The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (18 page)

Bronwyn’s head spun. She wished she knew the best thing to do. She could drag the older woman back to Benedict Hall, she supposed. She was taller, stronger, younger. But what if Mrs. Benedict was right?

No. That couldn’t be. There were the newspaper reports—

But what if it
was
true? What if Preston had been in a hospital all this time, and no one knew how to let her know?

She searched Mrs. Benedict’s face, but found only innocence and anticipation. Haltingly, Bronwyn said, “Mrs. Benedict, are you quite certain—?”

Edith Benedict was smoothing on a pair of fine kid gloves. She nodded peacefully. “Oh, yes, dear. You’ll see when we get there. My prayers were answered. My son came back to me.”

C
HAPTER
17

It pleased the management of the Walla Walla Sanitarium to call the cramped space allotted to Preston a “suite.” No doubt the bills sent to Dickson referred to it that way, with commensurate surcharges on a price that was already inflated. It was, of course, nothing of the sort. Preston paced it through the hours of darkness, counting the steps to keep himself from screaming with frustration. Six steps from the wall to the door, with its tiny screened window. Eight from there to the narrow doorway into the bathroom, which featured an elegant lidless toilet, a basin with a single tap that ran mostly cold water, and a tin tub with no sharp edges and neither soap dish, glass, or towel rack, or anything else that could conceivably be turned into a weapon. He was allowed a ewer and a basin beside his bed, but they were also tin, painted white, trimmed with peeling bands of red. They were dented and bent. He loathed them, but they were all he had for decoration.

It was a cell. No civilized man would call it anything else. He lived like an infant in a playpen, all dangerous objects out of reach, every movement observed, each bite of food or dose of medicine supervised. There was no outer window, and the only excitement was in peering through the little window to watch people get out of the elevator, or go back into it. It was, in fact, not living at all, and he didn’t intend to continue this way.

There was nothing Preston hated more than being controlled, than being told what to do or not to do. It had been the earliest sticking point between him and Margot, the older sister, the smarter sibling, his father’s favorite. It should have been obvious to her that she could avoid all the—
unpleasantness,
was perhaps a good word, though it caused a sour chuckle when he thought of it—she could have avoided it if she had simply stepped out of his way. Given him room to be himself. But she had been, always, unbearably egotistic, and her disdain for him had been evident from an early age.

One of the troubles with the non-life he was now stuck in was having too much time to think. He had been a man of action. A decisive man, even a bold one, at least after acquiring the sapphire. Now, as he paced, the insults and injuries he had suffered came back to him, revolving in his mind like a child’s carousel, in which all the creatures were demons. The book Margot had snatched from him when he was four, claiming he had torn the page. Her superior smile when she won special honors in school subjects he could barely master. His father’s look of disappointment when he announced he would be writing a society column. Blake’s cool disdain as he lifted his marble-headed cane.

Of course, he had taken care of Blake. Blake had meant to kill him, and Preston had instead nearly killed Blake. Not that anyone knew that. It seemed Blake had decided to keep the truth to himself, but that made sense. No doubt the old man was too cowardly to tell his employer what he had tried to do to his youngest son!

Not that the pater would care. If he did, would he have consigned him to this living death? No. He was perfectly happy, with his precious Margot and her crippled cowboy living under his roof.

Preston reached the wall again, and spun to pace back toward the door. He kept his eyes down when he reached it. The dark hall made the window a mirror, and he didn’t need to be reminded what he looked like.

He was a monster. There was no other word for it. The fire had caught him, and ruined him forever. It was the one and only time the sapphire had failed him.

He needed it back. He needed it to take this final step, but first—the child had to be found. His child. Then, every time Margot looked into that boy’s face, she would know her brother was still with her.

It was hard on Mother, of course. She would have to explain the brat’s existence, somehow, but she could do it. She would manage. She would be happy, no doubt, to have something of her youngest son with her.

Poor Mother. It had been hardest on her, all along. It wasn’t fair, especially as she was the only one who had always understood him, always been faithful. As far as Preston was concerned, it was another sin to place at Margot’s door.

It shouldn’t have been this way. He had made mistakes; there was no doubt. He could admit that. Now, though, there was nothing left in his arsenal, no remaining weapon he could use to make certain the great Margot never forgot.

Except the boy. Once the brat was found, and all the mighty Benedicts were forced to acknowledge him, he could bring all of this to an end.

God, what a relief that would be.

 

King Street Station was almost deserted when Bronwyn and Mrs. Benedict passed under the huge tower with its four clock faces. Two idle porters called to each other, their voices echoing against the coffered ceiling. Mrs. Benedict marched to the ticket counter, her little heels clicking loudly on the empty marble floor. Bronwyn listened as the clerk described what was necessary to reach Walla Walla.

“Nothing direct,” he said. “You’ll have to go to Portland, ma’am, and from there . . .”

Bronwyn looked away, feeling anxious and out of place. There was a policeman stationed beside the door, and she wondered if she should run to him, beg him to call Benedict Hall, send someone to collect them. Bronwyn knew how it was to cling to illusions in the midst of despair. No one else in Benedict Hall, not a single other person, had mentioned Preston’s name. All of this could be a delusion Mrs. Benedict had concocted to relieve her grief.

But what if it were true? What if he lived?

She was tempted to revisit her old dreams, Preston at her side, a wedding in Benedict Hall, her fairy-tale life restored. What if these past three years had been nothing but a horrid nightmare?

She closed her eyes, sick with confusion. She imagined Preston—golden, blue-eyed, charming—folding her into his arms, begging her forgiveness. She thought of the two of them searching together for their lost baby. She pictured Mrs. Benedict smiling a welcome at her new daughter-in-law, welcoming her to Benedict Hall.

Mrs. Benedict startled her out of this reverie by seizing her hand. Bronwyn’s eyes flew open, and she found the older woman’s face very close to hers, her eyes glittering in the glare of the station’s lights. She spoke with one of her odd flashes of clarity. “You think I’m crazy.” She lifted one thin shoulder in a resigned gesture. “Preston lives, Miss Morgan. I know it’s a surprise, and you don’t believe me, but you’re going to see. I’m going to take you to him. The two of you have things to talk about.”

In a state of perplexity, Bronwyn allowed herself to be led to the train, to be helped up the metal steps into a first-class compartment by a porter, to be guided to a seat in a Pullman car. The porter appeared again, bringing a tray with a small porcelain pot of coffee, a plate of toast, and a cut-glass dish of butter. The train started up, chugging slowly at first and then faster. The porter folded out the small table that fitted between their plush seats, and supplied them each with the morning edition of the
Seattle Daily Times
. As he withdrew, Bronwyn gazed after him, bemused at finding herself on a train, clicking farther and farther away from home, in the company of her dead lover’s mother.

“You see,” Mrs. Benedict said now, pouring out the coffee with a steady hand. “My son was in a rural hospital, and no one knew who he was.” She spoke in the most matter-of-fact way, as if nothing she was describing was remarkable. “Everyone assumed he died in the fire, and since there was absolutely nothing left of it, no one could argue.” She offered Bronwyn a cup, and Bronwyn accepted it. “But I knew,” Mrs. Benedict said simply. “I could feel it. I knew my boy was alive.”

Bronwyn sipped the coffee, and thought that Mrs. Benedict had as rich an imagination as her own.

“It’s been more than a year since he came back,” Mrs. Benedict said. She held her cup between her two small hands, hands that looked deceptively fragile. “You’re thinking, quite naturally, that Preston should have contacted you, once he returned.”

Bronwyn turned her gaze to her right, letting the early morning brilliance of Puget Sound sting her eyes. She recalled her bewildered hurt as she waited for a telephone call or a letter from Preston. She remembered the despair that swept her when she read of his death, and her misery when she understood there would be no engagement, no society wedding, only the loneliness of a husbandless girl expecting a baby. She said in a low voice, “If Preston had wanted to, Mrs. Benedict, he could have. He knew where to find me.”

“With your parents. Quite proper.” Mrs. Benedict spoke in a conversational tone, as if they were merely discussing some society event.

“I wrote to Preston when I found out I was pregnant,” Bronwyn said, still staring at the breeze-rippled water. “He didn’t answer.”

“I scolded him severely for that,” Mrs. Benedict said. “Boys can be so thoughtless.”

Bronwyn was glad, when she turned her gaze back to Mrs. Benedict, that her eyes were sun-dazzled. She couldn’t quite see the expression on the other woman’s face, and she thought that was probably for the best. She tried to keep her own features smooth and still, giving nothing away, but there was ice in her voice. “I don’t think of Preston as a boy.”

“Oh, of course not!” Mrs. Benedict’s laugh was like crystals clinking together. “That’s just a mother’s way, you know!”

Bronwyn pressed her lips together to stop herself from retorting that, of course, she did
not
know, because her baby had been taken away from her.

Her companion didn’t notice her silence. “He did try to trace the baby, though,” Mrs. Benedict said. “He knew there was a child, and he feels responsible.” Bronwyn felt a choking sensation in her throat, but again, Mrs. Benedict didn’t notice. “He has been telling me,” she said in a confiding way, “that we should find the baby. The little boy. Truly, if the baby’s mother had been anyone less—well, less fitting—I should have told him to leave well enough alone. But you, Miss Morgan, come from such a good family.”

Bronwyn raised her eyebrows. Her eyes had adjusted now, and she could see that Mrs. Benedict looked quite sincere. There was no irony in her expression.

Mrs. Benedict smiled. “Oh, yes! Preston has told me all about you. The Port Townsend Morgans, he said. With a lovely house in Uptown. A charming mother, successful father . . . Naturally, I would have preferred that the two of you were married, but still—quite respectable relations for my first grandchild. We can think about the issue of marriage later.”

Bronwyn blinked at the casual mention of marriage, as if it were nothing more than a housekeeping detail. It prompted her to speak bluntly. “Mrs. Benedict,” she said. “If Preston were alive, wouldn’t he be in Benedict Hall, with you?”

Edith Benedict’s smile faded, and her eyelids and lips drooped, changing the outline of her face. She looked away, out into the bright morning. “If only he could come home,” she said softly. “I’ve begged and begged, but my husband—and
Margot
—” She spoke Dr. Benedict’s name tightly, as if she had bitten down on a pebble. “They tell me it’s impossible.”

“Why should that be?”

“Well, you see . . .” Sudden tears sparkled in Mrs. Benedict’s eyes, and she paused for a moment, the back of her hand held to her lips. She sniffed once, and said, “Preston was injured, you know. In the fire. He hasn’t been the same ever since. Not himself at all.”

Bronwyn eyed her doubtfully, and Mrs. Benedict’s eyes flashed up to hers and then away, as if she had read her disbelief. “It’s a sanitarium.” She spoke on a little rush of breath. “He’s in the Walla Walla Sanitarium. I haven’t seen it, but I understand they have a very good doctor there. Nurses, too. Mr. Benedict insisted on that, of course.”

Bronwyn watched Mrs. Benedict’s profile, and tried to believe she knew what she was talking about. It would be marvelous if Preston truly was in a sanitarium. She didn’t know what a sanitarium was like, but she pictured rooms like those in a fine hotel, bright and clean, with tall windows and white bedspreads, and landscaped grounds to stroll in.

“Margot and Mr. Benedict don’t really understand what troubles Preston,” Mrs. Benedict said. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “It was the war, you know. He was a hero,” she added defensively, as if Bronwyn might suspect otherwise. “But war changes a man. There’s this sapphire—It’s not like Preston to care about a jewel, but I always thought, if it mattered to him . . .” Her sentence died half-spoken.

“He wore it around his neck,” Bronwyn said, then felt heat staining her cheeks. She couldn’t think why she had said that. She had never discussed any of these details with anyone, not her mother, not her friends.

Mrs. Benedict, evidently, saw nothing unusual in her comment. “Yes, he did. He thought it helped him. Made him stronger.” She sighed. “Margot calls it a delusion. I don’t understand why she can’t allow her brother his comforts.”

Bronwyn breathed a small sigh of her own. The delusion was all on the part of Mrs. Benedict, obviously. She wished she had refused to come. She should have made a scene, woken Ramona, stopped this strange journey before it started.

But if it was true—if Preston were alive after all, and he truly wanted to find their baby—

She turned her gaze back to the bright water. She knew better. Entertaining such thoughts would make her as deluded as Mrs. Benedict.

 

Blake rose, as he usually did, earlier than anyone else in Benedict Hall. Hattie had left the electric percolator filled and ready for him. He plugged it in, and collected the bottle of cream from the icebox while the percolator gurgled and dripped. When the coffee was ready, he poured a mug full, stirred in cream, and carried the mug to the back porch. He sat there for a time, savoring the cool peace of the early morning, and planning his appeal to Mr. Dickson on behalf of the Church family.

It would all have been easy if Dr. Margot were here. Dr. Margot and her father would argue about the issue. Dickson would say it was not their business to interfere, while Dr. Margot would argue that it was a matter of conscience, that honorable people could not stand by and watch a blameless family thrown out of their home. Mr. Dickson would grumble, but that was mostly for show. He and Dr. Margot were far more alike than either of them realized.