Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dinner at Rivermere generally proceeded with a dignity proportionate to the length of the table, the gleam of the silver, and the number of servants required to deliver a dish of vegetables. That evening, dignity survived until the second course.
“The kitten may remain in the house.” Benedict made the announcement while cutting his roast with the composed air of a man remarking upon the weather.
Across the table, Marjorie’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. A piece of potato remained balanced upon it, suspended before her open lips. Amelia froze with her glass raised in both hands. Sophia, who had been reaching for the salt, left her fingers resting uselessly in the air.
For several seconds, no one spoke. Benedict continued cutting his meat. Marjorie slowly lowered her fork. The potato slipped from it and landed upon her plate with a soft, buttery thud.
“Really?” The question emerged as a whisper, as though any greater volume might frighten the permission away.
Benedict looked up. “Provided that—”
The twins were already moving. Amelia placed her glass down with such haste that water splashed over the rim. Marjorie pushed back her chair, caught her skirt beneath one shoe, freed herself, and darted toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Benedict demanded.
“To bring him inside!” Marjorie called.
“Now?”
“You may change your mind!”
“I do not generally—” The dining room door closed behind them. Benedict stared at it.
Sophia pressed her napkin to her lips. From the doorway, Peters maintained the solemn expression expected of a senior footman, though the muscles near his mouth appeared to be suffering considerably.
Benedict set down his knife. “They have not finished dinner.”
“I do not believe hunger is presently their most urgent concern,” Sophia smiled.
“They might at least have waited for the conditions.”
“What conditions?”
His gaze returned to her. “There must be conditions.”
“Of course.”
“The creature is not to climb upon the dining table.”
“A very reasonable beginning.”
“It is not to enter the kitchens while food is being prepared.”
“Cook may contest that. I believe she has already adopted him.”
“He is not to sleep in the girls’ beds.”
Sophia raised her brows. “You may have difficulty enforcing that one.”
“It will be enforced.”
“And where is Admiral to sleep?” Sophia’s lips curved. “Not in your study, I presume.”
His expression became severe. “Certainly not.”
She lowered her gaze to her plate before her smile became too obvious.
Since finding him that afternoon with the kitten asleep in his lap, Sophia carried the image with her in a warm, secret corner of her mind.
Benedict looked so thoroughly betrayed by his own tenderness that she could not think of it without wanting to laugh and touch him in equal measure.
He attempted to claim the animal’s presence had been accidental. The gentle motion of his fingers against Admiral’s head had been rather more difficult to explain.
Right then, a commotion sounded in the corridor. There came the rapid patter of children’s feet, the heavier tread of a groom following behind, and Marjorie’s voice.
“He must enter properly. He is now an indoor gentleman.”
The doors opened. Marjorie swept into the dining room, carrying Admiral against her chest. Amelia followed close behind, one hand cupped protectively beneath the kitten’s hind paws, though Marjorie seemed to have him quite secure.
The groom paused at the threshold, with his hat in hand and apology upon his face. “Your Grace, I attempted to tell the young ladies the kitten might be brought after dinner.”
“You did your best, Harris,” Benedict sighed.
The man bowed with visible gratitude and escaped.
Admiral looked considerably improved since his discovery beneath the bush.
His fur had been washed and brushed until the gray patches stood out cleanly against the white.
Only the bent ear and the determined expression remained unchanged.
He surveyed the dining room as though inspecting a property he had just recently inherited.
“He is here!” Marjorie announced.
“So I see,” Benedict nodded.
“Say it again,” Amelia urged.
Benedict frowned. “Say what again?”
“That he may stay.”
“I have already said it.”
“We were not certain we heard correctly,” Marjorie explained.
“You abandoned your dinner with remarkable confidence for two people who were uncertain.”
Marjorie held Admiral a little higher. “Please.”
Benedict’s sternness lasted no more than a breath.
“The kitten may stay in the house.”
Both girls beamed. Amelia’s delight was quieter than her sister’s, but no less complete. Her eyes shone as she reached up to stroke Admiral’s head. Marjorie pressed a kiss between his ears, which he accepted as his due.
Before anyone could decide what ought to happen next, a young footman appeared carrying a shallow china bowl filled with milk. Sophia stared as the servant placed it upon the floor near the hearth.
“Cook thought the little gentleman might be hungry, Your Grace.”
Benedict looked toward Peters, who studied the opposite wall with deep professional interest.
“Apparently,” Benedict spoke slowly, “the entire household was informed before I was.”
“No one was informed,” Sophia replied. “They merely hoped.”
“With unusual preparation.”
The kitten was set down beside the bowl. He sniffed the milk, placed one white paw upon the rim, and began drinking with such enthusiasm that droplets gathered upon his whiskers. The twins crouched beside him at once, their abandoned dinner forgotten.
“He likes it,” Amelia whispered.
“Of course he likes it,” Marjorie said. “It is house milk.”
Sophia glanced at Benedict. “Is milk different indoors?”
“I suspect she believes everything is superior when forbidden.”
“That has frequently been my experience,” Marjorie replied without looking up.
Benedict closed his eyes briefly. The girls continued petting Admiral as he drank. Amelia smoothed the fur down his back with careful fingers, while Marjorie informed him of every room he would be expected to inspect before bedtime.
Sophia watched them, a quiet tenderness filling her chest. Only days earlier, the dining room had felt strained by silence. Now a kitten was drinking from one of the good china bowls by the hearth while two children knelt on the carpet, laughing.
And Benedict allowed it. More than allowed it, she suspected.
She turned toward him. He was watching the girls, too. His expression was composed, but the familiar severity softened around his eyes.
Sophia leaned slightly closer. “Is this because Admiral has chosen you as his favorite human?”
Benedict’s head turned sharply. “Of course not.”
Marjorie looked up from the hearth. “He has.”
“He has not.”
“He follows you,” Amelia said.
“He entered my study by accident.”
“He climbed into your lap,” Sophia reminded him.
“That was also an accident.”
“And purred.”
Benedict gave her a level look. “Cats purr indiscriminately.”
Admiral lifted his milk-damp face at the sound of Benedict’s voice. With a small, eager mew, he abandoned the bowl and trotted across the carpet directly toward him. The room went silent. Admiral sat beside Benedict’s chair and placed both front paws against his boot.
Marjorie’s smile became triumphant. Amelia covered her mouth. Sophia raised her eyebrows.
Benedict looked down at the kitten. The kitten looked up at Benedict.
“No one,” Benedict gave a mock order, “is to interpret this.”
Admiral began to purr, and Sophia’s laughter escaped before she could prevent it. Around the room, several servants became intensely occupied with not smiling.
Benedict bent and lifted the kitten, placing him upon his knee with the weary resignation of a man accepting a burden forced upon him by circumstances entirely beyond his control.
Admiral curled up at once.
Marjorie returned to her chair. “His favorite human.”
“Finish your dinner,” Benedict said.
That same evening, Benedict paused outside the twins’ bedchamber and knocked. It was an unnecessary courtesy in his own house, but the room no longer belonged only to children and servants. Sophia made the evening hour her own, and he found himself oddly unwilling to intrude upon it.
“Come in,” she called.
He opened the door. The chamber glowed with firelight and the soft gold of two bedside candles.
Amelia and Marjorie sat beneath the coverlet in their nightgowns, their dark hair brushed loose around their shoulders.
Admiral occupied the space between them with the satisfied expression of a creature who had achieved every ambition.
Sophia sat in the chair beside the bed, with an open book resting in her lap.
She looked up. Something quiet passed through Benedict at the sight of her there.
“Uncle Benedict!” Marjorie cried.
Admiral startled awake and gave an offended meow.
Amelia smiled. “Have you come to hear the story?”
“I came to bid you good night.”
“You may do both,” Marjorie urged.
Benedict glanced at Sophia. “I would not wish to disturb your routine.”
“You would not,” Amelia assured him.
“You have already disturbed it,” Marjorie added. “So you may as well stay.”
He almost smiled. “That is not generally how manners work.”
“It is how bedtime works.”
Benedict remained near the door. He had no objection to stories in principle, but the room seemed arranged around an intimacy he had not earned.
Sophia read to the girls each evening. It was their custom now, one chapter, no matter how persistently Marjorie argued for two.
He did not wish his presence to make the girls quieter or Sophia self-conscious.
“You should continue,” he said. “I shall see you at breakfast.”
Marjorie’s face fell. Amelia’s disappointment was less dramatic but somehow more effective.
Then Sophia spoke. “Stay.” The word was soft. Benedict looked at her. “There is a chair beside the fire,” she said. “And you have been mentioned in the story twice already, though not favorably.”
“I have not been mentioned at all,” he replied.
“There is a stern magistrate.”
Marjorie nodded. “He forbids dancing.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “A sensible man.”
“He is also secretly working for the villain,” Amelia informed him.
Benedict frowned. “That seems excessive.”
Sophia’s lips curved. “You had better remain and defend yourself.”
He should have refused. Instead, he crossed the room and sat in the chair beside hers. Marjorie settled back triumphantly. Amelia adjusted the blanket over Admiral, who immediately crawled out from beneath it and curled near her feet.
Sophia found her place and began to read.
Her voice changed when she read aloud. It remained gentle, but gathered warmth and expression, giving each sentence its own shape.
Marjorie interrupted twice to object to the hero’s decisions.
Amelia defended him once, then withdrew her defense when he entered a dark corridor without a candle.
Benedict listened. At first, he watched the fire. Then, he watched the girls. Amelia’s eyes remained fixed upon Sophia, solemn and absorbed. Marjorie attempted to resist sleep through force of character, though her head had begun to sink against the pillows.
Sophia turned a page. The candlelight softened her face. One loose strand of hair escaped near her temple, and her hand rested lightly against the open book.
A thought came to Benedict without warning. He imagined another nursery, another child beneath the covers, perhaps with Sophia’s hazel eyes and his own stubbornness. He imagined Sophia seated beside a smaller bed, reading in that same warm voice while a son or daughter leaned against her arm.
Their child.
The words entered him with such force that his chest tightened.
He looked away at once. It was a foolish thought…
worse than foolish. Their marriage had been made for the twins, for order, security, and a practical future.
He had no right to build tender little scenes upon promises neither of them had made.
Yet the image remained.
Sophia with a baby in her arms. Sophia smiling across a nursery at him. Sophia reading to their children while Rivermere breathed quietly around them.
He hated himself for imagining it. He hated even more that the thought did not frighten him as much as it should have done.
Sophia finished the chapter and closed the book, bringing him back to the present moment.
Marjorie immediately protested. “One more.”
“No,” Sophia said.
“But the door has just opened.”
“Which means tomorrow we shall discover what is behind it.”
“A villain,” Benedict said.
Three faces turned toward him.
Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “You have read it before.”
“I have not.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Anyone entering a dark corridor without a candle deserves to find a villain.”
Sophia laughed softly. The sound settled around him in the firelight.
Amelia yawned and reached for his hand. Benedict gave it to her.
Marjorie leaned across the pillows and caught his sleeve with two fingers, as if to hold him back.
Sophia looked at him over the closed book.
For a quiet moment, Benedict allowed himself to imagine that he belonged there.
That was the most dangerous thought of all.