Chapter 9 #3
After Lady Esher and the children had departed, Mrs. Shaw fussed over Lady Louisa for some minutes, bringing water, tea, cake and a blanket, despite the heat of the day.
The young woman accepted these kindnesses with appropriate civility but Benedict still had to prevent her from rising as soon as Mrs. Shaw returned to the front of her shop, bidding them to ring for her if needed.
“Lady Louisa, please do not exert yourself yet,” he told her firmly, striding over to the sofa and raising a discouraging hand. “Even though you appear not to be badly hurt, the dizziness can last for some time after a blow to the head. There is a real danger of falling again.”
“I really do feel quite well again now,” she tried to protest. “You need not worry about me.”
Dark memories began to creep back again.
Benedict remembered his mother speaking similar words several times, beaten and bleeding from her vicious husband’s latest outburst, but devoted to her only son and determined to look after him.
Once, she had collapsed on the floor while tucking Benedict into bed.
Unable to rouse her, Benedict had pulled the covers down over both of them and lain there with her until she woke. Had he been Fanny’s age? He had certainly been too young that night to sneak out and ride bareback to the village to find the physician as he had done later, on multiple occasions.
“If you do not rest, I shall tuck you in so tightly with that blanket that you won’t be able to move an inch,” he threatened Lady Louisa with humorous ferocity and saw her sink back with a smile.
“I do believe you would,” she said, “but why do you look so troubled?”
Benedict gave a long sigh, realizing that his memories must have been written too obviously on his face. It was not a topic he was prepared to discuss in any detail but he must give some answer.
“I was remembering my mother,” he replied honestly. “That is all.”
If Lady Louisa had tried to probe further into exactly what was on his mind he would have closed down the conversation, but she threw him with her next question.
“Was your mother very like you?”
With a short laugh, Benedict sat down again in an armchair opposite the sofa. Had anyone ever asked him that question before? He thought not, and considered it with unexpected pleasure. When had he last really talked about his mother?
“Like me? To look at, I suppose she was in some ways,” he told Lady Louisa, recalling now happier memories of his mother in an old-fashioned ballgown, kissing him goodbye in the hallway at Northwick Park.
“I have her coloring, and at least one of her eyes…the blue one, that is. Both of her eyes were blue.”
Lady Louisa laughed too.
“But was she like you in character, Your Grace? Do you take after her?”
“My mother was…sweet-natured and fond of society,” Benedict reflected, knowing that she had loved to dance and sing, and remembering the approbation of her accomplishments from friends and neighbors, and how their praise used to send his father into a rage.
“Society was fond of her too. She cared for me…as best she could. I would rather think I take after my mother than my father.”
While he tried to speak these words lightly, his companion’s face was earnest as she considered them and he wondered how deeply she could see into him.
Not too far, he hoped. Lady Louisa’s life had not been a fairy tale, but despite the loss of her parents, she had never seen the darkness that Benedict had fought against since so tender an age. He hoped she never would.
“Why would half of the ton consider you a rake?”
This inquiry took Benedict even more by surprise than Lady Louisa’s previous questioning. He looked away at the wall for a few moments in thought before he answered.
“I suppose it is because I enjoy the company of women yet do not wish to marry,” he told her frankly, his eyes still averted. “That is all.”
“Then, you do not consider yourself a rake?” Lady Louisa asked as though asking a perfectly normal question. “It must feel quite an unfair judgement on you, in that case.”
What answer can I possible give to such sincere and innocent curiosity?!
In lieu of replying, Benedict deflected with a shrug and a small laugh. It would be impossible to explain the life he led in London to a romantic young woman like Lady Louisa Ascot.
When Benedict did turn back, the sun was shining in brightly through the window again, lighting up the young woman before him in a golden halo once more.
Dear God, how beautiful she was! If Lady Louisa had been a widow, or an older woman of independent means, he did not think he could have resisted the powerful impulse to cross the room and kiss her.
As it was, Benedict could say and do nothing. His mind was instantly full of impossible images of Lady Louisa Ascot melting into his arms, but honor forbade him any physical outlet. Did this involuntary racing of his imagination make him a rake? Or only if he were to act on it..?
Thankfully, before Benedict could come any closer to finding out, the sound of female voices nearby broke the spell.
“Melissa is here,” remarked Lady Louisa, her ears pricking up. “My maid.”
“Good,” he replied and meant this from the depths of his heart.