Page 108 of A Duchess for his Family

“Yes.” He rubbed one thumb over his palm. “The soil appeared sound. The plants were tended. Nothing was neglected. Still, the roots could not grow because something hidden prevented them.”

Sophia remained quiet. She had a way of doing that, letting silence become an invitation rather than an absence. Most people rushed to fill any pause he left. Sophia seemed to understand that some thoughts needed room before they could be spoken.

“When Amelia and Marjorie came to me,” Benedict continued, “I thought care meant preventing every possible harm.”

Sophia turned slightly toward him.

“I had no warning,” he confessed. “One day I was their uncle. I visited, brought them gifts, listened to Marjorie describe adventures which grew less plausible with every telling.”

A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips.

“And the next day?” she asked.

“The next day, I was responsible for everything.” His voice sounded too clear in the stillness of the garden. “Their home. Their education. Their health. Whether they slept or ate or felt safe. Every decision their parents would have made became mine, and I had no notion how they would have made it.” He looked down at his hands. “They had already lost so much. I could not allow them to lose anything else.”

“So you tried to hold everything in place.”

“I tried to remove every danger.”

“And every uncertainty.”

“Yes.” Benedict looked back toward the young plants. “I thought if I watched closely enough, planned carefully enough, nothing further could reach them. If I knew where they were every moment, if I forbade every reckless impulse, then perhaps I could keep the world from taking anything else.” The words grew more difficult. “But perhaps I was only pressing the earth more firmly around their roots.”

Sophia’s expression softened.

“You love them,” she smiled.

“That does not mean I love them well.”

“You were grieving, too.”

Benedict’s mouth tightened. “They required more from me than grief.”

“They required you to remain.”

“I remained because there was no one else.”

“Perhaps at first.” He turned toward her. Sophia held his gaze. “But you do not sit beside their beds because no one else can. You do not remember which story frightens Amelia or which lie Marjorie tells when she has hurt herself because duty demands it.”

“She lies often enough that the pattern is easy to learn.”

Sophia smiled, but the tenderness in her face remained.

“You know them,” she said.

“Not as their parents did,” he told her.

“No. You know them differently.”

Benedict looked away again. “Their father knew how to make everything into an adventure. Their mother understood what each silence meant. I know rules, accounts and consequences.”

“You know that Amelia apologizes when she is frightened,” Sophia replied. “You know Marjorie talks more loudly when she is hurt. You know which doors they leave open at night and which dreams send them searching for light.”

“That is not enough.”

“It is not everything,” she said gently. “But nothing ever is.”

A faint breeze moved through the leaves.