A curious catch in her chest. A snag in her own self-perception, thinking someone might consider intelligence as attractive as a pretty face and figure. And she felt—
Unsettled? Was that the word?
Benedick had written it; this idea had come from his mind. She twisted in her chair, so she could see him. He released a soft snore and turned over, the jacket slipping to the floor, arm flopping over his head. A button near his collar was loose, the thread frayed. She had the sudden urge, against her finest principles, to mend it for him.
She turned pointedly away, rolling a fresh sheet through the feed. Her fingers sat big and clumsy on the keys. The letter went slowly. And perhaps not well. The harder she tried, the heavier each word felt, wrong and misshapen.
She kept at it for over an hour and was thinking of how to end it when Benedick muttered. She shot him a panicked glance. His bloodshot eyes fluttered but ultimately closed again, one leg stretching over the couch’s side.
She was out of time. She hastily typed the last line, “With best regards,” then slid her letter out and hurried on tiptoe from his room. When she woke up the next morning, she realized she’d forgotten her pamphlet and notes. Meanwhile, she’d kept his paragraph. An accident, she would argue, if he noticed. Even if she’d folded it. Neatly. And put it in her slipper.
CHAPTER 13
WHAT HIS HEART THINKS HIS TONGUE SPEAKS
Something was wrong.
Benedick sprang awake, sat up before he was fully conscious, and quickly concluded it was a hangover. That was the problem, ow, Jesus, Mary, and—
No.
Something else.
He tipped his head back, let his eyes sink closed, and massaged his scalp. The headache faded somewhat, but the feeling did not. He cracked one eye open and examined his room. His gaze landed on his desk and focused slowly, the other eye opening. An empty typewriter. A kerosene lamp that didn’t belong to him. Gripping the back of the desk chair in one hand, he eased to his feet. Notes with unfamiliar handwriting.
And yet not that either—
The distinct sound of an automobile door closing floated through his open window—he never opened his window—and he stumbled through the mess until he could see out to the driveway.
A blood-red Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Piccadilly Roadster.
His father’s car.
And beside it, adjusting his hat, his father.
Son of a bitchin’ bastard.
Benedick nearly tripped shooting back from the window. He rubbed his eyes, which felt coated with sand. His water basin, filled with half an inch of murky used water, sat precariously on top of a stack of Shakespeare tomes, and behind it a cracked six-inch mirror. Was it the rarely cleaned mirror causing the yellowish pallor on his face or was that his actual flesh?
Not that it mattered how undead he looked; there was no time to do anything about it. It was unlikely anyone else in the house would be awake, not after the Masquerade. And his father was the type to stroll right in and help himself to the hospitality no one was providing.
Benedick threw off his booze-rank shirt and undershirt and was halfway through the buckle on his pants when the knob on his door turned. No knock or any sort of warning. He froze. Had his father moved so quickly, determining with nothing more than parental instinct where to find his son?
But the nose that appeared around the edge of the door was pert and freckled, and then holy God, there she was, summoned like some sort of bloodhound to witness this disastrous moment, and likely the next, and the next, until eternity. Beatrice glanced first at the empty couch, then found him, wincing.
“Get out, you wretched blight—” He threw himself at the door to close it, but she managed to get her foot, and one of those damned rugged boots, into its path.
“Hold on just a minute—” She grunted, pushing back (she was nearly as strong as he was; that was disheartening). “I left something in here that’s very important to me; it will only take me two seconds to grab it—”
He flung the door open. She stumbled in and caught herself on his bare chest. She jolted back, shaking out her hand as if she’d sunk it into a vat of manure.
Benedick asked, “Why are any of your belongings in my room?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I practically carried you up here last night, when you were content to sleep on the bar floor, so I hardly think . . .” She continued, but he stopped listening. Her voice was doing nothing for his headache, right between the eyebrows and out the back of his head. She looked as if she’d been up for hours—
“You’re awake,” he interrupted.
“My God.” She stared at him. “Is this fact only now occurring to you? Just how intoxicated were you, Mr. Scott?”
“Be quiet, you very-near-to-respectable-looking monkey. Go downstairs and make sure my father doesn’t come up here.”
“Wait, your father?”
He hopped out of his pants and kicked them to the side.
“Ben! I’m still in your room!” She cupped her hand to the side of her face, shielding her gaze, a healthy pink blossoming under her freckles.
“I’ll be as exposed as I please within my own quarters, and if you don’t like it, I suggest you leave. Downstairs, if you’re going anyway.”
She made an aggravated noise in the back of her throat, but she went, leaving him to stuff himself into the best clothes he could find. He scrubbed his face, shaved, and fingered leftover pomade through his hair.
He strode into the drawing room ten minutes later, in a buttoned vest and collared shirt, but no tie. Matching gray slacks and worn leather shoes, used but well maintained. In other words, sharp, but not as if he were trying to impress.
Ambrose Scott was six feet five, with broad shoulders, a lion’s mane of hair on his head, and a trimmed golden beard. Without saying a word, he exuded a message: I, unlike the rest of you sorry saps, am here to win, to dominate, to triumph.
Benedick expected, in the best-case scenario, Beatrice to notice the moment he came in, relieved to be able to flee, or in the worst case, to find her close to tears after a round of his father’s demands and entitled rudeness. To his surprise, neither even glanced up as he hovered in the entrance.
They were discussing economics.
He was fairly sure anyway.
His father didn’t seem quite impressed—he never was—but he was giving Beatrice his full attention, which wasn’t nothing. “An interesting point of view,” he was saying, then pulled out his handkerchief to cough.
“Are you ill, Mr. Scott?” asked Beatrice. “You’ve been coughing.” Too politely, a restraint of her usual brashness.
“Only a cold,” his father said dismissively. “Saw a doctor for it two days ago.”
“May I offer a secondary diagnosis?” she asked.
Mr. Scott gave her a slow, calculating look.
Without waiting for an answer, she stood and gestured at his collar. “May I?”
“May you what—”
She leaned down, placed a finger in his collar, and pulled it slightly off his neck. “As I thought. Your skin’s inflamed where it touches your shirt. Have you switched dry cleaners recently?”
“As a matter of fact . . .” Mr. Scott raised an eyebrow.
“Common starch ingredients include formaldehyde, phenol, and pentachlorophenol, which can irritate the lungs. An allergy, in other words, which might not have manifested until an excess amount was used, or a different brand. Especially in someone who’s suffered respiratory problems in the past.”
“I had asthma as a boy,” Mr. Scott said, then, as if he couldn’t let even this minor weakness stand, added, “You know who else had asthma as a boy?”
“Theodore Roosevelt,” said Beatrice.
Mr. Scott smiled. She’d done it. He was impressed. “Just so. I’ll inquire about the brand of soap, and we’ll see if you’re right. A very clever discovery, for such a young girl.”
“Well . . .” Beatrice brushed off her skirt, looked up, a
nd saw Benedick. Quietly she finished: “I’m very smart.”
Benedick came into the room, and Mr. Scott turned. “Evidently. Hello, son. Is Miss Clark here one of your acquaintances?”
Benedick caught himself about to say “unfortunately” and instead said, “A very recent one.” He sat on the couch beside her and propped his foot on one knee, keeping his gaze level with his father’s.
Mr. Scott smirked, then turned to Beatrice. “Tell me, Miss Clark, are chemical ingredients something they teach often in girls’ schools these days?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Beatrice. “At least not at Miss Nightingale’s. I taught myself the basics of algebra before ever attending school. There was only one teacher, Clarissa Mayple, who was able to privately teach me advanced mathematics and chemistry.”
“Fascinating. And they allowed it?”
“No. Not as part of my regular curriculum. I studied with Miss Mayple on my own time. She was very kind to tutor me.”
“I admire that sort of work ethic and ambition in a person,” said Mr. Scott. “Ben, on the other hand, could barely be bothered to attend the minimal amount of class at Stony Creek Academy. Your genes never manifest the way you think they will.”
“Perhaps I’ll marry Miss Clark,” said Benedick, eager to cut this line of conversation short, “and then you’ll have her as a daughter.”
Mr. Scott grinned, approving, as ever, of his son’s boldness. Part of the reason they always fought was that Mr. Scott loved to see fight in people. “I’m not sure she’d have you.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Beatrice, “and, for the sake of all women, I must hope he remains a bachelor all his life.” She said it in jest, and Mr. Scott laughed; but then she looked away with a sudden frown. “Can I make you coffee, Mr. Scott?”
“That would be lovely,” Mr. Scott said as she stood.
Benedick looked at her: How domestic; you know how to make coffee?
She raised an eyebrow back: Not well; drink it with caution when it comes.
Benedick was so sure he’d read her correctly, so sure she’d read him correctly, he was at once stunned and disgusted. Her expression showed a similar sentiment; then she hurried out of the room.
When she was gone, Benedick turned again to his father. “I don’t recall leaving this address with my things.”
“Nor did you leave anything, compensation or otherwise, with your things, and as such they remain at Stony Creek, where you are welcome to pick them up yourself. I’m not your valet.”
Benedick’s mouth pressed into a grim line. His most valued possessions were already with him; he didn’t mind losing his school trunks, if it came to it.
His father continued. “That Blaine kid talked like this might be a speakeasy. Must be in the basement, by the look of the place. Is that what you’re doing here? Rum-running for some bootlegging mogul?” The trace of curiosity in his voice further proved that anything, even something illegal, was better than his son’s becoming a novelist, which was considered a bit above a trained circus animal but a bit below a trained circus clown. “Of course there’s no business in being a lackey. You’ve got to run it yourself if you want to make anything of it.”
“I help with the speakeasy,” Benedick said. “If I’m needed. That’s not really why I’m here.”
“Then why are you?” Mr. Scott asked plainly, all pretense of politeness gone in one question. “To write? How is this setting preferable than anywhere else—your own home, for example?”
“My freedom, for one,” Benedick snapped.
“Are you free?” his father asked, quiet as a snake’s hiss. “Do you know why fine art is a product of the upper class, son? Because to create anything, you don’t need only talent; you need comfort and peace of mind. How do you expect to indulge yourself with hours of payless work with the threat of unemployment hanging over your head? Do you think you’d be able to spend your morning writing a poem knowing you wouldn’t be able to feed yourself or your family that day because of it?”
“I won’t get married,” Benedick said. “I’ll support only myself.”
“I see. And you’re willing to starve for your art, is that it? My boy, you’ve had a silver spoon in your mouth since you were a babe.”
Benedick said nothing. He couldn’t; that was how these conversations went. Just when he needed it, the English language abandoned him, words crumbling unformed in his mouth.
“I suppose they’re kind to you here?” his father asked, eyes roving the room. Benedick saw the furnishings through his eyes: once grand, around the turn of the century, but worn through with living. The dust on the shelves, the threads loosening on the drapes, a vase of flowers that hadn’t been changed out, all the stems dried and drooped over. “The poor tend to be, because they have nothing to lose. The rich cannot afford it. I am the only one who is honest with you.”
Benedick worked to unclench his jaw. “That’s not—”
“I’ve paid for your schooling. I’ll pay some more, and you’ll be properly graduated. I’ll pay your tuition at university, or I’ll set you up with a job at my firm. You have until the end of the summer to choose one. After that, you won’t see a penny from me, nor an offer for one later.” Mr. Scott stood, placed his hat over his head. “I’ll expect a telegram with your decision two weeks before fall term begins. Please give my apologies to Miss Clark.”
Benedick stood after him. “You can take my name off your accounts today if it suits you.”
Mr. Scott leveled his high-powered stare at his son, but in this, at least, Benedick could match him. “I’ve decided, and I won’t change my mind,” Benedick said. “Do what you like.”
“My offer stands,” Mr. Scott said slowly, “as I gave it.” He walked out of the room. Only when Benedick heard the car motor start did he sink back onto the couch.
He was still sitting there, head back, unmoved and miserable, when Claude entered the room, dapper as the sun. “Hullo.”
Benedick frowned at such insulting chipperness.
“Glad someone’s up. I’m nearly dying for a cup of tea, but the kitchen is beastly hard to find.” Claude went straight for one of the bay windows and pulled apart the drapes. “My God, it’s beautiful out there. Don’t you think? I swear, there’s a kind of music in hearing the wind through the trees. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Benedick ground his knuckles into his throbbing temples. “No, I would not, you blister. And if you’re going to continue to sound so idiotic, go do it outside. With the musical trees and whatever.”
Claude looked at him over his shoulder, seeming for a moment hurt and disappointed; then he brightened. “You’d say that. You always were a loveless worm without any soul, weren’t you?”
“Well done. I’d compliment you if you hadn’t sounded so nice about it.”
Beatrice came in balancing a tray with a coffeepot and three mugs. “Did your father leave? Good morning, Mr. Blaine. You can have his cup.” Beatrice set the tray on the table in front of Benedick and dropped a glass bottle of aspirin in his lap. “That’s my contribution. It will do you more good than the coffee. How do you feel?”
“Splendid.”
Claude sat beside Beatrice and leaned over to help himself to coffee. “He drank too much.”
“Yes, I had a front row seat to that spectacle last night.”
Only then did he remember her earlier statement—“I practically carried you up here last night”—the wrongness he’d sensed in his room, the extra lamp, the notes.
He thought of her reading his novel and felt immediately sick. Though perhaps that was the hangover. Or the unexpected encounter with his father. Either way, a pounding had developed between his brows; it matched the clenched thump of his heart. You dum-dum.
He’d expected it to feel better.
He’d made his choice, and just now he’d stuck with it!
Wasn’t there meant to be some kind of reward for following one’s heart? Something at least in the same building
as happiness?
“Ben, you’re starting to look worse.”
He felt Beatrice’s weight beside him and her cool hand on his forehead. He’d closed his eyes at some point. Strangely, he didn’t recoil at her touch.
“Mr. Blaine, would you mind terribly fetching some sort of food? As plain as you can find, and dry. Something with salt maybe.”
Claude said, “Oh! Yes, naturally I can; however, I’m not sure where the kitchen is.”
“Take the left hall, and follow it all the way to the end; then turn right. The house is cottage-sized, remember. You can do it.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Benedick muttered.
“I’m sorry, your idiocy muddled some of your words. Say again?”
“Don’t get sassy.”
“I’ll get as sassy as I like. Do you think you can make it up to your room before you’re lost to the living?”
I am the only one who is honest with you.
That wasn’t strictly true, was it? Beatrice was honest. Gratingly so. The upper class think some skill they acquired in an expensive classroom can pass as art, but they haven’t got anything real to say. And while Benedick’s very presence here was proof his father’s approval held little sway, some part of him, loath as he was to admit it, had gone up in arms over Beatrice’s criticism.
If Hey Nonny Nonny closed, how long could he, in good conscience, sit in his room writing while the others were working to keep themselves fed? Had he ever even asked for his precious attic room? Or had he just assumed it would be there? I belong to Hey Nonny Nonny by blood, Beatrice had said. You only belong by arrogant whimsy.
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” He opened his eyes.
“Tell you what?” She monitored his face in a detached way he recognized from the last time he’d felt on the wrong side of Prohibition.
“You would tell me if my writing was meaningless garbage.”
Her expression shifted. “Oh. Last night, I didn’t mean . . .”
He brushed a hand past her forced apology. He stood, too quickly. Beatrice gripped his upper arm, stopping his dangerous sway to the left. He rubbed the top of his brow. “I wonder if you would mind doing something for me.”
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