Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
The rest of the day blurred into a different, much less terrifying sort of disarray.
Augie’s guarded transport arrived with the ruinous sum Papa had collected—an amount that made Eliza’s skin crawl.
She knew how much more Blackwood had demanded.
A physician was summoned, who worked over Draycott, then moved through the rest of them with brisk efficiency.
By the time the constable appeared, her father was ready with a smoothed-over tale of accidental tragedy, and no one—least of all the constable—seemed inclined to mourn Blackwood or question the convenient narrative.
With Blackwood dead, Draycott failing, and Enys and Stark fled into the night, there was no outlet for anyone’s lingering fury.
Effie made order out of ruin—finding beds, food, blankets, even clothing for those who needed it.
Eliza remembered little but hands guiding her from task to task, bowls of broth pressed into her palms, voices murmuring reassurance she could not hear.
The day flitted away from her in smoke-tinged fragments until exhaustion finally towed her under.
Though she did not recall falling asleep—she was certain it wasn’t in the bed she woke in. The last thing she remembered was sitting down beside Benedict to partake once more in the bland broth the physician ordered in the late afternoon.
The sun was just beginning to kiss the sky when she sat up. A quick glance around revealed that she was in her assigned bed—in West’s former room.
Her body ached, but Eliza knew sleep would not return. She stretched her tensed muscles, biting back a groan at the pleasurable pain. Her eyes, nose, and throat were still raw, but she was alive—and so were her father and her… Benedict.
Eliza stood and padded over the soft rug, her feet bare. The chemise she wore—one of Effie’s—was far too short and cut a little tight across the bosom. But it was clean, and if it smelled of anything, Eliza’s damaged nose could not detect it.
She managed her toilette, as well as several of the other, more revolting, aftereffects of smoke. Effie had laid out a robe for her to wear. A repurposed robe à la francaise fashioned in a dusty mauve silk, it reminded Eliza of some things her mother wore on lazy mornings—once her stepmother’s.
Eliza was pleased when she looked in the mirror—far from the filthy, frightful creature she had seen the day before—she looked rather pretty.
Her eyes and nose were still a little too red, but her cheeks were a pleasing pink, and the robe complimented her pale skin and dark hair nicely.
Her hair, though it had taken more than an hour to tame the snarls and tangles the day before, fell down her shoulders in elegant ringlets instead of the usual undefined fluff.
She slipped out into the main room of the house and into Effie’s too-big boots with the express purpose of doing something she absolutely should not.
She wasn’t certain where Benedict had slept, but she remembered Effie pointing around to the back of the smoldering house when she spoke to him.
Eliza tiptoed past the stables, which held both the guards and the brigade, who remained to ensure nothing reignited—a terrifying consideration that had not occurred to Eliza.
Fresh dew covered the sparse grass as she strode through the foggy morning air. Far from the ravenous sensation from—was it two or three nights before?—the morning on the moorland revealed a new tranquility as waterfowl flew over her head to land in the pond in front of the house with a splash.
Eliza tried not to look at the ruins of Benedict’s home, but the bite of smoke still lingering in the air, or perhaps in her nostrils, made such efforts an impossibility.
The east wing was still standing practically untouched save for soot damage, from what she’d overheard the day before.
But the west… only the barest of skeletons remained, centuries of history gone in mere hours.
Bricks and rubble spilled onto the lawn surrounding it, the earth charred.
How close she had come to never seeing another dawn—to never knowing if she could forgive Benedict, never learning if her heart was true. The thought hastened her pace.
A light caught the corner of her eye. She spun, hand on her chest. The sight before her left her breathless.
The greenhouse was old, neglected. The windowpanes—the ones that remained unbroken—had recently been scrubbed clean. Someone had piled brush in a corner, clearing it away from the foundation but not yet disposing of it.
Eliza swallowed, uncertain if the pain in her throat resulted from the smoke or the knot of understanding welling within her.
She approached in a sort of trance. Her fingers traced along the ironwork surrounding the glazings as she examined the structure.
Inside, at the far corner, a stack of broken stoneware pots of varying sizes teetered precariously.
The undamaged ones lined the back wall, the largest housing the smaller ones inside.
A long oaken table occupied the center of the room—though she suspected it once belonged against one side.
Her heart skipped when she recognized the tiny, once broken pot in the middle of the table. It called to her.
She turned the handle and swung the door out.
As she stepped in, an odd rustling filled her ears. There, between the table and the wall—across from the one she had peeped through—sat a bemused Benedict Sinclair.
He’d slept in a makeshift bed built on the floor. His feet were closest to her, still underneath blankets, but pressed against the floor, knees bent. He’d sat up and had one arm casually slung across that knee. One bare arm.
Benedict Sinclair was shirtless in her presence again. It had been distracting enough while she cleaned his wounds. But now, clean and sleep rumpled… Her heart was sure to give out—there was no possible way it could maintain such a pace.
“Hello there.” His smile was teasing. His voice retained a little of the hoarse quality from the day before. Her body wasn’t concerned with the cause; the low rasp—so like the one he’d used in the orangery—had her nipples tightening in memory.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered, hoping he would attribute the nervous trill to their ordeal. “It didn’t seem like anyone was in here.”
“You didn’t. It’s a little brighter than I’m used to. And I had a lot on my mind. Also, I think a squirrel was trying to break in.”
“That must have been the most terrifying occurrence you’ve had in the last two days.”
“In truth, I did nearly piss myself. I woke, and it was right there,” he said, pointing to the glass pane directly above where his head would have lain. “Not my proudest moment, I’ll admit. But I promised myself I would never lie to you again.”
Eliza allowed the door to shut behind her, closing them in. The soft breeze, the splash of the ducks in the nearby pond, the chirps of the agitated squirrel all faded, leaving nothing but her breath and his.
Slowly, in a way she hoped was appealing and not ungainly, she sidled between Benedict and the table before leaning against it.
He swallowed but said nothing.
Eliza tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she gathered her courage to forge ahead. “Why did you?”
He twisted, shoving one of his pillows between the glass wall and his back. At last, he was situated facing her.
“I spent my life trying to please my father. What were the feelings of one girl against the demands of blood and duty? As it turns out—everything. But I had no way of knowing that.” Benedict ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled waves before catching her gaze again.
“My father insisted your father cheated him. Every single thing that went wrong in our lives was his fault. It was the only truth I’d ever known.
That made it easy to hate him—and you by extension. ”
Eliza couldn’t bear to see him sitting so small beneath her. She dropped to her knees before pivoting to rest her back against the cool glass beside him.
Benedict huffed before sliding his arm around her shoulder.
With gentle encouragement, he guided her to lay her head on his chest. It was a terribly awkward angle, no matter how nice the chest was.
He chuckled at whatever he read on her face.
Then he reached down and placed both hands around her waist. One moment she was on the ground; the next she was in the air.
When she returned to earth, she was between his splayed legs, her back against his still bare chest.
“Alright?” he whispered in her ear.
“Yes,” she croaked. Judging by how his sharp, quick breath rustled the hair near her ear, he understood her ragged voice was unrelated to the previous day’s smoke.
One hand reached across her shoulder and brushed the hair from it before Benedict settled his chin into the crook there.
“Why me? Why not Sophie?”
Benedict inhaled, her chest rising with his, then he released in a great sigh. “You know the whole of it. Bella spoke to you, thought you would be an easier mark.”
He offered her no excuses, no pretty explanations. As much as her heart suffered to hear it, she appreciated the forthright delivery.
“And your back?” she asked.
He hesitated before replying. “That is not what I thought you would ask. I should think the answer fairly obvious.”
Eliza allowed her fingers to trail down his arms before lacing them with his around her waist.
“You have scars upon scars. How many times?”
“I am—was—my father’s heir. It was important that he teach me the weight of my duty. I needed a lot of reminders. He stopped after I grew large enough that he thought me capable of fighting back. Then he merely threatened Bella.”
Benedict’s fingers played with her own. The sight made her smile even as his words broke her heart. “And the new ones?”
“You were my ultimate failure. He couldn’t let that stand. They’re healing rather slowly—keep ripping open.”
“Because you raced to London to warn me?”