The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  “But that’s only a week away!” Blake said.

  “Yes. A week. To find a place to live, to move our belongings, to sell our house.” She covered one of her hands with the other in a grip that tightened the skin over her knuckles. “They frightened my mother. She cried all afternoon.”

  “Blake,” Hattie said. “You have to speak to Mr. Dickson. We have to do something!”

  Hattie didn’t know the trouble Mr. Dickson was already facing, but she was right, just the same. Something had to be done. Dr. Margot would wish it. Blake wished it himself, and he was sure Mr. Dickson would agree, when he knew.

  Blake said, “I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

  This time it was Sarah who reached out, seizing his hand in hers. “Thank you, Mr. Blake. I’ll be so grateful. Any help at all—it’s just that there’s no time!”

  Blake cleared his throat and stood. “I’m sure Mr. Benedict will want to help, Sarah. He’s a fine man. Now, I’m going to get the motorcar out of the garage and drive you to your home.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said hastily. She stood, too, picking up her bag and retrieving her cape. “I came on the streetcar. It’s only two changes.”

  “I won’t hear of it,” he said. “And it’s no good arguing. I’m a stubborn man.”

  Hattie said, “That he is, Nurse Church. When Blake sets his mind on something, it’s as good as done.”

  “I learned that for myself,” Sarah said, and her dimple flashed again, more convincingly this time. “A less stubborn man than Mr. Blake might never have walked again.”

  “I’ll pull up beside the porch,” Blake said. “You just wait for me there.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said simply. “I’m in your debt, Mr. Blake.”

  “Well, not yet. But let me see what I can do. Are you on the telephone?”

  She nodded. “I’ll write down the number.”

  “Good. I will speak to Mr. Benedict after breakfast, and then I will telephone to you.” He collected his driving coat, his cap and gloves, and began putting them on. “There’s one more thing, Nurse Sarah Church,” he said. He took the liberty of waggling his forefinger in her direction. “You are not a servant. When you visit Benedict Hall, you enter through the front door like the professional woman you are. Remember that.”

  Meekly, but with a sparkle in her eye at last, Sarah said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Blake. I promise. I will remember.”

  Bronwyn was exhausted from the long, confusing day, and the bed was soft, with cool sheets and a feather-light comforter. One of the maids had opened the window to a rose-scented breeze, and the night was dark and peaceful. Despite her shame, Bronwyn slept more soundly than she had since leaving Port Townsend. When a hand fell on her shoulder, and shook it, she swam up from the peaceful depths of a dream with reluctance, mumbling protests all the way.

  “Shhh,” someone said. “Miss Morgan, we need to be quiet. They’ll try to stop us.”

  Bronwyn forced her eyelids to open. In the half-light of what felt like the middle of the night, she saw who was bending over her, and gasped. Fully awake now, she wriggled upright, clutching the comforter to her chest. “Mrs. Benedict!” she hissed. “What—what is it you want?”

  Edith Benedict was a pale ghost in the dimness, her gray hair in a cloud around her thin face, her lips and cheeks all but invisible. Only her eyes, with their light, luminous blue, held any color, and they seemed sharper and more focused than they had at dinner. “You want to see him, don’t you?” she breathed. She leaned forward, a little too close, enveloping Bronwyn in the scent of lavender water.

  Bronwyn couldn’t help shrinking back. There was something odd about Mrs. Benedict and more than a little scary. She was a small woman, but she seemed tightly wound, like a watch stem twisted so far it was about to break. The hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder was insistent.

  “Mrs. Benedict,” Bronwyn said. Her throat and mouth were dry, and she swallowed. “Mrs. Benedict, I don’t know whom you mean.”

  “Preston!” Mrs. Benedict said. She smiled, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if she hadn’t just invaded Bronwyn’s bedroom in the small hours and woken her from a sound sleep. “You want to see Preston, don’t you?”

  “What?” Bronwyn stiffened, staring at the older woman. “Mrs. Benedict, you know that can’t be. Preston’s—”

  Mrs. Benedict moved her hand to cover Bronwyn’s mouth. Her hand was cool and dry, and smelled of powder. “Shhh,” she said again. “I’ll explain everything, but not now! If they hear us, we won’t get away. Come, get up and get dressed. Clean your teeth and brush your hair. If we hurry, we can catch the five o’clock train.”

  The thought flashed through Bronwyn’s mind that she might still be dreaming. She dreamed so often of Preston and their night in the garden. This could be an extension of the dream, a sort of wish fulfillment brought on by days of fever and a bizarre day of strange adventures and new people. It was cruel, in a way, when she had made such an effort to relegate it to the land of dreams where it belonged.

  She drew a long breath, trying to convince herself of this, but Edith Benedict seized her wrist with her hard little hand, and tugged on it. “Get up, Miss Morgan,” she hissed. “You must hurry! We don’t have much time!”

  There could be no more doubt. She was awake, and this was Preston’s mother, who wanted her to do something, to go somewhere. A small enamel clock on the bedside stand read four a.m.

  The chill of the hardwood floor was cold beneath her bare feet. The water in the basin, as she splashed her face and cleaned her teeth, was also cold. Bronwyn, shivering, turned to find Mrs. Benedict holding out a day frock in crisp dotted swiss, still on its hanger from whatever wardrobe she had taken it.

  Bronwyn stepped into the dress, and did up the buttons in the back with trembling fingers. Mrs. Benedict, smiling as if it were all a great lark, draped a long sweater over her shoulders without comment, pressed her handbag and her hat into her hands, then opened the bedroom door. Bronwyn tried to speak, to ask again what they were doing, to press Mrs. Benedict about where they were going, but Edith gave a girlish giggle, and put a finger to her lips. Bewildered, Bronwyn followed her down the staircase to the hall.

  Benedict Hall slumbered around them. Bronwyn heard only the faint sounds of a big house creaking, curtains swishing in the currents of air from open windows, eaves vibrating in the pre-dawn breeze. Mrs. Benedict’s swift breathing was louder than any of these, and growing louder by the moment. She seized Bronwyn’s arm and held it as she unlocked the heavy front door and pulled it open. They slipped through, and Mrs. Benedict closed it with a click that seemed to pierce the darkness.

  She giggled again, giving Bronwyn the strangest feeling that they were two girls sneaking away from their parents in search of mischief. Her hand was firm as she guided Bronwyn down the walk and out through the scrolled iron gate to the street.

  Mrs. Benedict said, “We’ll have to take the streetcar. I didn’t dare call for a taxicab.” She set off down Fourteenth Avenue at a brisk pace.

  Bronwyn hurried after her. It didn’t seem right to let a woman of Mrs. Benedict’s age—and in her doubtful mental condition—go off alone in the half darkness. It occurred to her, as they stepped up into the streetcar and Mrs. Benedict dropped two nickels into the fare box, that she had become the Benedicts’ unwitting and unintentional savior in the past twenty-four hours. She hoped Ramona would see it that way, and forgive her this headlong flight into the dim streets of Seattle.

  She saw now that Mrs. Benedict carried a small brocade traveling bag that she set beside her on the bench seat of the streetcar. Mrs. Benedict, following her glance, smiled as if this were all the most natural activity in the world, setting off in secrecy, pattering down Aloha to the streetcar, where the uniformed driver gave them an odd look, and touched two fingers to his cap, but said nothing.

  “It’s in here,” Mrs. Benedict said in an undertone. She patted the brocade bag with her han
d. “He’s going to be so glad.”

  “What’s in there, Mrs. Benedict?” Bronwyn said, in the same low voice, as if there were anyone to hear their secrets. There were no other passengers.

  “The sapphire!” Mrs. Benedict whispered, raising her eyebrows as if surprised Bronwyn hadn’t already known. “Preston asked for it particularly.”

  “Mrs. Benedict—” Bronwyn bit her lip, searching for a way to ask the important question. She wondered if the older woman would fly into a fit if she said the wrong thing. “Mrs. Benedict,” she began again, speaking as gently as she could. “I know Preston died. We read it in the Times. My father brought the paper home and we all—we know about the fire. It was three years ago. There was a funeral.”

  “Oh, no,” the older woman said, with a dismissive flick of her fingers. “I told you. I thought so, too, for a long time, but I was wrong. It was all a mistake.”

  “Wh-what was a mistake? There was a fire, wasn’t there? There were pictures in the newspaper—awful pictures.”

  “Oh, yes, dear, there was a fire. It was terrible. My daughter’s clinic was destroyed. My son tried to save it.”

  “But—” Bronwyn’s words trailed off into silence. Mrs. Benedict clearly believed she was speaking the truth.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Benedict said. “Preston was away for a long time, and we all thought we had lost him. Then, a year ago, he came back.” She folded her gloved hands in her lap, nodding primly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I know I shouldn’t have favorites,” she said in a confiding way. “But Preston is different from the other children. He’s fragile. He always has been. Margot and Dick—they’re strong, like their father. Preston is like me.”

  She stopped talking, and turned her delicate profile to the darkness outside the window. She looked wistful for a moment, her mouth trembling, her eyelids fluttering as if she were blinking back tears. After a moment, she took a shuddering breath, and as she faced forward again, she fixed a smile on her lips, as if it were her duty. As if this were a formal tea, and she was entertaining a guest.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 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, h
ad 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.