wasn’t certain he believed her.
He spotted the horse lying in the dirt where the gravel had been scraped away and rushed to retrieve it. That’s when he heard it. The clop-clop-clop of real horses. He turned and saw his father, sitting tall and stern atop his mount, coming to a stop before Mother.
“Rutherford,” she breathed up at him. “You’ve returned early. What do you think?” She gestured gracefully. Everything she did was graceful. Everything.
His father did not smile. He did not even glance at the changes to the drive. Instead, he stared down at her for long minutes, his face like the stones of Chatwick Hall. “Who gave you leave to do any of this, Catherine?” Rutherford asked.
She placed her hand—one not much bigger than Benedict’s—upon his father’s leg. “I thought you would be pleased.”
His father tossed her arm away like a snake. “You have no bloody right,” he snapped. Then, he leaned down, drawing closer to her face, cupping her chin in his hand. “This is not your house.”
His mother recoiled as though he’d struck her. Without another word, his father rode through on his way to the stables, passing the place where Benedict stood. His turquoise eyes met Ben’s, but there was little recognition, as though Benedict were a ghost. Then, Rutherford disappeared past the corner of the east wing. Not even the echo of the horse’s hooves remained. And Mother disappeared inside one of the bedchambers with one of the workmen for several hours, the strapping one who had carried the stack of wood, he thought.
Several months later, Benedict had watched out of the rear window of a travel coach as Chatwick Hall had disappeared from view. Neither he nor his mother had been back since.
The memory was not a pleasant one, particularly now that he was older and better understood the nuances of his parents’ marriage.
Aching in every bone, exhausted and enervated at once, Chatham picked his way across the hall and tested the first few steps of the staircase. Although the treads were weak and spongy, they bore his weight with only a creak or two. As he reached the second story, he saw the wood-plank floors had fared no better than the limestone. The plaster was intact along the corridor walls, but it was stained by water and whatever else had infested this place over the past five years.
He kicked two balusters from his path and went in search of a room to sleep away his misery. What he discovered made him curse beneath his breath. Every bed, along with every piece of furniture, had either been sold or looted. Every bed except one―the massive, carved, canopied monstrosity in the master chamber, likely because it was too bloody heavy to haul away. He stood gazing at it, swaying on his feet as he contemplated the discomforts of sleeping in a carriage instead.
The dark-walnut posts were intricate with seafaring imagery―ocean waves, mermaids, kelp leaves. It was fanciful and ridiculous. Dual fireplaces flanking the long room were similar in design, only they were white marble, now chipped and stained. Three long windows along the west wall were stripped of their draperies, which had originally matched those on the bed―heavy, brocade velvet that currently hung in gray tatters from the canopy frame. He thought the fabric must have once been dark blue, but his recollections were hazy. He had not spent much time in this room as a child. It had been first his parents’ domain, and then his father’s chamber alone. What few memories he had were ugly and better left untouched.
“Please,” his mother begged, falling to her knees beside Benedict, hugging him against her body, pressing her cheek to his. The warmth was shocking to him, the feel of her arms around him. Her softness.
He froze. Mother never held him. Now, she was stroking his hair, sending sensations pinging along his scalp. Sometimes, his governess would ruffle his hair or pat his shoulder, but no one touched him, really.
He spotted the horse lying in the dirt where the gravel had been scraped away and rushed to retrieve it. That’s when he heard it. The clop-clop-clop of real horses. He turned and saw his father, sitting tall and stern atop his mount, coming to a stop before Mother.
“Rutherford,” she breathed up at him. “You’ve returned early. What do you think?” She gestured gracefully. Everything she did was graceful. Everything.
His father did not smile. He did not even glance at the changes to the drive. Instead, he stared down at her for long minutes, his face like the stones of Chatwick Hall. “Who gave you leave to do any of this, Catherine?” Rutherford asked.
She placed her hand—one not much bigger than Benedict’s—upon his father’s leg. “I thought you would be pleased.”
His father tossed her arm away like a snake. “You have no bloody right,” he snapped. Then, he leaned down, drawing closer to her face, cupping her chin in his hand. “This is not your house.”
His mother recoiled as though he’d struck her. Without another word, his father rode through on his way to the stables, passing the place where Benedict stood. His turquoise eyes met Ben’s, but there was little recognition, as though Benedict were a ghost. Then, Rutherford disappeared past the corner of the east wing. Not even the echo of the horse’s hooves remained. And Mother disappeared inside one of the bedchambers with one of the workmen for several hours, the strapping one who had carried the stack of wood, he thought.
Several months later, Benedict had watched out of the rear window of a travel coach as Chatwick Hall had disappeared from view. Neither he nor his mother had been back since.
The memory was not a pleasant one, particularly now that he was older and better understood the nuances of his parents’ marriage.
Aching in every bone, exhausted and enervated at once, Chatham picked his way across the hall and tested the first few steps of the staircase. Although the treads were weak and spongy, they bore his weight with only a creak or two. As he reached the second story, he saw the wood-plank floors had fared no better than the limestone. The plaster was intact along the corridor walls, but it was stained by water and whatever else had infested this place over the past five years.
He kicked two balusters from his path and went in search of a room to sleep away his misery. What he discovered made him curse beneath his breath. Every bed, along with every piece of furniture, had either been sold or looted. Every bed except one―the massive, carved, canopied monstrosity in the master chamber, likely because it was too bloody heavy to haul away. He stood gazing at it, swaying on his feet as he contemplated the discomforts of sleeping in a carriage instead.
The dark-walnut posts were intricate with seafaring imagery―ocean waves, mermaids, kelp leaves. It was fanciful and ridiculous. Dual fireplaces flanking the long room were similar in design, only they were white marble, now chipped and stained. Three long windows along the west wall were stripped of their draperies, which had originally matched those on the bed―heavy, brocade velvet that currently hung in gray tatters from the canopy frame. He thought the fabric must have once been dark blue, but his recollections were hazy. He had not spent much time in this room as a child. It had been first his parents’ domain, and then his father’s chamber alone. What few memories he had were ugly and better left untouched.
“Please,” his mother begged, falling to her knees beside Benedict, hugging him against her body, pressing her cheek to his. The warmth was shocking to him, the feel of her arms around him. Her softness.
He froze. Mother never held him. Now, she was stroking his hair, sending sensations pinging along his scalp. Sometimes, his governess would ruffle his hair or pat his shoulder, but no one touched him, really.
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