Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Benedict stood outside the nursery holding a tray of biscuits.
This was, by any reasonable measure, a poor decision.
Supper was in less than an hour. Cook would disapprove.
Mrs. Bell would disapprove. Benedict himself had repeatedly explained that biscuits before supper were unnecessary, disruptive to appetite, and not to become a habit merely because Marjorie could make herself look tragically underfed at will.
Yet there he stood, with six biscuits. He looked down at them. Butter biscuits, still faintly warm from the kitchen, their sugared tops catching the light from the corridor windows.
Sophia would have laughed. The thought came so quickly that his chest tightened. She would have looked from the tray to him, lifted one eyebrow, and asked whether Rivermere’s laws concerning pre-supper nourishment had been formally amended or merely abandoned under pressure.
Benedict could almost hear her voice. He heard her everywhere. Four days had passed since Sophia left for Keswick, and four days since he’d found her note on his desk.
She needed a few days away, to clear her thoughts. That was perfectly reasonable, perfectly understandable, and entirely his doing.
Benedict had spent the first day telling himself he ought to respect her request. The second, he had convinced himself that distance might benefit them both. By the third, he had discovered that Rivermere without Sophia was an intolerably large collection of empty rooms.
Her absence had edges, and he kept walking into them.
At breakfast, his gaze went instinctively toward her chair.
In the garden, he found himself looking toward the restored flower bed.
Yesterday, he had entered the drawing room intending to ask whether she wished to walk before remembering, with humiliating delay, that she was not there.
He missed her. There was no dignified manner in which to arrange that truth. He simply did. And beneath the missing lay something worse.
Guilt.
He had hurt her. He knew it now with a certainty he had resisted while she remained before him. Sophia’s face during the dance returned whenever he allowed silence to settle too deeply.
What I do not know is whether I can bear it.
Benedict closed his eyes. He could still have stopped it then. He could have told her the truth, that the distance had not come from regret or that he had withdrawn because wanting her had become frighteningly easy.
Instead, he reminded her of their arrangement, as though affection were a clause in a contract that could be struck through when inconvenient. He watched hope disappear from her face. And then he allowed her to believe he meant it.
Benedict looked down at the biscuits again. His brother would have called him an idiot. And politely. His brother had possessed no talent for polite criticism when it came to Benedict.
The memory brought the old familiar ache. It did not arrive sharply anymore. Time had softened its entrance. That did not mean it hurt less.
Benedict remembered another corridor years ago, another door, another moment in which someone had stepped into a room and changed everything.
His brother was dead. It still felt impossible and absurd. For weeks afterward, Benedict had continued expecting him, expecting a laugh from the stable yard and a ridiculous story delivered over brandy.
Grief had taught him something he had never managed to forget. One could become accustomed to another person’s existence so completely that losing them felt less like losing someone and more like discovering the world itself had been constructed incorrectly.
A biscuit slid slightly across the plate as his hand shifted. Benedict stared at it.
“This is absurd,” he muttered.
Then he knocked. Three seconds passed.
“Come in!” Marjorie chirped.
Benedict opened the door. The nursery was warm with late afternoon light. A fire burned low in the grate despite the mild weather, and the windows stood partly open, letting in the scent of damp grass after an earlier shower.
Amelia sat cross-legged upon the rug surrounded by papers. Marjorie lay upon her stomach beside her, apparently drawing something involving a horse, a castle, and several flames.
Both girls looked up. Their eyes dropped to the tray. Silence followed, then Marjorie shrieked. “Biscuits!”
Amelia’s entire face lit. “Before supper?”
Benedict had been greeted with less enthusiasm upon returning from several-week journeys.
“Yes.”
Marjorie scrambled upright. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Have you struck your head?”
“No.”
“Is supper canceled?”
“No.”
Amelia stood more slowly, though her smile remained bright. “Then why did you bring biscuits?”
Benedict looked at the tray. He had not prepared for interrogation.
“I thought you might like them.”
The girls stared at him. Marjorie turned to Amelia. Amelia turned to Marjorie. Then both looked back at Benedict.
“This is extremely suspicious,” Marjorie mused.
Benedict entered and placed the tray upon the little table.
“You may eat them or spend the next quarter hour investigating my motives. I have no preference.”
Marjorie was already reaching.
“You have a preference,” Amelia said gently.
“I do?”
“You prefer us not to investigate your motives.”
Benedict looked at her. Amelia smiled sweetly. Sophia had encouraged this. He was certain of it.
“Take a biscuit.”
Amelia did. Marjorie took two.
“One.”
Marjorie stopped. She looked down at the biscuit in each hand. Then up at Benedict.
“One at a time.”
“That is not what you said.”
“It is what I meant.”
“You should say precisely what you mean.”
Benedict stared at her. Marjorie bit into the first biscuit.
“Sophia says communication is important.”
Benedict felt her name beneath his ribs. Amelia gave her sister a warning look. Marjorie appeared not to notice or chose not to.
Benedict lowered himself into the chair beside the fire.
“What have you been doing?”
The question worked instantly. Marjorie abandoned the subject of Sophia in favor of explaining, through a mouthful of biscuit, that they had spent the morning constructing a defensive fortress for Admiral.
“A fortress,” Benedict repeated.
Amelia nodded. “It was originally a house.”
“It required battlements,” Marjorie said.
“Cats rarely require battlements.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can with reasonable certainty.”
Marjorie pointed toward the far corner. A collection of cushions, two overturned footstools, a blanket, and what appeared to be one of Benedict’s missing account boxes had been arranged into a structure of questionable engineering. Admiral slept in the middle of it.
“He has not used the battlements,” Amelia admitted.
“He is resting after inspection,” Marjorie explained.
“Has he approved them?”
“He has not complained.”
Benedict looked at the kitten, who was asleep on his back with all four paws curled loosely in the air.
“A demanding commander.”
Marjorie laughed. Amelia did, too. Then, they began telling him about the rest of their day.
Amelia finished a book and disliked the ending.
Marjorie discovered a frog near the kitchen garden and named it Wellington.
Amelia pointed out that one could not know whether the frog was male.
Marjorie said great military leaders were not generally chosen according to amphibian gender.
Benedict ate half a biscuit before realizing he had taken one. He listened. He asked questions. At one point, Marjorie persuaded him to inspect the fortress. At another, Amelia produced her drawing of the old fountain and asked whether the proportions were correct.
Benedict sat upon the rug. He did not remember deciding to. Marjorie climbed over his legs to retrieve a pencil. Amelia leaned against his shoulder while explaining why one of the towers in her drawing looked crooked.
Benedict found himself laughing. Marjorie looked delighted.
“There. You did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Laughed.”
“I have laughed before.”
“Not very often.”
“That is an exaggeration.”
Amelia considered him. “A little.”
Benedict glanced between them. The room looked different from the nursery he remembered after their mother died.
Then, silence had settled into every corner.
Toys had remained untouched. Amelia apologized whenever she cried.
Marjorie had refused to cry at all. Benedict had sat beside their beds and promised himself he would keep them safe. He had thought safety would be enough.
Now there were biscuits before supper, an absurd cat fortress, a frog called Wellington, drawings covering the floor and laughter.
Sophia had not created their happiness by herself. He knew that. But she had somehow given all of them permission to let happiness become ordinary again.
She encouraged Amelia to speak rather than apologize. She taught Marjorie that adventure did not have to mean recklessness. She taught him to—
The door suddenly opened, and Nathaniel leaned against the frame. He surveyed the scene. His gaze settled upon the tray. Then Benedict. Then the tray again.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Have I entered the correct house?”
Marjorie jumped up. “Uncle Nathaniel!”
Nathaniel opened his arms just in time for her to collide with him. Amelia followed, considerably more gracefully.
“You came!”
“I did. Though I am uncertain whether I have arrived at Rivermere or some lawless establishment where children are supplied biscuits before supper.”
Marjorie pointed immediately at Benedict. “He brought them.”
Nathaniel looked scandalized. “Benedict?”
Benedict sighed.
Nathaniel came farther inside. “The same Benedict who once informed me that eating sugared cake at five o’clock demonstrated moral weakness?”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it.”
Marjorie gasped. “Sophia says he does do that.”
Benedict looked at her. Marjorie smiled. Nathaniel accepted a biscuit.
“You see? Her Grace and I are united by scholarship.”
“You were not offered one.”
“I assumed generosity had spread.”
“It has limits.”
Nathaniel took a bite. “Excellent. I feared you had suffered a complete transformation.”
The girls pulled him toward the fortress. Nathaniel inspected it with far more seriousness than the structure deserved.
“This western wall is vulnerable.”
Marjorie crouched beside him. “I said so!”
Amelia frowned. “It is a cushion.”
“All the more reason.”
They spent the next several minutes redesigning Admiral’s defenses. Benedict remained on the rug. He watched Nathaniel deliberately place a cushion incorrectly so Marjorie could accuse him of incompetence. He watched Amelia laugh until she had to set down her biscuit. Warmth filled the room.
For one brief, painful moment, Benedict could almost imagine Sophia in the empty place beside him.
She would sit with her skirts folded beneath her.
She would object to Nathaniel encouraging Marjorie.
She would secretly encourage Marjorie herself.
She would meet Benedict’s eyes across the children’s heads and smile.
His chest tightened.
Amelia’s voice interrupted the thought. “When is Sophia coming home?”
Something in Benedict went still. Amelia looked at him. So did Marjorie. Benedict glanced toward Nathaniel. Nathaniel’s expression had lost its amusement. He offered no rescue.
Traitor.
Benedict looked back at Amelia. “I don’t know.”
Her face fell slightly. “But she is coming home?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Whatever else happened, Sophia would return.
Wouldn’t she?
A sudden coldness moved through him. Her note said a few days. He had treated those words as certainty, perhaps because considering otherwise was intolerable.
“She said she would,” Benedict added.
Amelia nodded. Marjorie frowned. Benedict knew that expression. It had preceded several household disasters.
“What?” he asked.
Marjorie folded her arms. “Have you tried saying sorry properly?”
Nathaniel coughed. Benedict turned his head. Nathaniel appeared intensely interested in Admiral.
“Marjorie,” Benedict warned.
“What?”
“That is not—”
“A proper question?”
“It is not your concern.”
“Why?”
“Because it concerns Sophia and me.”
“Yes, and?”
“That is precisely why it does not concern you.”
Marjorie frowned. “That makes no sense.”
Nathaniel nodded thoughtfully. “I fear she has you there.”
Benedict gave him a look.
Nathaniel reached for another biscuit. “I am merely an impartial observer.”
“You have never been impartial in your life.”
“An impartial observer with excellent instincts.”
Marjorie returned her attention to Benedict. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Say sorry.”
Benedict pinched the bridge of his nose. “For what?”
Marjorie’s expression became incredulous. Nathaniel looked away suspiciously quickly. Even Amelia seemed troubled.
Benedict lowered his hand. “Apparently there is a specific offense of which I have not been informed.”
Marjorie stared at him. “You made her sad.” The words landed without ceremony. Children rarely troubled themselves with decoration when the truth would do.
Benedict’s chest tightened. “How do you know that?”
“She was sad before she left.”
Amelia nodded quietly. “She tried not to show it.”
Sophia always tried not to show it. And Benedict had seen. He had simply chosen to pretend he had not.
Marjorie looked deeply unimpressed with him. “So you should say sorry.”
Nathaniel spoke solemnly. “There is a revolutionary quality to the suggestion, I admit.”
Benedict turned on him. “You are enjoying this.”
“Considerably less than usual.”
That answer silenced him. Nathaniel’s face softened.
“Which should perhaps tell you something.”
Benedict looked around the room. Amelia watched him with quiet hope. Marjorie watched him with open accusation. Nathaniel watched him with the expression of a man trying very hard not to interfere and failing magnificently.
Three of the people Benedict loved most in the world.
Three people whose opinions he trusted.
Three people who were, quite unmistakably, judging him.
Worse… they were right.
He had pushed Sophia away because he was frightened.
Then he had acted as though fear excused the hurt he'd caused.
The thought still hurt, but beneath it, something else stirred, the beginnings of an uncomfortable question.
Perhaps loving someone did indeed give another person the right to take from him.
But sitting in the nursery Sophia had helped fill with warmth, Benedict found himself wondering whether fear of losing love had led him to throw it away with his own hands.