The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (4 page)

The room felt chaotic to Margot. She drew a breath, unsure where to begin. She heard wheezing from somewhere, and it distracted her as she tried to locate the sufferer.

Sarah crossed the room with a quick, unapologetic step, smiling in friendly fashion to the two older girls as she passed them. She walked straight to the crib, and gathered the howling baby into her arms. From the pocket of her cape she produced a huge white handkerchief, and began scrubbing the child’s face of tears and mucus.

One of the girls said defensively, “She cries a lot. I think she misses her ma.”

Sarah said, “She should be held when she cries.”

The girl said, “Don’t do ’er any good to spoil ’er.”

“It doesn’t do any good to break her heart, either.” Sarah settled the child against her, tucking the little head under her chin as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The baby clung to her with both arms and both legs, shuddering as her sobs began to subside.

Mother Ryther stood in the very center of the room, her arms folded. “That one came a week ago,” she said. “A policeman brought her. He found her wandering down in the Tenderloin, and nobody to claim her.”

Margot heard Blake draw a sharp, painful breath. She felt the same sorrow, but like Mother Ryther, she had learned long ago to discipline her feelings. Pity wouldn’t help these abandoned children. Sarah’s instinctive caretaking would. And medical attention, which was what Margot had to offer.

“I assume you deal with louse infestations, obvious infections?” she asked.

“Doctor,” Mother Ryther said. “I’ve been taking care of babies for longer than you’ve been alive. The answer to your question is, Of course.”

Margot accepted this without argument, though she could have cited a hundred cases in which years of experience seemed to amount to little. She turned to Blake. “Could you set the box of things on that counter, Blake? I may as well start with this child, and work up to the older ones.”

She turned as she spoke, to indicate the area she meant, but Blake was staring into a corner, his lips parted as if he had been about to speak, but was distracted.

Margot, another instruction dying on her lips, followed the direction of his gaze. Her heart gave a sudden lurch.

The child crouched near the wall. He held a toy in each hand, and he was staring up at the strangers with an intent expression at odds with the childish softness of his features. Two, Margot thought he must be. Certainly no older than three. His eyes were a clear, translucent blue, and his hair was a pale ash blond, almost white. Nearly transparent.

It was a thing Margot remembered about her youngest brother when he was small, the silvery color of his hair. The crystalline color of his eyes had never changed, even when he was an adult. The two together, and the shape of the child’s chin, the silhouette of his head, made her shiver.

This little one could have been the identical twin of Preston Benedict when he was tiny. For long seconds Margot and Blake stared at him.

Sarah interrupted them by carrying the baby forward and laying it on a blanket on the counter, beginning to strip off its ill-fitting and stained shirt so Margot could begin her examination. Margot blinked, and made herself look away from the toddler in the corner. She took the stethoscope Sarah was holding out to her, and fitted the earpieces into her ears while Sarah unpinned the baby’s wet diaper. The little girl’s bottom and belly were red with rash.

Margot turned to her work. It was coincidence, of course. Preston had put the idea in their heads with his claims of a child. They would have known if it was true. Someone would have come to them. The Benedict name—and wealth—had that effect.

With the earpieces of her stethoscope in her ears, she bent to listen to the baby’s heart and lungs. There was no time for pointless speculation. She had work to do.

C
HAPTER
3

“Your eyes,” Preston had said, “are so unusual. It looks as if someone sprinkled gold dust in them.”

His white smile included both Bronwyn and Iris. They had withdrawn to one of the small round tables in the Bartletts’ parlor, where the buffet was laid out with a grand silver tea service. Tiered plates held sandwiches and cakes. Iris had been anxiously twisting her handkerchief when their waltz ended, but Preston had returned Bronwyn to her mother with a respectful bow, and now was charming both of them, bringing cups of punch and a saucer of finger sandwiches.

Iris said in a voice so diffident it was barely audible, “Thank you, Captain Benedict. Please do sit down with us.”

“Call me Preston, please, Mrs. Morgan. I took off the uniform months ago.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down. Iris said, “I’m sure your parents are so very glad you’re home safe.”

“So they say,” he said, with a light laugh that made the golden lock of his hair flutter above his eyebrows. He touched his pocket, where the pen and notepad were unobtrusively displayed. “I believe my father is relieved that I’m gainfully employed once again.”

“Your column,” Bronwyn said. Her cheeks felt warm, and she feared she was unbecomingly flushed. She picked up the cup of cold punch and took a sip.

“Do you read it?” he asked, with a sudden focus on her that made her cheeks feel even warmer. She bobbed her head, afraid of saying something silly. “That’s marvelous, Miss Morgan. I do hope you enjoy it.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Yes, very much.”

“How kind.” He smiled into her eyes, and her heart fluttered in response.

Iris gave a small, discreet cough. “I was surprised that Anabel Bartlett invited the press to Margaret’s party.”

Preston’s regard returned to her, and a faint, charming line appeared in his smooth brow. “Don’t you approve, Mrs. Morgan? Gosh, I’m sorry about that. I assure you, I always do my best to keep ‘Seattle Razz’ respectful. This is such a
chic
event, don’t you think?”

“Well—I suppose—”

“Oh, yes, Mother, it is,” Bronwyn said suddenly. “Everything straight from Emily Post, right down to the sandwiches.” She pointed to the ones on the plate in the center of the table. They were perfectly and quite unnaturally symmetrical, with paper-thin slices of cucumber arranged between buttered slices of bread. The crusts had been neatly cut off, and Bronwyn could imagine the leftover bits of sandwich lying around on the counter in the Bartletts’ enormous kitchen. She wondered if the servants got to eat them, or if they were just thrown out.

Preston chuckled. “I keep a copy of
Etiquette
on my desk at the paper’s offices,” he said in a confiding way. “Although I admit there’s more news when a hostess defies the rules than when she follows them to the letter!”

At this they were all smiling, exchanging confidential glances. Bronwyn felt infinitely sophisticated at that moment, she and her pretty mother sitting at a private table with the newspaperman, sharing an inside jest. He was not wearing gloves. When he put out his hand to pick up his cup, she followed the gesture, drawn by the even texture of his skin, the masculine shape of his fingers, the fine golden hairs that marked his wrist below snow-white cuffs. Her stomach contracted strangely as she remembered the feel of that cool, strong hand pressed against her back, guiding her in the steps of the waltz. The fabric of her dress was so thin it was as if his palm had touched her bare skin. He had breathed into her ear, “You dance like an angel, Miss Morgan!” and she had utterly, absolutely, believed him.

She said, “You won’t find broken rules in Mrs. Bartlett’s home, Captain Benedict. You’ll have to dig up something else to write about. Do you want to hear the latest gossip?”

“Bronwyn!” her mother said. “Captain Benedict doesn’t want to hear childish tales.”

Bronwyn gave her mother a slow blink, lowering her eyelids in a deliberate way that told Iris the use of “childish” had irritated her. Iris shifted, pulling back slightly in her chair.

If Preston noticed this brief familial conflict, his face didn’t reveal it. He said, with a confiding air, “Mrs. Morgan, truly, I love tales of all kinds! We newspapermen deal in stories, big and small.”

His smile was an irresistible combination of shyness, as if he wasn’t sure of his reception, and confidence, as if he believed in himself no matter what. Bronwyn watched her mother, normally so hesitant and suspicious, dissolve before his charm like a bit of ice caught in a sunbeam. He was terribly suave, she thought. It was no wonder the society dames of Seattle gave him
entrée
into their majestic homes, awarded him early notice of their announcements, and even told him their secrets. She supposed he knew many secrets, but was much too well bred to reveal them.

She felt, even then, as if she was meant to meet him. When he asked if he could escort them home, her mother and herself, she felt envious eyes on the back of her neck as she took his left arm and her mother his right. Bronwyn walked out with her head high, her feet as light as if she trod on clouds. She pretended not to notice that the other girls—and their simmering mothers—were watching as Captain Preston Benedict handed her into his gleaming black Essex motorcar, and climbed in to sit opposite the ladies, his Homburg poised on his lap. The driver, a tall Negro who had taken off his cap and bowed to them as they approached, closed the door behind them, then got into the driving seat and started the engine.

Preston said, “Can you direct Blake to your home, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, thank you, Captain Benedict. Just turn left here, then right on Lawrence, and left on Monroe. We’re at the top of the hill.”

“Of course,” he said, and relayed her instructions to the driver, as if he either couldn’t hear Iris’s soft voice, or as if he was trained not to listen.

They all settled back to enjoy the stately ride up the hill. The sun was setting behind them, gilding the snowcapped Olympics as well as Preston Benedict’s golden hair. Bronwyn said impulsively, “You must stay for dinner, Captain Benedict!”

Her mother said hastily, “Now, Bronwyn, you mustn’t be gauche. It’s been a lovely afternoon, but I’m sure Captain Benedict. . . that is, of course you would be most welcome, Captain, but you have such a long—that is to say—how will you get back to Seattle?”

In his habitual boyish gesture, Preston pushed his forelock back with one finger. “Well, actually, Mrs. Morgan,” he said, then stopped. “No, no, I wouldn’t want to put you out, but—”

“I know!” Bronwyn cried. “You came over on the ferry, didn’t you? One of the Mosquito Fleet. The boat won’t leave until the morning. You can’t go home until tomorrow!”

Her mother’s fingers found her hand beneath the cover of their skirts, and pinched. Bronwyn subsided, but Preston said, with a small, self-deprecating gesture, “As it happens, the paper is putting me up at the Bishop. Blake has a small room as well, naturally.”

The words were innocuous, mere courtesies, but Bronwyn understood what they meant. Preston wanted to spend more time with them. With
her
. They had been fated to meet. She
felt
the connection between them, like a silvery strand of spider silk stretching from one to the other, and she could tell—she knew it had to be true—that he felt it, too, that he could no more bear to be separated from her, when they had just found each other, than she could.

Her mother gave a genteel cough. “Captain Benedict, of course we would be delighted to have you join us for dinner if you don’t have other plans.”

He touched his forelock again, then dropped his hand as if he hadn’t meant to do it, as if perhaps someone—his own mother?—had told him to stop. It was endearing to watch. “So good of you, Mrs. Morgan,” he murmured. “Of course, I have Blake to think of . . .”

Bronwyn sighed over such kindness, this noble concern for his servant. She had met so many men who gave no thought to anyone’s comfort but their own, who would never for a moment put an evening’s pleasure at risk for the sake of someone like this Blake.

There was a brief moment of tension, during which Bronwyn knew precisely what was running through her mother’s mind. The driver was a Negro. Their cook, Mrs. Andrew, was a prickly, unpredictable sort of woman. She tended to bully everyone in the house except Daddy, and most particularly Mother. Bronwyn couldn’t guess how Mrs. Andrew might react to Blake, and she supposed her mother couldn’t, either. For that matter, she couldn’t predict how Daddy would react to an unexpected guest, though someone from the Benedict family would surely command his respect.

She held her breath, awaiting her mother’s ruling. She was uncomfortably aware of the slight stiffening of the driver’s neck, the resolute way he kept his eyes forward, guiding the shining motorcar down Lawrence toward their own street.

Iris said at length, in a way Bronwyn knew took some courage, “Naturally, Captain, your driver is welcome to take his supper with our cook and the maids. I’m quite sure—” She coughed again, a tiny, rabbity sound. Bronwyn loved her mother, but she couldn’t deny she was that sort of woman, shy and skittish as a bunny. She said, “I’m sure Mrs. Andrew will be delighted.”

There was no certainty in Iris Morgan’s voice. Bronwyn hoped neither man would notice.

 

Preston had been pleased with himself after this exchange. He had seen Blake’s neck go rigid, and he could imagine this fluttery woman would think he was embarrassed. He had handled the whole thing with aplomb, he thought, painting himself as the concerned employer, the gentleman who put his servant’s needs above his own pleasures. Of course, he didn’t give a damn where Blake ate his dinner. He didn’t give a damn if Blake had dinner at all. But that was something these two didn’t need to know.

Idly, reflexively, he pushed his forelock out of his eyes, and saw the girl, the tender, lovely child, drinking in his every move.

The mother did, too, and that intrigued him.

It was the sort of thing he loved above all else. It was gratifying to be recognized as a hero, a champion of the underdog, a successful and popular man unaware of his own charm. The matrons and debutantes of Seattle saw him somewhat differently, because, through his column, he had power over them. They were careful around him, exerting themselves to please him, but wary.

These two, the mother and the daughter, were different. They were provincial, naturally, but their naiveté had its own appeal. It wasn’t bad for a fellow to be treated with respect, after all. A man, making his way in the world with only his wits and his talent, deserved that.

It was what the pater didn’t understand. It had been months since Preston went to his father’s offices to share the good news of “Seattle Razz,” but Dickson’s reaction still rankled. It festered in Preston’s heart, reminding him of his father’s years-long preference for his older sister over him. It didn’t matter that he had proved Dickson wrong, that “Seattle Razz” was a great success. Dickson Benedict found his younger son a disappointment, and he barely bothered to hide the fact. He couldn’t grasp the impact such a column—wry, pointed, always up-to-date, with the most modern sensibility—could have on the city’s society.

The mater admired it, but then, Edith Benedict had always been predisposed toward her youngest son. She understood him. He was her favorite, and naturally he enjoyed that, though she was a little obvious about it. Preston caught the looks that passed between his sister and older brother, or even between his sister and his father, looks that made him grit his teeth.

He had to admit his mother was not the only person in Benedict Hall who appreciated who and what he was. Hattie loved him, too, but Hattie was merely the cook, and not much of one at that. And a Negress. She was sweet, and she put herself out to please him, but she really didn’t count.

These thoughts distracted him, and spoiled his mood entirely by the time the Essex pulled up in front of Morgan House. He felt irritated and restive, wishing he had never accepted the invitation. He had to watch Iris Morgan face down her cook’s objections to having a Negro dine in her kitchen, and he hid his boredom behind a bit of fuss with hats and gloves and coats.

Blake, as always, pretended to dignity. Acted as if he was above it all. It was no wonder he and Margot were thick as two thieves. They were both experts at putting on a show.

It had been entertaining, though, and by the time he was escorted into a surprisingly elegant parlor, his good mood had returned, fed by the girl’s obvious infatuation and almost equally by Blake’s discomfort. He decided to exert himself, to charm the two Morgan women and even to be respectful to the paunchy little man who was the father of the house. Why not? He had an entire evening to kill in this tedious town. There was certainly nothing better to do.