Chapter 26 #2
“What is so damned amusing?” his father spat as he made his way around Benedict’s still trapped, still kneeling frame.
“You broke—and before me. Another failure.”
His father growled, hatred turning his gaze to stone. It was another moment like the one they’d shared in the study—a fundamental shift in their relationship. Benedict would pay for those words the same way he’d paid for the last.
But his father had no more threats left to make.
Benedict’s entire life had been carefully orchestrated to please the fragile man before him.
He’d done everything, destroyed everything his father had ever asked.
Benedict had shattered any hope of a future with the woman he might love—hell, he wasn’t confident he even knew what love was—all because of this man.
“Don’t you understand? There’s nothing left. My inheritance is in ruins—because of you. You took my mother, my childhood, my future. You’ve scarred me, body and soul. There’s nothing left to break. This is your legacy, Father. Beautiful, isn’t it?” he spat the last words at his father’s feet.
“Careful, boy. There are still a few strips of your back I haven’t peeled.”
Benedict locked eyes with him—a challenge. One Ambrose wasn’t prepared to meet. A breath, two, then he turned and rounded the table toward the door.
But Benedict had forgotten one thing—the violet smashed across the floor.
Before he could force a sound of protest through his lips, his father’s hessian boot squashed the delicate petals. Ambrose continued on, not glancing, not even slowing. Benedict’s heart stopped as he stared at the little flower, crumpled against the stone.
Ambrose exited the greenhouse. Stark and Enys continued to hold Benedict back, though they needn’t have bothered. His father had, in fact, successfully broken Benedict in the end. And he hadn’t even realized it.
There was no doubt in Benedict’s mind that his father had forgotten the precious violet. If he’d remembered its existence, he would have crushed it with more fanfare, relished the destruction, reveled in Benedict’s devastation.
But he hadn’t. Because the bloom Benedict had pinned all his hopes on meant less than nothing to his father.
Stark dropped his arm and moved in front of Benedict, then reared a foot back. His boot landed in the center of Benedict’s stomach, leaving him gasping, gagging. Enys released his other arm at the same moment, leaving their victim to flop to the ground in a pathetic, bleeding heap.
Without a word, the men left him to his retching; the door clicked shut behind them. Alone, the full weight of Benedict’s injuries enveloped him with a shocking ferocity.
His back screamed in pain, all anguish, burning, throbbing torment.
Even bound for hell, Benedict could not imagine the demons there capable of such mutilation.
Familiar though he was with his father’s preferred weapon, this was uncharted territory.
Never before had Ambrose struck so many times at once, or slashed so deep.
It wouldn’t have shocked Benedict to learn that he’d cut to the bone.
Typically, Stark’s kick would have been a mere annoyance. But paired with the severity of his lashing and the heartbreak of watching his violet crushed… Benedict wasn’t certain if he could rise from his knees. And he wasn’t certain that he wanted to.
What would be the point?
There was nothing waiting for him. Nothing worth standing for. No violet. No home. No family. No Eliza.
He stayed there, on hands and knees, forehead pressed to the cool slate, for an eternity while his gut settled and the wounds on his back seared along his nerves.
When the greenhouse door opened again, Benedict tried to scramble back on his knees.
“Easy lad, it’s only me,” a man said, his hands held forward in a placating gesture. It took Benedict’s pain-addled mind a few moments to recognize the elder Weston. “Damn, he’s left you in a right state, he has.”
West’s father had patched up both boys a time or two in their youth, and Benedict relaxed the tiniest bit. Until Weston’s foot rose over the crushed violet.
“Wait!” he rasped before breaking into a racking cough. “Stop.”
Weston froze, staring at Benedict with confusion.
“The flower,” Benedict wheezed, feeling every bit as pathetic as he looked.
The man glanced down to find the bloom beneath his hovering foot. He stepped back, then kneeled to examine it.
“This is your father’s handiwork. I’d know it anywhere. The pot is a pretty little thing. It means something to you?”
Benedict could only manage a nod.
“It’s still got a fair few roots. I reckon it’ll be grand with some babying. You, too, I expect.”
“I don’t… just leave me.”
“Now that’s a fool’s notion. I never left you when you were a boy. I’ll not start now.”
Weston rose and walked around the flower before making his way to Benedict’s side.
“Bloody hell!”
“Yes, he was… inspired today. No one… to blame but myself.”
“The hell you don’t. You’re not fit to stand.”
“I can stand. Choosing not to. Nice enough here—there are worse places to die.”
“You and my son, fair dramatic enough for the stage. I’ll not allow you to die. You can behave and make it easy. Or I can find Effie. She’ll scold you back to life, she will.” Weston said. If anyone could scold someone back from the grave, it would be West’s mother, Euphemia Weston.
Gingerly, he pressed himself up to his knees.
The older man caught his arm with great care, steadying him while Benedict righted himself.
A wave of sickness crashed over him as he stood.
He flopped forward and retched again. Fortunately, there was nothing left in his belly.
He spat in a way Bella would have found distasteful, but he wasn’t concerned with what Bella found tasteful at the moment—not after she’d written to their father.
Her betrayal, which had seemed so minor a few nights ago, now felt insurmountable. Benedict very much doubted he could have delivered the news of his failure in any way that wouldn’t have ended right here. But Bella’s letter had stolen that possibility from him.
Benedict straightened again, swaying.
“Easy, lad.”
Weston shuffled him forward, one inch at a time, until he could clasp the edge of the table and hold himself upright. “You’ll not make it to the cottage. Not in this state. We need an extra set of hands. Wait here a tick.”
“Not—” Coughs broke from Benedict’s chest. “Not your wife,” he wheezed.
“No, you fair took a beating. I’ll spare you the tongue lashing. Alice saw Blackwood with the whip. Came to find me. I’m only sorry it took me so long. Wait here. I’ll fetch her and back to the cottage we’ll go. And then we can fix your flower.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Now, what gave you the fool idea that you choose what I care to fix?”
“It’s just a flower. Leave it.”
“I’ll not be doing that.”
“Weston…” Benedict cautioned.
“Ben…” the other man mocked. “You don’t want your bloom. So you’ve said. If it’s fair done for, then it’s nothing wasted but time. If I can fix it and you still don’t want it, you can knock it right back over. I’ll help you do it.”
“Fine,” Benedict bit out.
“Now, wait here.”
Benedict nodded, frigid, sweaty palms pressed against the wood. Weston abandoned him, the door swaying in his wake.
For several minutes, Benedict resisted the siren call of the violet. Eventually, his gaze caught on the purple petals. He shuffled around the table, using his palms for stability. When he reached the flower, he tried to lean down.
Fire shot through his back and his knees failed him. He collapsed to the ground with a sickening smack, barely missing the bloom. The pain in his back was so severe, he could not even feel the fresh pain surely radiating from his knees.
Without permission, his finger reached over to brush along the blossom. It was still intact, only one petal separated from the rest. Weston was right; most of the roots remained.
He gathered the largest piece of his pot, the bottom cup, split along an angle but still capable of containing the bit of root, dirt, and flower that remained. The pot trembled in his hands. No sooner had he placed the remnants of his violet in its final, equally broken urn, than Weston returned.
He observed the scene for a moment before taking the pot and plant from Benedict and placing it on the table. “You don’t care a bit about that flower. Not at all,” he teased, gentle, bemused. “‘Leave it,’ he says.”
“Where is your help?” Benedict asked, a bitter note creeping in.
“Alice went to fetch the wagon. Reckons it’ll be smoother than the walk.”
A moment later, the woman in question rounded the corner with blankets piled high in the wagon. “Come now, lad. We’ll settle you inside. And you can bring your flower with you.”
“It’s only a flower,” Benedict repeated.
At some point, without his notice, his fingers and toes had grown quite chilled. He let Weston haul him to his feet again before rubbing his hands together. The fabric on his cut palm unraveled for his efforts.
His frustrated sound earned a shooshing from Weston as he guided Benedict to the waiting wagon. Alice helped guide him inside, then wrapped the blanket around his front.
She froze when she caught sight of his back. “Christ above! What has he done to you?”
“That pretty?” Benedict asked, voice quivering with his frame. When had he started shivering?
“Oh, lad. I am so sorry. I should’ve stopped him somehow.”
“It would’ve been you then, Alice. And Blackwood needs you far more than it does me.”
“That’s not true—”
“Here you are. Hold onto your little pot,” Weston interrupted, then thrust the pot into Benedict’s twitching hands. “You hold tight to that now. Keep it safe.”
“Alright,” Benedict said. He swayed along with the wagon all the way to safety.