The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) by Cate Campbell Page B

opened.
    It was, of course, none of his affair. He and Preston had never been friends. When Frank first arrived in Seattle, Preston had pretended they were, but that had been for the sake of having a larger audience. Once Preston knew Margot cared about Frank, all pretense evaporated. The tension between them had turned into naked hatred. Frank had no sympathy left for Preston. He knew him to be without remorse. He doubted he possessed any human feelings at all.
    But Edith Benedict would never be convinced, and Edith was now his mother-in-law. If he couldn’t hold her in the same regard he held his own mother, she was still the only mother Margot had, and Margot worried over her. If something was wrong—or if someone was disturbing the room she kept guard over as if someday her son would return to it—perhaps that should concern him. Quietly, he set his briefcase down, bracing it against the newel post, and walked along the corridor toward the bedroom.
    The murmuring grew clearer as he approached the open door. Once or twice a little gasp punctuated its flow, as if someone had been surprised. Or was weeping.
    He eased the door open with his fingertips. It was Edith in Preston’s bedroom, whispering to herself as she opened and closed drawers in the bureau that stood opposite the window. The gasps were tiny, muffled sobs, which seemed to escape without her knowing it. Small tears lay on her cheeks, their flow obstructed by a thin layer of face powder. Her mouth, pale and trembling, was a little swollen, as if she had been crying for some time.
    Frank spoke with all the gentleness he could muster. “Mother Benedict? Is everything all right?”
    She looked up, her pale blue eyes widening and her cheeks flushing beneath her cosmetics. Her hand flew to her throat as if she had been caught doing something shameful. “Oh!” she said. “Oh! Major!”
    Frank stepped into the room, but slowly. He felt as if she might startle and flee, like a doe caught nibbling rose hips in the garden. “Surely,” he said, “you could call me Frank now? I’d like that.”
    “Oh!” she said again. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she had been someplace else entirely. She gazed at him as if she couldn’t quite place him or understand what he was saying.
    Frank took in the small piles of clothes on the neatly made bed, and a brocade traveling bag lying beside them. “You must be sending some things to the sanitarium,” he said.
    “Taking,” she said in a voice both faint and insistent. “I’m taking them.”
    Frank couldn’t think what to say to her. He hadn’t heard anything of a trip, though the Sunset Highway across Snoqualmie Pass had been clear of snow for some weeks now. He said, awkwardly, “When are you going, Mother Benedict?”
    “Soon,” she said. “I’m going very soon.”
    “Will Blake be driving you?”
    Her eyes, wide and blue, came up to his. “Blake? Oh, no. I don’t want to go with Blake.” Frank gave a little shake of his head, not understanding. She said, “Train. I’m going by train. Preston needs—” She gestured toward the suitcase. “He needs clothes. Brushes. Some things to make him more comfortable.”
    “I see.” Frank thought it probably wasn’t his place to argue with her. In a way, it was good to see her with a bit of energy. He decided the best thing was to tell Margot, or even to speak to his father-in-law. “Do you need help?”
    “Oh, no, dear, thank you.” She didn’t look up again, but opened another drawer. She took out a stack of linen collars, something Frank was sure Preston would have no use for where he was. Edith laid them on the bed beside the valise, and Frank, following her movements, saw the antique sapphire glimmering from the dark lining of the case.
    He hadn’t seen it since the day he watched Margot bury it in the wet concrete of the footings of her clinic. He knew Preston had dug it out, taking a chunk of concrete with it. Preston had used it to send Margot the