The day of the uniform, though… if she were very honest with herself, it had made something of an impression. Very few girls were without butterflies in their chests that day; she recalled the villagers of both Chiltern and Ashcroft swooning. And if she had looked at the fair, sunny face of Matthew Benson, tawny-locked and dark-eyed and clearly strong beneath his smart red jacket, strong enough to sweep someone of her feet… well. Those were girlish dreams, foolish ones, that she’d made sure to strangle as soon as they had threatened to disturb her mind’s fragile peace.
Fair, sunny-faced Matthew Benson was gone. That was evident. As the man turned, one hand braced against his desk, Daisy found herself holding her breath.
Fear. That was what was written in every line of Matthew’s body. Daisy found herself reminded of a hare when it hears the hunting horn; the same quick, crazed energy that could not be contained. He was taller than he remembered, and broader at the shoulders; hard muscle, gained from the brute work of surviving day after day, shone through the thin linen of his shirt. His skin was far more tanned than any gentleman of fashion would allow—but as Daisy’s gaze lingered at his neck and wrists, noting the deep, warm bronze against the white of his shirt, she found herself wondering just when the fashion would change.
She knew, with a certain sense of shame, that she was avoiding a clear, frank look at him. With a shake of her head and swift, silent reproach of both her manners and character, she forced her eyes upwards. The spider-web of scars at his temple, along with the length of black cloth tied around his eyes, brought a gasp to her throat—as did the deep, rust-coloured scars at his knuckles, making his fingers curl even as they rested.
Matthew Benson had clearly been through hell. But as Daisy looked, deliberately unblinking, she found herself seeing more and more of the young man she had stared at in his uniform. The hair was the same, lush and dark and curling at the nape of his neck—his stance was the same, pride mixed with alertness. It was as if a tree she had known since childhood had been struck by lightning; despite the damage, still it bloomed. If anything, curious as it was to admit, his wounds gave him an air of nobility that he had previously lacked…
… No. She was being utterly stupid. It mattered not a jot how she viewed Matthew Benson’s disfigurement; the only important view on the matter was Matthew’s own. And as for assigning notions of nobility or otherwise, it seemed the height of egoistic fantasy to make assumptions about the refining effect of suffering. This was an atrocious way to think—and an uncommon one for a girl who normally had such good sense.
Swallowing, banishing all thoughts of nobility, handsomeness or otherwise, she cleared her throat. Matthew’s head turned; it was as if, through the blindfold, he was staring directly at her.
‘Sir, I believe you dropped this piece of paper. Or threw this piece of paper. Either way, it hit me on the head rather smartly—perhaps I should be grateful you weren’t fencing, or shooting a bow and arrow.’ She gently set the paper down on the desk, making sure to let it rustle a little against the other sheets. ‘A fine hand. Although you need to do a little work on the ts and is.’
Before the incident that had robbed him of his sight, Matthew Benson had never paid all that much attention to voices. Female voices in particular had always escaped his notice—why listen to women, he had reasoned, when one could simply look at them?
After the accident—after the earth-shaking, ear-ringing upheaval of his universe, leaving two of his friends dead and one more disfigured than he was—he had been forced to listen to many women. Women who had mopped his brow, tended to his wounds, pieced the scattered fragments of his mind back into resembling a whole, all the while speaking in the hushed tones of those talking to the dying. Those nurses had taken away his former carelessness, replacing it with an intense gratitude towards anyone, anyone at all, who still deigned to talk to him… but they hadn’t managed to remove his deep resentment at being there at all.
Ever since he had come home, that resentment had only grown. He could bear the careful voices of his staff, including that of his valet Stockton as the man had slowly taken him through the essential actions and habits of a gentlemen. He was as independent with the basics as any sighted man, now… but when he heard the voices of his mother and sister, shy and cringing and streaked with pity, he felt an anger so strong it threatened to flatten him.
But now… this voice. Cool, fresh, slightly sardonic; a draught of bracing spring water, compared to the weak syrup of his mother and sister. If anything, the mysterious visitor sounded faintly amused—but not in a mocking way. The tone reminded him of a young buck at his former Club; a disarming, frank friendliness that one couldn’t find offensive, however much one tried.
While the tone was tomboyish, the pitch was another matter. Warm, golden, as unfussily luxurious as good wool or flowers, the voice was unmistakeably feminine. Not frilly, not frivolous, feminine—and with just enough culture clinging to the vowels to let Matthew know that he was speaking to a lady.
It was an attractive voice. Wildly attractive, in fact. But it belonged to a woman who had discovered his scribblings—his pathetic attempts at scrawling a signature, with hands as stiff as wood and no sight to guide him. This meant, as attractive as the voice was, that he was going to have to be a brute.
Better to be a brute, than to reveal himself as the scared, self-hating creature he had become, somewhere between the battlefield and his ancestral home.
‘I don’t give a damn about any t or i. I do care, however, that some marauding, impudent chit has stampeded her way into my house and is being far too familiar with her betters.’ He scowled ferociously, hoping that he looked less ridiculous than he felt. ‘Get out. Now. Before I set the hounds on you.’
To his immense discomfort, he practically felt the girl smile. Solid footsteps sounded on the parquet as she approached, the air lightly, incongruously tinted with the scent of lavender growing outside.
‘Alright. I’ll allow you a healthy burst of rudeness—I am generally impolite, and do not always know when I am offending other people. I apologise if my tone was too brusque.’ The voice dropped several degrees, becoming distinctly chillier. ‘But if you ever suggest setting dogs on me again, I will push you out of the window without any qualms whatsoever. We’ll see how much of a better you are after a twenty-foot fall into the flowerbeds.’
It was the rudest thing anyone had said to Matthew in eighteen months. Possibly his entire life, if boarding-school were excluded from the record. To his intense surprise, he found himself torn between relief and delight.
She had spoken to him as if her were a normal person. Not an invalid who needed coddling, or a duke who needed tiptoeing around and placating. Her words had been as refreshing as her voice; not necessarily what he had expected, or even wanted, but exactly what he had needed.
Whoever this unknown person was, she was clearly a force to be reckoned with. Matthew slowly rose, staring in the vague direction of the voice’s source, hoping against hope that he looked as dignified as possible.
‘I do not wish to be thrown out of a window—but then, you’d have to be very quick to do it, or very strappingly built. That might give you a chance with the hounds… you could even outrun them, for all I know. But it’s Sunday, and I’m not feeling terribly athletic.’ He half-smiled, wondering when he had last smiled in a way that wasn’t dutiful. ‘No window. No hounds.’
‘A pity. I rather like dogs, and I’ve never thrown anyone out of a window. I wonder if I’d have the strength.’ The woman quietly chuckled, and Matthew found himself smiling in response. ‘And I’m surprised you don’t spend more time out with your hounds. Riding out with a hunt would encourage dexterity in the hands, wouldn’t it?’
Matthew’s smile faded. Everyone around him apparently could not resist giving unsolicited advice; he was weary of each and every treatment that had been suggested. At least this stranger had managed to acknowledge his problems without the usual flood of sympathetic bewilderm
ent, or patronising recommendations to do things that he would never have any intention of doing.
Still. It was rude, however refreshing. ‘Are you suggesting a strict riding cure? I’m sure holding cold reins for hours and hours will have me sound as a bell in no time.’
‘I’m sure it will make you less sarcastic than trying to write letters like a schoolboy all day.’ The woman didn’t seem hurt by his rudeness. ‘I know nothing of your predicament, sir, but I do have more good sense than is generally necessary in a woman my age. And it seems to me that fruitlessly repeating old habits, like writing letters, will be less helpful than beginning something new.’
‘Fine advice.’ Matthew snorted, even as the new idea curled like incense in his mind. ‘And what would you have me do? Learn to knit?’
‘Knitting is both intricate and practical, yes. Although imperfect results are not satisfying—and given that you throw things when unsatisfied, putting knitting needles in your hands seems unwise.’ The cool humour in the woman’s voice brought tingles to Matthew’s fingertips, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention. ‘You need something where even imperfect results can bring satisfaction. Something like planting flowers, I suppose. Or… or baking.’
‘Baking?’ Matthew was so shocked, he forgot to laugh. ‘Making cakes?’
‘Not just cakes. All manner of sweet things. I know the Harkers’ pastry cook—perhaps a favour could be asked. A week or two of lessons would help tremendously, I think. Cakes tend to be delicate, which requires a certain finesse with one’s fingers. They encourage precision as well.’
‘So does loading a pistol.’
‘Yes.’ There was a small, meaningful pause. ‘But a fruit cake is unlikely to fatally wound you if made incorrectly.’
Matthew couldn’t help but laugh at that. He laughed loud and long, near-weeping at the absurdity of the image, until approaching footsteps pulled him from his joy like a snare on a rabbit’s foot.
It had to be his sister. He could tell from the horrified gasp, the offended whisper of skirts as she swept into the room. The atmosphere abruptly changed from one of intimacy, to one of wary danger.
‘My goodness, Miss Chiltern. What on earth do you mean by causing this—this commotion? This confusion?’ Amelia was clearly afraid; Matthew could hear it in her pitch, somewhat shriller than normal. Or, perhaps, she was ashamed that someone had seen him. ‘This is something akin to trespass. My brother is in a delicate condition, he is not to be disturbed, and—’
‘And does not wish to be discussed as if he is not in the room.’ Matthew paused, waiting for Amelia to stop. ‘In truth, it was I who disturbed Miss… Chiltern, was it? I threw a piece of paper at her head. Accidentally.’
Once again, he could practically feel the woman’s smile warming the room. ‘That is correct, your grace. And given we have not yet made formal introductions, I am Miss Daisy Chiltern. You may remember me from childhood, although I rather hope you do not.’
‘Miss Chiltern.’ Matthew bowed, hearing the soft rustle of an answering curtsey. ‘I must admit, in this case your hopes are more than met. I cannot remember you—forgive me.’
‘All is forgiven. I was a somewhat clumsy child, who resembled a potato.’ Again, that pause which seemed to contain a lifetime’s worth of cynical, quiet humour. ‘Not much has changed.’
Matthew tried to stifle his laughter, but couldn’t help it. Only Amelia’s strident, ringing sentences managed to quell his good humour.
‘Miss Chiltern, perhaps I might enquire as to the reason for this… excess of merriment? My brother’s nerves are not to be trifled with—forgive me, Matthew, but it is a fact. I cannot understand how a piece of paper can lead to such jolliness.’
‘It’s not the paper.’ Matthew felt the urge to explain himself; to protect the woman from Amelia’s sharp tongue. ‘We were, in fact, discussing fatal fruit-cakes. Miss Chiltern believes that baking would help my hands a little more than my pathetic attempts at writing letters.’
The cold, grave tone of Amelia’s voice scrubbed away any lingering traces of cheerfulness. ‘I see. How wonderful. Miss Chiltern, I have delivered the honey to my mother’s bedside—and she sends her warmest regards, as well as her apologies for being completely unable to offer you anything in return.’
The implication was clear. Matthew felt a near-irrepressible urge to say something, anything, to keep Miss Chiltern near him for longer—but she was already speaking, not attempting to hide her faint amusement at the whole business.
‘Of course. I shall detain you no longer, Miss Benson—your grace. I shall leave you to laugh about baking lessons. I have rather a long walk back to Chiltern Manor.’
As she left, her measured, solid footsteps slowly fading into nothingness, Matthew felt the light she’d brought with her dimming away. Everything suddenly seemed grey; dull, workaday, his myriad faults suddenly much more evident than any claims to nobler character. Amelia’s gleeful tut as she began organising his desk, rearranging things even though he hadn’t asked, only made his sudden self-pity more acute.
‘Honestly. What a ridiculous, insulting idea—why, I’ve never heard anything quite so wrong-headed in all my life.’ Matthew heard the usual pride in Amelia’s voice, the Benson backbone asserting itself as she fussed and bustled around him. ‘A gentleman of your stature, cooking. This is yet more proof that Chiltern girls are more suited to stables than they are to—’
‘Enough.’ Matthew hadn’t meant to say the word so sharply, but it couldn’t be helped. It was as if, in his absence, his sister had taken on all of the worst characteristics of his mother—and goodness, did she seem to enjoy using all of them on Daisy Chiltern. Daisy Chiltern, who he had apparently known since childhood… but who, for the life of him, he simply could not remember.
He was almost glad about that. It meant there were no previous associations to cloud their newest meeting; a conversation that was still playing out in his head. As Amelia tidied up, her hands noisy even though her mouth was silent, Matthew found himself wondering how he could have been more witty. More interesting. More striking.
He wanted Daisy Chiltern back in the room. He hadn’t wanted anyone around him since he had come home; he tried to want nothing and no-one, sure that such feeling would lead to both embarrassment and rejection. He was still sure that desire would lead to both of those things… but in this case, apparently, his desire was stronger than his will.
Damn it, he wanted that voice back. He wanted those feelings back; apprehension, excitement. Wanting to know what would happen next. And if it meant having to make cream pies or comfits… well, the girl was right. At least his futile attempts at dexterity would result in something delicious, if not beautiful.
He stood, hearing Amelia’s small gasp of surprise as he folded his arms. ‘To my mind, her suggestion was simple good sense. We need a pastry cook, and everyone knows the Harkers have the best one in at least three counties. Haven’t the Chilterns got some sort of connection to the Harkers? She’s offering free use of him for two weeks—two weeks! If mother has any sense, we should poach him. We may be able to convince him to hand in his notice.’
‘Brother, your joking moods worry me. Do not add brain fever to my list of concerns regarding you.’ Amelia fussed over his coat, smoothing down the shoulders as Matthew tutted in irritation. ‘Come now. Be serious.’
‘And if I am serious?’ Matthew caught hold of his sister’s hand, trying to find the softness he remembered under the hard layers that encased Amelia now. ‘It could help my hands. You know it. I might be able to take up some of my ducal duties again.’
‘But… but you are already practising, Matthew. Mother and I listened to the doctors, and prepared all sorts of exercises for you. Stockton has taught you how to do almost everything you wish to do.’ Her palm shifted uncomfortably in his. ‘Why… why is Miss Chiltern’s idea so much better?’
A wave of unfamiliar compassion flooded Matthew. Amelia was jealous; she consi
dered it her duty alone to care for him. Pulling her into a brotherly hug, hearing her sigh against his shoulder, he began to say something that rang uncomfortably true to his own ears.
‘Your exercises have helped tremendously, sister—and I have been an unparalleled beast throughout every singe one of them. You and Mother have seen nothing but the worst of me for almost two years, and I’m tired of saddening you every day. You are young, and should be tasting all that life has to offer instead of taking care of an invalid.’ Amelia sniffed against his shoulder, and Matthew continued. ‘Let the pastry cook take the brunt of me for a bit, why don’t you?’
‘... I am supposed to accept all of your moods in a loving, sisterly spirit.’ Amelia’s doubtful voice betrayed her words; Matthew knew that he had her. ‘It is my duty.’
‘And it is my duty to protect you from the evils of the world, sister. At this present moment, I am more of an evil than a good.’ Matthew kissed the top of his sister’s head, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Rest, Amelia. Rest for a fortnight, at least.’
‘... Thank you, Matthew.’ Amelia’s voice was muffled, but Matthew could hear the tears choking it. ‘I… I suppose I must write a letter.’
Yes. Amelia would write a letter, and the pastry cook would come. Come with new tricks for his rebellious fingers, and new challenges for his sightless eyes, and… and very possibly Daisy Chiltern. Even if it was only to introduce the cook, or take tea with Amelia, or… or stay.
It was impossible, her staying. Unthinkable. But to Matthew’s surprise, for the first time in eighteen months, he found himself hoping for the unthinkable.
The next day at Chiltern Manor was something of a gloomy one. Iris’s presence was still missed, despite her clear happiness in Bath with her husband, and Lady Chiltern was still somewhat melancholic for the loss. Daisy, sewing in fits and starts, watched her mother flit anxiously from room to room as the erstwhile butler Carstairs following her, a grave expression on his face.
Private Passions Page 33