Ladies of Disgrace Box Set

by Vicki Hopkins

  His hand fiddled with the glass on the top of his desk for a few moments. He lifted his eyes and spoke.

  “You want to know what happens on the battlefield, Grace? I’ll tell you.” He leaned forward on the desktop and stared intently into my eyes. “Bombs explode around you, blowing up the landscape along with soldiers and horses. Afterward, your ears ring and you go partially deaf when one explodes a few yards away, and you’re lucky enough to survive the flying shrapnel. Others who were too close have their legs and arms ripped off or their faces disfigured. Germans with machine guns riddle young boys with bullet holes, leaving them dead or dying a slow death in agony lying in the mud. I ordered them to advance in the line of fire. I’ve killed Germans, plenty of Germans, some begging for my mercy, and I gladly murdered them anyway. The mud, rain, and heat of the summer changes to the cold and snow in the winter. Boys lucky enough to dodge bullets die from dysentery instead. The stench of rotting corpses and human waste fills the air.” His eyes grew wide with rage. “And the worst part? It goes on and on, battles for hours, with no reprieve. And all we have gained is a few centimeters into the enemy’s territory.”

  “Oh dear God,” I groaned. The sights and smells he described overwhelmed me.

  “It’s hell, Grace! It’s hell on earth!”

  Benedict’s voice boomed at me, causing me to flinch. In all our years together, I had no reason to fear Benedict, but in his eyes, I saw a disturbing glint of insanity.

  “Please, darling, don’t go back,” I pleaded with a trembling voice. “Tell your commanding officer you are ill and cannot return.”

  “They will brand me a coward,” he grimly replied.

  “Then get medical help.”

  “My ancestors will think me a weakling.”

  “Your ancestors?” I spat. Instantly I hated every picture of his descendants that hung in the estate. It was an argument he always brought up. Centuries of brave men who fought Napoleon or wherever else the British Empire found conflict. “Yes, I know your ancestors were all military men, but they are dead, Benedict. You have nothing to prove to anyone and a family who cares and loves you. There is no shame in getting help.”

  “You sound like that damn surgeon whatever his name is,” he snarled.

  Suddenly I felt helpless. My pleas fell on deaf ears and a proud heart, albeit a wounded one.

  “If you insist on returning, then rest,” I pleaded. “Please rest while you are here.”

  “I can’t. Everything in this household irritates me to no end. The children, my mother, the servants scurrying around, even Carter and his booming voice. I despise the man.”

  “And me?” He had purposely left me out of his list of irritations, but I knew I fit in there somewhere.

  “Leave me alone, Grace. Go back and tend to the children.”

  As I gazed at him staring into his empty glass, the urge to shake him by the shoulders tempted me. Embarrassed at my lack of tolerance and understanding for his disorder, I pondered what, if anything, I could do to help. There would be no quiet in the household, but I didn’t wish him placed in a hospital either. Then I remembered the one location of peace on the estate.

  “Go to the hunting cottage and stay there, Benedict. No one will bother you. It will be peaceful, and you can sleep and relax to your heart’s content.” It was a valid suggestion, and I thought it a good plan. “You can take walks, enjoy the wildlife, smell the clean, fresh air, and take the time to forget the horrors of war.”

  He lifted his head and gave me an agreeable nod. “I would like that,” he responded.

  “Wonderful.” I rose to my feet. “I’ll tell the housekeeper to ready the cottage for your stay in the morning.” A burden lifted from my shoulders, knowing I had thought of another plan to help him recuperate while at home.

  His sudden change of heart encouraged me. For a brief second I noticed a slight grin brighten his face. Perhaps I had found the answer to his current dilemma.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I accompanied Benedict to the cottage. We loaded the car with everything we thought he would need and added a few books for his reading enjoyment. When I arrived, I desperately tried to push away the memories of my illicit affair with Stefan. It wasn’t the time to think about the past or to wallow in my regrets. Instead, my husband needed me, and I focused on him and our new baby.

  As the driver helped to unload the car, I accompanied Benedict inside. My husband did not bring up the subject of Stefan’s former occupancy, so neither did I.

  “I had forgotten this cottage altogether,” he remarked. He glanced around at the furnishings, walked to the bedroom, and returned to look out the front window, shaded by the overhang of the porch. The days were getting cooler, so I knew the interior would be comfortable.

  “There are plenty of blankets in the closet and extra pillows if you need them,” I announced. “Carter has stocked wood for the fireplace in case you need to take off the chill.” When the driver brought in the basket of food from the kitchen, he came to my side to look at its contents. “You will join us for dinner each evening, won’t you? I’ll have the chauffeur pick you up at seven if that’s convenient.”

  “I’ll eat here,” he replied in a sullen tone. “I don’t wish to be with people right now.”

  Hurt he had decided to forgo time with the family, I took his hand in mine. His brow furrowed over my touch, and he looked into my eyes.

  “May I stay with you this evening?”

  “Why?”

  “To comfort you, Benedict.”

  He shook his head negatively and pulled his hand from mine. “I want to be on my own.”

  Disappointed at his spurning remarks, I wanted to leave straightaway. I glanced around and noticed all the supplies we had brought were inside. He had walked over to the window and stared at the landscape. Without asking for permission, I put my arms around him and gave him a lingering hug. He stood rigid and unmoving. Helpless that I could not reach him in any fashion, I relinquished my hold and walked to the door.

  “I love you, darling. Get rest, and I’ll come back and check on you in the morning.” He did not appear to welcome another visit and flashed a disagreeable glare in my direction. “Well, perhaps not tomorrow,” I said, correcting my plans. “I will be back in a few days.”

  After saying my goodbyes, I climbed back in the car. For the first time in my life, I bit my nails on my right hand. I felt utterly powerless to help him and terrified for the future.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Casualty of War

  Benedict had cloistered himself at the cottage for days on end, refusing to eat evening meals at the estate. He barked at the housemaid assigned to tend to his needs, demanding solitude. Carter received orders Benedict didn’t wish visits from either his mother or me, for that matter. Even though we felt hurt and discarded, Florence and I discussed it would be best if we left Benedict alone in the hopes that soon he would recuperate before his return to duty.

  We were able to convince Martin to check on him, but his visit was unwelcome and agitated Benedict more than helped. Upon Doctor Reyer’s return, he reiterated his concern about Benedict’s well-being, continuing to suggest we have him hospitalized. Florence maintained her aversion to the idea, believing we were the ones that could help. I, on the other hand, began to fret that perhaps we were making a mistake. The days were swiftly slipping by and drawing closer to Benedict’s return to France.

  Florence and I had written Benedict’s commanding officer, as suggested by Martin, to extend his leave. Unfortunately, we had not received a response. Two days before he was due to travel back to his regiment, I instructed Carter to check my husband’s welfare and see if there was anything he needed to prepare for the return. At least he had allowed our butler the opportunity to visit and replenish his food supplies if nothing else.

  While Carter performed his duties, Florence had been downstairs reading in the parlor, while I had just finished nursing Amelia in the nursery. Our daughter showed signs
of strengthening and growth each day, and I felt assured she would develop into a beautiful little girl. Poor Percy had felt slighted by his father’s abandonment, but Nanny Jane kept him occupied in other childish pursuits.

  As I lay Amelia down in her bassinet for a nap, I lifted my head to see Carter standing in the doorway.

  “Might I have a word, Lady Grace” He somberly spoke.

  The tone of his voice alarmed me along with his troubled countenance. He fidgeted with his hands and took deep breaths.

  “Yes, of course.” We stepped out into the hallway, and Carter, in an out-of-character move, took my hand.

  “My lady, there is no easy way to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” My heart raced in my chest.

  “The baron...” His voice choked.

  “Carter, what is it?” I demanded.

  “I’m afraid, my lady, that the baron is dead.”

  The word echoed through my mind as if it bounced off the walls of a cavern—dead, dead, dead.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I cried. My hand crushed his in return.

  “I can barely say the words.” Carter halted and then answered in a raspy voice. “He used... he used his service revolver to take his life.”

  Everything around me disappeared except Carter’s face. His eyes watered, and his trembling voice told me he had spoken the truth. Paralyzed at the thought of Benedict’s act of desperation, I stood stunned, unable to move. My heart beat thunderously in my chest until I wailed aloud, “Oh dear God, no.”

  Tears should have run down my cheeks from sorrow, but instead, I felt as if the angel of death had thrust a knife into my chest. The horror incapacitated my ability to cry. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

  “Why, Carter? Why did he do such a thing?” My shock demanded answers.

  “Perhaps he could not face returning, your ladyship.” He handed me a piece of paper. “The baron left this behind.”

  Snatching it from Carter’s hand, I read the words written by Benedict’s apparent trembling pen. “Forgive me. I’d be branded a coward if I stayed and would become a coward if I returned.”

  In my wildest imaginations, I had never believed Benedict would do such a ghastly thing no matter how disturbed he had been from the war. He chose to die instead of seek treatment. The other alternative of returning to the front he could not face. Death had lured him to take its final path as the only way to peace.

  “Have you told Lady Russell?” I sputtered.

  “Not yet. I thought it best I speak to you first.”

  “Is his body still at the cottage,” I asked, cringing at the unseen sight.

  “Yes, my lady. He’s lying on the bed, and I’ve covered him.”

  “I want to see him.” My hand pulled from Carter, but he stopped me by grabbing my upper arm and shaking his head no.

  “I don’t think that’s wise, your ladyship. It’s not something a woman of your stature should look at, my lady. The baron wouldn’t want you to remember him in such a terrible physical state.”

  The baron hadn’t given thought to what he had done and how he had just destroyed his life and ours with one single bullet.

  “All right then,” I agreed. “I must tell his mother. Come with me, Carter. I cannot do this alone.”

  We slowly walked downstairs and strode to the parlor door as if I had already begun the funeral walk behind Benedict’s coffin. Florence sat sipping a cup of tea, her latest book lay in her lap, and she appeared content. When she lifted her eyes and saw us together in the doorway, she smiled at first. Neither of us spoke, and as the silence continued, her smile faded.

  “What is it?”

  After swallowing the lump in my throat, I entered and sat down next to her on the divan. “Oh, Florence,” I whispered. A tear welled in my eye and trickled down my cheek. My paralyzed emotions released when I spoke his name. “It’s Benedict.”

  “What about Benedict?” She glanced back and forth at us. I lifted my eyes to Carter, pleading for him to say the words.

  “I’m afraid, Lady Russell, that the baron is dead.”

  She gasped and brought her hand to her mouth. “Dead? What on earth do you mean?” She grabbed me by the arm. “Tell me, Grace. What does he mean?”

  With quivering lips, I relayed the painful truth. “Benedict was far worse than we believed, Florence. He shot himself with his service revolver.” After I had spoken the words, I sobbed. Florence dropped her cup and saucer to the floor, shattering it at our feet as our lives had at that moment.

  Apprehensive that Florence would have a spell, I pulled her into my arms, and we both cried together. When I could speak again, I rose from the divan and walked over to Carter.

  “You will need to call the constable, Carter. Since there is a weapon involved, I’m sure they will want to examine the scene and his body.”

  “Yes, your ladyship. Right away.”

  Carter turned to leave, but when he did so, poor Florence tried to rise to her feet. She beheld me with tearful eyes, and a moment later, fainted, slumping onto the floor. I ran to her side and knelt down.

  “Carter, call Doctor Reyer at the hospital, and have him come home posthaste.”

  “Yes, my lady. Right away.”

  Florence’s eyelids fluttered, and she moaned. Conscious, her anguish returned.

  “Oh, Benedict, Benedict, what have you done?” she cried.

  For some time, I cradled Florence in my arms, waiting for Martin and the onslaught of police. The days ahead would not be easy. The investigation, the inquest, and the ruling of Benedict taking his life would take its toll upon us all. With Doctor Reyer’s testimony and that of his wife and mother, inevitably the authorities would conclude he took his life while in a state of unsound mind.

  At that moment, I knew Benedict had been a casualty of war like the others who fell in the midst of a battle on foreign soil. He had suffered a different kind of fatal wound—one of the mind instead of the flesh. I knew then I had loved him after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Peace at Last

  When armistice arrived, everything changed again. Before the war, my life had been like a picture puzzle. All the pieces fit together in one idyllic scene. In a cruel twist of fate, war arrived and twisted everything upside down. As it raged worldwide and years passed, the pieces found their way back together. By the end, it had created an entirely different image with a lost piece in the middle—my husband.

  We buried Benedict in the family plot at Stratton Park next to his father. Laden with guilt and depression, the tables had spun on me. Olivia became my confidante and comfort through sorrow as I had once been to her. Florence grieved with the support of Doctor Reyer, and over the past year, their relationship had grown closer. I had been of little help in that regard, struggling with my newfound life of being a single mother.

  Percy, now four years old and robbed of a father, remained healthy. It saddened me he would never know his father who loved him dearly. Nevertheless, as his only son, he would inherit Benedict’s title and estate, and I would be responsible for helping him receive that inheritance with education and wisdom. Amelia turned one year of age as a beautiful blond little girl, and to my surprise took on Benedict’s characteristics as well as her grandmother’s every day. Though a year ago I had concerns the child would be Stefan’s, I now felt relieved to have given Benedict another baby as he desired.

  My affair with Stefan faded into obscurity in my thoughts. It seemed like another lifetime that I had fallen in love with a young Belgian soldier. Perhaps I should have regretted my actions, but I absolved myself of my sin because Benedict had failed to fill that one void in my life, leaving me vulnerable. I forgave my husband and myself. Now the war had ended, it didn’t matter any longer. Providence had taken my life in a different direction.

  Almost immediately after armistice, the Smits returned home. As quickly as the refugees had arrived in England, a mass exodus to their homeland ensued with the same eagerness. Flo
rence and I agreed their presence had been a wonderful gift in our household. Gretta was kind enough to leave some of her recipes with the cook after spoiling us for years.

  Saying goodbye to Doctor Reyer and especially Celia had been the most difficult. Celia, now almost fourteen years of age, had blossomed into an incredible young lady. She had kept with her studies, and to her father’s delight, showed herself to be a bright and astute student. If anyone had been anxious to return home, it had been her for the sheer joy of seeing her brother.

  Stefan had survived by the grace of God and our many prayers. As I reflected on the past, I chided myself for not praying enough for Benedict. The guilt over his suicide hung heavily upon me as I blamed myself for sending him to the cottage and isolating him from those who loved and cared for his welfare. Nonetheless, I surmised Benedict’s ancestral pride had played a factor in his inability to humble himself to get the aid he needed at Martin’s suggestion.

  Doctor Reyer reported Stefan had recently arrived at their home and happily found it still standing although it had been ransacked and damaged to some extent. He began the process of restoration as he waited for his family’s return. Doctor Reyer planned to start another private practice and restore their lives to a semblance of normalcy.

  As we stood in the foyer, stating our goodbyes, I could see Florence struggle with her emotions. She bit her lower lip when Martin took both her hands into his.

  “Lady Russell, what words can I express for your hospitality during these past years? Celia and I are most grateful.”

  “It is I who am grateful, Martin. You have brought me much joy and companionship, and I shall miss you.”

  “Then you must visit us in Luxembourg when we are resettled and give me the opportunity to be your host.”

  “Do come,” Celia added, clasping my hand. “And you too, Lady Grace.”

  The thought of seeing Stefan again had not crossed my mind, and I felt uncomfortable with the idea. “Perhaps.” My single word response appeared to sadden Celia, but I could not commit myself. As far as Florence, I held no doubt she would accept Doctor Reyer’s invitation.