving me the right to argue, and when I find him I intend to make him miserable for it. I know the county may shut doors. I know the merchant may demand cash and the hospital may never ask for my carriage again. I know people who have less money than I do may suffer because of me. I have spent two days hating that.”
Her voice threatened to shake. She refused to let it.
“For several hours last night, I even wondered whether marrying you would be the responsible thing.”
Benedict’s face changed.
Mary Beth saw hope appear, and for one terrible second she understood how easy it would be to give him what he wanted.
The awful part was that he could fix much of it.
He could restore credit with a letter. He could make doors open because his mother had only to enter first. He could place Blackthorn beneath the protection of a name the county respected.
Tenant daughters would not be warned away from service because their landlord was sleeping with an engineer.
Suppliers would stop wondering whether scandal made her unsafe.
The newspapers would discover some fresher appetite.
Mary Beth had money. Benedict had legitimacy.
Combined, they would be very difficult to punish.
She had once believed boredom would be the worst part of marrying Benedict. Standing there, she understood how much worse gratitude would be. He would spend the rest of their lives reminding her, gently and reasonably, that he had rescued her from a fire he had helped set.
“Last night,” she said, “I might have said yes.”
Benedict took another step.
Mary Beth lifted one hand.
“This morning, the bank manager told me someone connected with Sablehurst had raised questions about Blackthorn’s future management.
You have just admitted you paid to obtain private correspondence and allowed gossip you knew was false to reach a newspaper because you wanted me to understand the limits of my independence. ”
“I admitted no such—”
“You did.”
“I tried to control damage.”
“You arranged damage you believed you could later control.”
“That is an ugly interpretation.”
“It is an ugly thing.”
His face closed.
Mary Beth crossed to the bell pull and rang.
Benedict’s disbelief was almost boyish. “You are dismissing me.”
“I am asking for the door.”
“You have no proof of half of what you are accusing me of.”
She turned back to him. “Then you will not object if I seek it.”