The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  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, to
o, 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  Bronwyn drank another Fallen Angel, and then another, determined to drown the memories that swam in her head. She danced again, and again, until unladylike perspiration ran down her sides and soaked her beaded headband. Johnnie gave up, retreating to their table to nurse his gin and wait for her to tire herself out. She danced with anyone who would join her, and when there wasn’t a man free, she danced alone.

  At length the player piano emitted a final tinny chord, and ceased playing. Bronwyn had no money with her, and it seemed no one else wanted to put in a nickel. The room spun gently around her, as if she had been doing somersaults, and reluctantly, she teetered back to Johnnie. He had ordered another drink for her, and it waited on the table. “You’re some hoofer, kiddo,” he said. “Get off your dogs, there. Have one more jolt!”

  His slang grated on her ears. There had been a day when she wouldn’t have dreamed of spending a moment in the presence of someone like Johnnie Johnson, but that day was a memory now, added to all the other uncomfortable ones. Johnnie had spent a lot of money on her tonight, and not out of sympathy, or even admiration. As she picked up the cocktail, she tilted her head and gave him an exceedingly polite smile, as if they were having tea instead of overpriced, illegal liquor. “Thanks so much, Johnnie. It’s been a swell evening.”

  She saw by the sudden narrowing of his eyes, the forward thrust of his head, that he understood she was saying good night, and good-bye.

  He wanted more, of course. That was why his wallet was wide open. It was why he had tolerated her dancing without him, why he was still waiting at this table when most of the bleary-eyed crowd had disappeared into the night. He put out his rough workingman’s hand, and seized her wrist. “Think again, kiddo.”

  This time the word carried both disdain and danger. She heard it clearly, and she saw it in the slackness of his mouth, the flush of his heavy face. He was no more than a year, perhaps two, older than she, but anger and resentment and lust made him look infinitely older, nothing like the young man she had agreed to come out with.

  With effort, she pulled her hand free, and his thick fingernails scraped on her skin. “I’m tired, Johnnie. I want to go home.”

  “You’re tired? Now you’re tired?” He leered at her, and thrust a thumb in the direction of the dance floor. “You weren’t tired thirty seconds ago!”

  Bronwyn shot to her feet. “I’m tired now, Johnnie Johnson. I said thank you for the nice evening, and if you’re the gentleman you pretend to be, you’ll now see me home!”

  He lurched up from the table, sending his chair flying. The barman glared at them both, as if Bronwyn were as guilty of the interruption as Johnnie. Maybe she was, but it was too late to worry about that now.

  Johnnie snarled, “I took you where I was takin’ you already, Miss High and Mighty! You got that bitty nose in the air, you can just follow it home on your own!”

  Bronwyn put her hands on her hips. “You’re going to just leave me? Do you know what my father would say about that?”

  Johnnie gave a bark of derisive laughter. “I don’t think your father has anything to do with it,” he said. “Those days is past for you, my girl.” He laughed again.

  Bronwyn picked up her cocktail glass and flung the remnants of her Fallen Angel at his face. There wasn’t much left, and only a few greenish drops reached him, but it felt good just the same. “Don’t you ever call on me again, Johnnie Johnson,” she spat at him. “I’m still an Uptown girl, whatever you may think.”

  “Ha,” he said, wiping the drops from his cheeks. “You can’t kid a kidder, my girl! What do you think all your snooty girlfriends think of you now? You’re fast, that’s what you are. You’re fast, and everyone knows it!”

  Willy forestalled the rest of their argument by calling from behind the bar, “Closing time, ladies and gents! Drink up!”

  Bronwyn spun on her toes, and marched past the handful of remaining customers to the door. Johnnie shouted after her, “Hey, princess, gotcher carriage out there?”

  She heard titters of laughter, and though her neck burned, she lifted her head higher and walked with a determined step. When she reached the doorway she paused. The lights from the street above shone down on her head. Deliberately, she drew a fresh Lucky Strike from her bag and fitted it into her cigarette holder. A man near the door jumped up, grinning, and struck a match to light the cigarette.

  Bronwyn drew on it, and blew a cloud of smoke back into the room before she turned, the cigarette holder poised at a jaunty angle, and went out into the night. She maintained her attitude as she climbed the stairs, and walked up Water Street with smoke trailing behind her until she left the glow of the streetlights and reached total darkness. There she pulled the cigarette out of the holder and threw it into the gutter.

  Johnnie wasn’t the first to think because Bronwyn Morgan drank Fallen Angels, and because in the eyes of the town she was one, she would open her knees for any man. As if one lapse had determined her entire life.

  It had, though. At this inescapable thought, all the elation of alcohol and dancing drained away from her in an instant. One lapse had determined her life and stolen her future. It had left her with nothing but ruins.

  She shouldn’t be here in the lower town at all, she knew, and especially not at night. The businesses were shuttered, but the alleys were alive with loiterers. There were men too drunk to make it home, and sailors loath to return to their uncomfortable bunks. There were streetwalkers calling out to the men who could still stand and might have money in their pockets. Bronwyn gripped her handbag and hurried her pace, pursued by an occasional catcall. Every stone and curb bit her soles through her soft shoes as she half ran until she reached Monroe. There, panting, she began the long hike up the hill.

  The moist air from the Sound filled her lungs, and cooled her burning cheeks as she trudged along the steep street toward home. There were no footsteps behind her. Johnnie must have given up. She felt now as if she hadn’t drunk a thing. All the feelings she had tried to submerge welled up again in a tide that nothing could stem. In the darkness, spring flowers glowed faintly against the dark shrubbery, peonies and rhododendrons and azaleas, their beauty mocking her misery.

  It was her own fault for bringing out the clipping once again. She should have burned it the moment it came into the house.

  Daddy had carried the copy of the Times home in his Gladstone bag after a business trip to Seattle. When he unpacked the bag to bring out the perfume and taffy he had brought home for his wife and daughter, he took out the paper and laid it on the Westinghouse radio in its place of honor on the sideboard in the breakfast room. Absently, knowing her mother didn’t like anything on top of her brand-new wireless set, Bronwyn picked up the newspaper.

  She hadn’t meant to read it. Since that day when she read about the fire, and the death of the youngest Benedict son, she hadn’t once to
uched the Times. She read the Leader, and the fashion magazines, and she read library books. The Times she avoided as if the newspaper itself had been responsible for the tragedy that had left her bereft, grieving her lost love.

  But on this day, before she realized what it was, it was in her hand. It was already, for some reason, folded to the society page. She couldn’t help seeing the headline.

  The type had been set in the florid font used for the society pages, with lavish curlicues and sweeping capitals. It practically shouted “The Benedict Wedding” at her. Bronwyn’s heart lurched when she saw it.

  She should have stopped then. She should have thrown the paper into the breakfast room fireplace, but she didn’t. Perhaps resisting temptation was not an aspect of her character.

  Standing beside the walnut sideboard with its array of coffee cups on their copper hooks, she gazed down on the photograph of a tall, willowy bride standing beside her dashing groom. They were smiling, the dark-haired bride looking up at her new husband, the husband’s arm snug around her narrow waist. Even in black and white, Bronwyn could see that everything was perfect. The flowers, the bride’s beaded dress, even the shine of the polished banister where she rested her white-gloved hand were so beautiful that Bronwyn forgot herself in a wave of sorrow. She groaned aloud, and pressed her palm to her chest, where her heart contracted as if squeezed by a pitiless hand.

  Her mother had come running from the kitchen, where she and Mrs. Andrew were having one of their awkward conversations, the ones in which Iris tried to order menus while Mrs. Andrew announced what would actually appear on the table. Iris burst into the breakfast room, crying, “Bronwyn! What is it, dear?”

  Bronwyn dropped her hand, and drew a shaky breath as she turned hurriedly away. She thrust the paper beneath her arm so the photographs didn’t show. “It’s nothing, Mother. I’m sorry. I just—I stubbed my toe.”