Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Benedict found Sophia in the smaller drawing room shortly before dinner. She was sitting near the window with a book open upon her lap, though the page had not turned since he entered. Evening light rested across her face and caught the gold of her wedding ring.
“Sophia, may I speak with you?”
Her fingers tightened faintly against the book. “Of course.”
“Privately.”
She glanced toward the open door. “We appear to be alone.”
He deserved that. Benedict closed the door nevertheless, then remained standing because sitting seemed too comfortable for what he intended to say.
For several days, he had rehearsed his words. None sounded adequate. Apologies were simple when offered for errors of account or judgment. They became far more difficult when the injury could not be corrected merely by admitting fault.
“I owe you an apology.”
Sophia looked down at the page. “You have already been exceedingly polite to me.”
“Politeness is not an apology.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “It is not.”
Benedict drew a breath. “What I said beside the pond was cruel. I spoke in anger, and I had no right to call our marriage a mistake.”
Her face remained composed, but he saw the hurt move through it.
He forced himself to continue. “It was not a mistake.”
Sophia’s eyes lifted.
“The way you defended the girls… your willingness to argue with me when you believed their happiness required it… only proves that I chose rightly.” His voice dropped. “They need someone who will fight for them, even when the person she must fight is me.”
A faint, sorrowful curve touched her mouth. “You make marriage sound rather like warfare.”
“I have little experience with anything less complicated.” That nearly drew a smile from her. “I am sorry, Sophia,” he told her softly. “More deeply than I know how to express.”
She studied him for a long moment. “I accept your apology.” Relief moved through him, though it did not last. “But I was not wrong,” she suddenly added.
His shoulders stiffened. “About the pond?”
“About the girls.”
Benedict turned toward the window. Outside, the lawns lay orderly beneath the fading light. Nothing moved beyond the slow shadows of branches.
“I cannot pretend danger does not exist merely because they wish for adventure.”
“I am not asking you to pretend.”
“You are asking me to permit risks.”
“I am asking you to understand that preventing every possible hurt creates another kind of hurt.”
He looked back at her. Sophia closed the book and set it aside.
“They miss who they were before their parents died,” she clarified. “They miss climbing trees with their father beneath them and returning home muddy enough to make their mother sigh. Those things were part of being loved.”
Benedict’s throat tightened. He had thought only of all that might take the girls from him. He had not considered that his fear might also take something from them. Still, surrender did not come naturally.
“A memory of happiness does not make a dangerous act safe.”
“No,” Sophia agreed patiently. “But perhaps we need not choose between complete freedom and complete confinement.”
He frowned. “What do you suggest then?”
Her gaze became cautious, though a spark of hope warmed it. “Come with us.”
Benedict stared at her. “On these… expeditions?”
“Outings,” she corrected with amusement.
“Marjorie calls them expeditions.”
“Marjorie also considers the kitchen passage an unexplored continent.”
“That does not reassure me.”
Sophia’s lips trembled. “If you accompany us, you may watch the girls yourself. You may inspect every tree, pond, hill, gate, stone, and suspicious-looking shrub before they even approach it.”
“That could require considerable time.”
“They are your wards. Surely they merit the sacrifice.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are mocking me.”
“Only a little.”
The softness between them returned so cautiously that Benedict scarcely dared move.
He considered her proposal. He imagined Marjorie racing through the meadow while Amelia followed more carefully.
He imagined mud, noise, disobedience, and at least twelve preventable dangers before luncheon.
He also remembered the girls’ laughter before he had sent them away from the pond.
“I will try,” he said at last.
Sophia blinked. “You will?”
“I make no promise to approve of everything.”
“I should be alarmed if you did.”
“And I reserve the right to forbid anything genuinely hazardous.”
“Provided you do not define happiness as hazardous.”
Benedict held her gaze. “That remains to be determined.”
This time, she smiled. It was small and uncertain, but it reached him all the same.
Benedict stepped nearer and offered his hand. Sophia looked at it for a moment before placing hers within it. Her fingers were warm. He closed his hand carefully around them, aware that forgiveness, like trust, was not something a man received once and possessed forever. It had to be earned.
Perhaps, he thought, it was the same with courage.
“He agreed?” Marjorie regarded Sophia with the suspicion ordinarily reserved for false witnesses and badly concealed vegetables.
“He did,” Sophia replied.
“To come with us?” Marjorie had to clarify.
“Yes.”
“This afternoon?”
“Yes, Marjorie.”
Amelia looked up from the ribbon she was tying around her bonnet. “Did Uncle Benedict understand that it was an outing?”
Sophia nodded. “I explained it quite clearly.”
“Did you use the word outing?” Marjorie asked.
“I did.”
“And he still agreed?”
Sophia attempted not to smile. “He did.”
Marjorie folded her arms with a pout. “He will change his mind.”
“He gave me his word.”
“That only means he will change his mind very formally.”
By three o’clock, Sophia had begun to fear Marjorie might be correct.
The twins waited with the picnic basket upon the south terrace. Amelia sat upon the stone balustrade, pretending to examine the garden while glancing repeatedly toward the house. Marjorie paced before the steps, kicking at loose gravel with increasing indignation.
Then the terrace doors opened, and Benedict appeared precisely at the appointed hour. He wore no coat, though his dark waistcoat and severe expression suggested he had dressed for a meeting of Parliament rather than an afternoon upon the lawn.
Marjorie stopped pacing. “You came.”
Benedict lifted one brow. “Was that in doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Marjorie,” Amelia whispered.
“What?” Marjorie shrugged. “It was.”
Sophia met Benedict’s gaze. Something warm and uncertain passed between them.
“I promised,” he said.
The girls led them into the garden with considerable excitement and no agreement whatever about what should occur first. Amelia proposed a quiet walk. Marjorie proposed racing to the cedar tree. Benedict rejected the race before it had even properly begun.
They settled upon battledore and shuttlecock instead.
At first, Benedict stood apart beneath the shade, watching with his arms folded while Sophia and the twins attempted to keep the feathered shuttlecock from falling into the grass.
Marjorie struck it too hard. Amelia struck it too gently. Sophia missed it entirely and blamed the wind.
“There is scarcely any wind,” Benedict observed.
Sophia looked toward him. “Then it was an especially subtle wind.”
His mouth moved at one corner.
When Marjorie sent the shuttlecock flying toward him, Benedict caught it neatly in one hand.
“You must return it,” she called.
He tossed it back.
“That does not count. You must use the battledore.”
“I was not informed I had joined the game.”
“You have now.”
Benedict looked at Sophia, as if expecting her to rescue him.
She smiled sweetly. “I fear the rules are quite clear.”
With the resignation of a man who had accepted a troublesome public duty, he took the battledore from Amelia. He remained stiff for the first several exchanges. Then Marjorie declared his manner too solemn and attempted to strike the shuttlecock directly at his chest.
Benedict returned it with surprising force. Marjorie shrieked with delight and within minutes, all dignity was lost. Amelia laughed when Benedict missed. Marjorie accused him of using his height unfairly. Sophia struck the shuttlecock into a rosebush and insisted the bush had moved.
By the time they abandoned the game, Benedict’s hair had fallen slightly across his brow, and his collar was no longer perfectly arranged. Sophia found the disorder dangerously becoming.
They spread the picnic beneath the cedar. Benedict inspected the ground before allowing anyone to sit, though he performed the examination discreetly enough that Sophia pretended not to notice.
Cook had sent cold chicken, small pies, strawberries, seed cake, and lemonade. Marjorie ate two pies and claimed the third was necessary after vigorous exercise. Amelia gave Benedict the largest strawberry.
He looked at it, then at her. “You need not surrender the best one.”
“I know.” She placed it upon his plate anyway. Something softened in his face.
After the meal, Sophia opened the book she had brought. It was a tale involving a ruined castle, a secret inheritance, and a heroine whose judgment was considerably better than that of every gentleman around her. Marjorie approved immediately.
At first, Benedict sat at a proper distance against the cedar trunk. The twins sat before Sophia upon the blanket. As the story continued, Marjorie shifted backward until her shoulder rested against Benedict’s knee. He glanced down but did not move her.
A few pages later, Amelia leaned against his side. Benedict adjusted his arm carefully around her. Sophia continued reading, though the words blurred for a moment.
The garden had grown quieter. Afternoon sunlight fluttered through the cedar branches, touching the girls’ hair and Benedict’s dark sleeve. Bees moved lazily among the clover. The air smelled of warm grass and crushed strawberries.
Amelia’s eyes began to close. Her head slipped slowly onto Benedict’s shoulder. He went still, as though any movement might wake her. Then he tilted his head lightly against her hair.
Marjorie curled closer beside him, with one hand resting upon his arm. Benedict looked down at both girls. There was such tenderness in his expression that Sophia’s voice nearly failed her.
He had feared this afternoon. She knew it now. He feared danger, disorder, and every circumstance he could not control. Yet he came. And the girls, who had begun the day doubtful of him, now rested against him with complete trust.
Sophia felt an unexpected ache rise behind her ribs.
Benedict looked up. He caught her watching him. For one suspended moment, neither turned away. His expression remained grave, but the softness in it deepened. Sophia felt as though something unspoken had crossed the small distance between them: gratitude, apology, perhaps even hope.
She lowered the book slightly. Benedict’s gaze moved over her face with a warmth that made the quiet afternoon seem suddenly intimate.
Then, Marjorie sat upright. Her eyes fixed upon a bush several yards away. She pointed.
“What is that?”