Chapter 24 #2
“Reading, are you?” Clara asked. She leaned over his shoulder and scoffed. “And scripture? Goodness, I should have known! You’re a true preacher’s son until the very end.”
“I’ve needed to brush up on my behavior,” Benjamin replied, his tone defensive.
She snorted. “Indeed? Is there anything in there that instructs kindness toward smart, completely delightful young loyalist women, by chance?”
Benjamin hummed, though he was smiling. “I suppose ‘love thy neighbor’ covers that one…but just barely.”
Seating herself on the bench alongside him, she flashed a grin. “Despite the barb, I am not going to let you sour this for me,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for months, nay, over a year, to see this garden, and I’m honored you finally allowed me the pleasure.”
“You could’ve come out here while I was ill,” Benjamin reminded her, perplexed.
She faltered. “Well yes, I could have,” she agreed, “but it wouldn’t have been the same. This place is special to you…and I wished to see it through your eyes, rather than my own.”
He studied her a moment, the cool breeze loosening a few long, golden-brown strands from his queue. “You once said your mother had a garden. Was it anything like this?”
Looking around at the beautiful array of red roses, pink chrysanthemums, and white asters, a melancholy smile lifted Clara’s mouth and she shook her head.
“No,” she murmured, lacing her hands, “no, not at all. Mother’s garden was grand and ostentatious, and a front to hide the ugliness within.
But this…” She lifted her shoulders. “It feels real, somehow, beautiful in its simplicity. I can tell a lot of love was put into each seedling.”
Benjamin swallowed, his bare throat bobbing.
“Mother arguably loved too much,” he agreed.
“She died because she didn’t want to trouble us with her condition…
to worry us and make us sad.” With a sorrowful laugh, he looked away.
“She used to call me her ‘little bumblebee,’ because I was noisy, energetic, and really loved flowers…or rather, her flowers. I liked watching her while she gardened. Some days, I’d read while she tended to her rose bushes, or we’d pull out weeds together and recite scripture. ”
Hesitant, Clara laid her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Far be it for me to detract from this moment, but I genuinely thought she might’ve called you ‘little bumblebee’ because you are a pest.”
Startled by this declaration, Benjamin laughed, his brows lifting incredulously. “That’s a bit pot-meet-kettle, don’t you think?”
Clara giggled. “I only meant when you get all holier-than-thou, of course!” Nudging him, she gazed out over the horizon. “Thank you,” she softly said. “I really am glad you shared this with me. It means a lot.”
“I couldn’t imagine sharing this with anyone else,” he replied just as softly.
Reaching for her hand again, Benjamin entwined their fingers and met her gaze with his pleading, yearnful eyes of periwinkle.
“I’m glad you decided to stay. For a long while, I assumed you were doing this out of guilt, but… I’d like to think I was wrong.”
Clara paused, her heart stammering in her chest. “I was doing it out of guilt,” she admitted. “Or at least…I was at first.”
“And now?” Benjamin asked, the heartbreaking need in his voice lancing through her chest.
Opening her mouth, she moved to offer him a reply, but the crunch of twigs underfoot jolted them apart and she turned, both relieved and nettled at the sight of Josiah ambling toward them.
“Such a perfect afternoon for a read!” he called. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you for my daily reflection?”
Clara forced a smile and shook her head.
“Why no, Josiah, of course not. Please, join us.” Moving over so he could sit beside his son, she ignored Benjamin’s eyes on her, knowing how his deep anguish and desire would be gazing back at her, should she choose to succumb and reflect his yearning with that of her own.
As the sun sank below the horizon, much like paint dripping over a still-wet canvas, Clara was unable to calm her racing mind.
Her thoughts kept circling back to Benjamin, of how he’d practically begged and pleaded with her to want him, need him, love him without so much as a word. He deserved an answer, did he not?
That was why, she supposed, she found herself heading to his room. She tucked a copy of Voltaire’s Candide under her arm as a feasible excuse (who would question being given a book?), and hesitated once she found his door ajar. Usually, it was completely closed…was this an unspoken invitation?
Despite her better judgment, Clara leaned forward and peered through the slat of light. There, standing alongside his bed was Benjamin, his back facing her as he fussed with the front of his breeches, shirtless and with his cane propped against his nightstand.
Unbidden, a sting of pride swelled within her breast. Although she could see him limping around with a slow, lumbering gait, he had done it—he had!
In spite of all his negative naysaying, Benjamin not only regained a decent amount of mobility, but he’d progressed to the point where he could stand on his own two feet.
Why hadn’t he wished to share that with her?
Was he ashamed, or did he not find her deserving of applauding in his triumphs?
Pushing the door open, she moved to announce herself when Benjamin slid his breeches over his backside.
Wide-eyed and with her heart in her throat, Clara swallowed as he bent to unfasten the buttons at his knees, almost naked and oblivious to her presence as her pulse drummed throughout her entire frame.
This was wrong. Wrong! Why couldn’t she speak?
Why couldn’t she move? She’d seen plenty of men in a state of undress—far, far too many, in fact, and yet somehow, this was different.
This was Benjamin, a man she both valued and respected, and also ached for despite the constant warning bells inside her mind.
Feeling dizzy, Clara gripped the doorway to support herself, somehow unable to tear her eyes from him as he stepped free of the garment and tended to his stockings.
From this angle, Clara could see the faded, slightly smooth scar from where he’d been shot in the spine. Although it should’ve been a simple circle, it was somewhat of a starburst due to Dr. Weston’s slapdash surgery.
Overwhelmed, Clara fanned herself with her book. It was of little help, but Lord above, she couldn’t figure out how she should feel, what with the constant tug-of-war between guilt and lust and pity and longing.
Unable to stand it, she quipped, “You know, I once told Catherine you have the backside of a Greek god. How fortunate that some things never change.”
Benjamin cried out, whirling so quickly that he was knocked off balance.
He stumbled forward, stunned, and Clara dropped her book before rushing forward to catch him.
Unfortunately, she miscalculated his body weight, and the two went crashing to the hardwood floor, sprawling haphazardly with their limbs entangled.
It was inappropriate, beyond improper, and yet as they both lay there panting, their lips mere inches apart, Clara felt a throb between her legs as Benjamin shifted above her, his body bunching up her skirts between the hot apex of her thighs.
With this position, she was granted a thrillingly close look into his eyes, both of which were heavy-lidded and deep and blue, much like the sapphire shade within a burning candleflame.
Heart pounding, Clara lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing the curve of his mouth.
His breath fanned over her face and she closed her eyes, a whimper catching in her throat once an undeniable prodding pushed between her thighs.
Parting her legs in surrender, she framed his bare hips between her knees and trembled, edging his cheek into her own before his lips grazed the curve of her neck.
It all felt so good, so raw, and tangling her fingers through his queue, she displayed her throat to him as his mouth opened white-hot against her skin.
“Benjamin?”
Gasping, Clara jolted and Benjamin lurched upright, clumsily rolling onto his side as Josiah’s voice carried from down the hall.
“Benjamin?” he called again. “Did you fall? I thought I heard a noise…”
“Uh…” Swallowing, Benjamin shook his head and hoarsely shouted, “N-no, Father! It’s all right. I can manage myself!”
As the sound of Josiah’s footsteps faded, Clara realized with increasing embarrassment that she’d interrupted Benjamin’s evening bath.
Pink-cheeked, she rolled into a sitting position and smoothed a hand down the front of her apron, spluttering her apologies while avoiding his gaze.
Though once she tried to rise, Benjamin seized her wrist, anchoring her there while he beseechingly sought her attention.
“Don’t be sorry,” he entreated. Gently, he entwined their fingers and drew her hand to rest over his heart.
“You never have to be sorry. Not with me.” Here, he smiled in that boyish, shy manner that was so distinctly him before drawing her hand to his lips.
Her stomach fluttered and a responding throb pulsed between her thighs, leaving her increasingly lightheaded.
“I…I-I have to go,” Clara choked. Extricating herself from his grip, she dizzily launched herself to her feet and ignored the hurt in his eyes, a stab of dismay burning through her breast once she fled from the room, from her heart, and out into the safety of the empty hall.
Later that night, a knock cut through the air, and Clara jerked awake. Upon realizing it was coming from the front door, she groggily rose, slipped into a dressing gown, and stepped out into the hall.
While creeping toward the living room, she heard Josiah’s hushed, but diplomatic voice. Though once she spotted him, she realized his posture was rigid as he spoke to a shadowed group of redcoats holding torches and lanterns.