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Chapter Eleven
July 18, 1819
The chiming of two in the morning by the longcase clock in the private parlor wrenched Benedict from the nightmare he’d become mired in. He lay in his bed, amidst the twisted sheets, while gasping for breath. Sweat dampened his skin, and in his ears, he still heard the roar of cannon fire, felt the jerk in his hand as he fired his pistol, watched the shock on a soldier’s face as the red bloom of blood spread over the front of his uniform and he fell dead upon the ground.
A man he’d killed by mistake.
A man from whom he could never gain forgiveness.
After shoving a hand through his hair, he struggled into a sitting position. The sheet pooled at his waist, for he slept naked especially during the heat of summer, but chills raced up and down his spine. Never would he forget that man nor his own cowardice for pulling that trigger. He didn’t have to do it, he could have waited until he could have made a positive identification when the man had separated from the fog, but terror had guided his actions that long ago day.
Despite their unit being overrun by the French and orders to retreat ringing through the air, he’d wanted to make a difference, yet he’d tripped over his own two feet. The enemy had advanced, was nearly upon his position when he’d fumbled for his pistol, took aim, and fired.
The fog and smoke that had clung to the battlefield had shifted in that fatal moment to reveal one of his own with a gaping hole in his chest. As the man had fallen to the ground, Benedict had scrambled to his feet. He’d tossed the pistol far from himself with the vow to never again touch an instrument of death. Then he’d retreated with the ragged numbers of his men, dragging some to safety when they couldn’t reach it on their own power.
An action that had earned him a battlefield promotion and had hung the weight of guilt heavier upon his shoulders.
So that it would haunt him the rest of his days.
With nothing for it, he climbed out of bed and tugged on a pair of breeches along with a loose-fitting fine lawn shirt. After grabbing his spectacles, he then left his room and padded along the corridor, slipped down the stairs. There was a certain comfort in moving through the shadows of a quiet house and in knowing that everyone beneath his roof slumbered, perhaps found hope in their dreams.
Unlike him. Slumber often brought nightmares, a return of the pressing guilt and shame of cowardice, the weight of the fear he could never manage to drop, but he’d had years to acclimate to that sort of haunting. It might not make for a restful sleep, but it was a familiar demon and easier to struggle with than his startling and confusing feelings for Anne, that impulsive spitfire who currently occupied his dower house.
A modicum of relief went through him as he collapsed into a leather wingback chair in his study with a bottle of brandy in his hand. He’d thrown open the French-paned door to encourage the summer breeze, for it would rain and soon. At least the precipitation would cool the air.
What to do about Anne? The time spent in her company yesterday at the travelling fair had done nothing to help his confusion. In fact, knowing that she worried over his health and safety when he’d fallen from the tree only solidified that invisible connection between them. After their kiss, when he’d stretched upon the grass, she’d sat beside him while they chatted of inconsequential things that had nothing to do with what brewed between them or the upcoming balloon flight.
It had been refreshing and honest, and she was even more enchanting than she’d been before. Damn it all. Perhaps he shouldn’t fight the attraction or the fast slide into love. If he accepted it, would the confusion clear? It might, but that wouldn’t help his situation, for he’d wager she didn’t return that regard. Oh, she was eager enough for physical relations and kissing, but she was driven to succeed in a world dominated by men, to leave her mark. He doubted she’d ever give herself leave to fall in love or even marry, for the fear those events might work at cross purposes from her dreams.
So where did that leave him?
“Benedict, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?” his mother asked as she came into the room with a whisper of trailing skirts of her night dress. “I heard you cry out and figured you suffered from a nightmare again.”
“I did. As per usual.” He took a sip from the brandy bottle. “Come. Sit with me, though I might not be good company.”
“Don’t I know it? I can almost feel your confliction. However, you haven’t had those nightmares as much in recent days.”
“Mmm, perhaps. I’ve forgotten to keep track.” Slowly, he pushed his spectacles back into place. “No doubt I’m exhausted at the end of the day now.”
“Or else you’ve discovered something that works to bring you calm and lets you forget about your unfortunate past.”
“I couldn’t say.” But an image of Anne sprang to his mind. Her presence was big enough and bold enough that she captivated the whole of his attention and stole his thoughts, so he didn’t have anything left to feed the nightmares.
Interesting theory, and one he’d ponder later.
“Hmph.” She crossed the room and then settled into the chair that matched his. “What ails you, boy? This brown study is much more than the usual night terrors.”
He heaved out a breath, and after another sip of brandy, he asked, “Do you believe I’m a failure as a man? Do you think I’m hiding behind my fear to keep myself safe?”
“Now that is a weighted subject, indeed, for so early in the morning,” she said with a frown.
“Or for such a late hour, depending on your perspective.” He gave her an anemic grin. With a tug on his shirt, he encouraged air over his skin, for the atmosphere ahead of the storm was stifling.
“True.” His mother wrapped her thin robe tighter about her person. “However, yes, I do think you use your fear as a shield at times, as an excuse to ensure you’ll never make a mistake. It’s why you analyze risk so well and so often. It’s an isolating way to live.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s the only way I know how.”
“Even after the appearance of Lady Anne into your life?” In the darkness, he felt rather than saw her knowing grin. “You and she have been rather thick as thieves in recent days.”
