The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (17 page)

“Can they do that?” Hattie asked. “Blake, can they—”

“I don’t know, Hattie. I don’t see how they can turn a family out of the home they’ve bought and paid for.”

“They told Mother they could block our driveway, or cut off our sewer and water service. They said the new neighbors wouldn’t like her being there, and that they couldn’t be responsible for any damage that might be done—or any violence. Mother was terrified. My father was so angry when he found out—I was afraid he was going to do something foolish. Dangerous.”

Blake took the paper, and bent over it. The letterhead proclaimed it to be the work of the Goodwin Company, a land developer he had heard Mr. Dickson mention more than once. His stomach contracted as he read the cruel words:

For a long moment, Blake couldn’t speak past the tightness of his jaw. He thrust the paper across the table to Hattie, who took it and read it slowly, her lips working as she puzzled out some of the words. Blake pressed his hand to his chest, where anger rose like a fountain.

When he could trust his voice, he spoke with deliberation. Echoes of the South broadened his vowels and softened his consonants. “I am the child of slaves, Sarah,” he said. “I am proud to be a servant in this house, because I had little preparation for any better career. But you—” He paused, and lifted his head to look into her troubled eyes. “You are an educated woman. A professional. I can only imagine how hard your family worked to give you that opportunity. This is—” He shook his head, and swallowed the angry words that threatened to pour forth. He settled for, “This is shocking.”

“My parents are so proud of that house,” Sarah said. “My mother’s garden is the nicest in the whole neighborhood, and my father—well. He’s the first in his family to own his own home, and he’s just—he’s—” Her lower lip trembled, and she pressed her fingers to it.

Hattie refolded the paper, and gingerly handed it back to Sarah, as if it were dirty. “I’m so sorry, Miss Church,” she murmured. “It ain’t fair. It ain’t fair at all.”

“No,” Sarah said. She cleared her throat, and folded her hands. “Mr. Blake, I don’t mean to take advantage of our friendship.”

He put out his big hand to cover her smaller ones. “Don’t be modest, Sarah. I wouldn’t be walking around as I do if it hadn’t been for your care.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, and he saw the ghost of a dimple flash in her cheek. “You give me too much credit. It’s good to see you walking unaided, though.”

He patted her linked hands, and released them. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I thought perhaps Dr. Benedict’s father could help. Since Dr. Benedict isn’t here.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t like taking advantage of our connection,” Sarah answered. “But since Margot won’t be back before . . .” Her lip trembled again, and she caught it between her teeth, shaking her head.

“Before the covenants go into effect,” Blake said.

Sarah nodded and took a breath that whistled through her tight throat. “The men who came told my mother they—we—have to go now. That they’ll force us out if we don’t.”

Hattie drew a sharp breath. “My sweet Lord, they can’t do that! They can’t do that, can they, Blake?”

She turned her beseeching gaze to him, and he looked unhappily from one woman to the other. “I don’t know, Hattie. I don’t know if they can do it or not.”

Sarah stared down at her hands, curled on the white enamel tabletop. “They said we have to move before the Klan meeting on the twenty-third. There will be hundreds of Klansmen down in Renton. These people told my father the Klan would send some of their members to turn us out.”

“But that’s only a week away!” Blake said.

“Yes. A week. To find a place to live, to move our belongings, to sell our house.” She covered one of her hands with the other in a grip that tightened the skin over her knuckles. “They frightened my mother. She cried all afternoon.”

“Blake,” Hattie said. “You have to speak to Mr. Dickson. We have to do something!”

Hattie didn’t know the trouble Mr. Dickson was already facing, but she was right, just the same. Something had to be done. Dr. Margot would wish it. Blake wished it himself, and he was sure Mr. Dickson would agree, when he knew.

Blake said, “I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

This time it was Sarah who reached out, seizing his hand in hers. “Thank you, Mr. Blake. I’ll be so grateful. Any help at all—it’s just that there’s no time!”

Blake cleared his throat and stood. “I’m sure Mr. Benedict will want to help, Sarah. He’s a fine man. Now, I’m going to get the motorcar out of the garage and drive you to your home.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said hastily. She stood, too, picking up her bag and retrieving her cape. “I came on the streetcar. It’s only two changes.”

“I won’t hear of it,” he said. “And it’s no good arguing. I’m a stubborn man.”

Hattie said, “That he is, Nurse Church. When Blake sets his mind on something, it’s as good as done.”

“I learned that for myself,” Sarah said, and her dimple flashed again, more convincingly this time. “A less stubborn man than Mr. Blake might never have walked again.”

“I’ll pull up beside the porch,” Blake said. “You just wait for me there.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said simply. “I’m in your debt, Mr. Blake.”

“Well, not yet. But let me see what I can do. Are you on the telephone?”

She nodded. “I’ll write down the number.”

“Good. I will speak to Mr. Benedict after breakfast, and then I will telephone to you.” He collected his driving coat, his cap and gloves, and began putting them on. “There’s one more thing, Nurse Sarah Church,” he said. He took the liberty of waggling his forefinger in her direction. “You are not a servant. When you visit Benedict Hall, you enter through the front door like the professional woman you are. Remember that.”

Meekly, but with a sparkle in her eye at last, Sarah said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Blake. I promise. I will remember.”

 

Bronwyn was exhausted from the long, confusing day, and the bed was soft, with cool sheets and a feather-light comforter. One of the maids had opened the window to a rose-scented breeze, and the night was dark and peaceful. Despite her shame, Bronwyn slept more soundly than she had since leaving Port Townsend. When a hand fell on her shoulder, and shook it, she swam up from the peaceful depths of a dream with reluctance, mumbling protests all the way.

“Shhh,” someone said. “Miss Morgan, we need to be quiet. They’ll try to stop us.”

Bronwyn forced her eyelids to open. In the half-light of what felt like the middle of the night, she saw who was bending over her, and gasped. Fully awake now, she wriggled upright, clutching the comforter to her chest. “Mrs. Benedict!” she hissed. “What—what is it you want?”

Edith Benedict was a pale ghost in the dimness, her gray hair in a cloud around her thin face, her lips and cheeks all but invisible. Only her eyes, with their light, luminous blue, held any color, and they seemed sharper and more focused than they had at dinner. “You want to see him, don’t you?” she breathed. She leaned forward, a little too close, enveloping Bronwyn in the scent of lavender water.

Bronwyn couldn’t help shrinking back. There was something odd about Mrs. Benedict and more than a little scary. She was a small woman, but she seemed tightly wound, like a watch stem twisted so far it was about to break. The hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder was insistent.

“Mrs. Benedict,” Bronwyn said. Her throat and mouth were dry, and she swallowed. “Mrs. Benedict, I don’t know whom you mean.”

“Preston!” Mrs. Benedict said. She smiled, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if she hadn’t just invaded Bronwyn’s bedroom in the small hours and woken her from a sound sleep. “You want to see Preston, don’t you?”

“What?” Bronwyn stiffened, staring at the older woman. “Mrs. Benedict, you know that can’t be. Preston’s—”

Mrs. Benedict moved her hand to cover Bronwyn’s mouth. Her hand was cool and dry, and smelled of powder. “Shhh,” she said again. “I’ll explain everything, but not now! If they hear us, we won’t get away. Come, get up and get dressed. Clean your teeth and brush your hair. If we hurry, we can catch the five o’clock train.”

The thought flashed through Bronwyn’s mind that she might still be dreaming. She dreamed so often of Preston and their night in the garden. This could be an extension of the dream, a sort of wish fulfillment brought on by days of fever and a bizarre day of strange adventures and new people. It was cruel, in a way, when she had made such an effort to relegate it to the land of dreams where it belonged.

She drew a long breath, trying to convince herself of this, but Edith Benedict seized her wrist with her hard little hand, and tugged on it. “Get up, Miss Morgan,” she hissed. “You must hurry! We don’t have much time!”

There could be no more doubt. She was awake, and this was Preston’s mother, who wanted her to do something, to go somewhere. A small enamel clock on the bedside stand read four a.m.

The chill of the hardwood floor was cold beneath her bare feet. The water in the basin, as she splashed her face and cleaned her teeth, was also cold. Bronwyn, shivering, turned to find Mrs. Benedict holding out a day frock in crisp dotted swiss, still on its hanger from whatever wardrobe she had taken it.

Bronwyn stepped into the dress, and did up the buttons in the back with trembling fingers. Mrs. Benedict, smiling as if it were all a great lark, draped a long sweater over her shoulders without comment, pressed her handbag and her hat into her hands, then opened the bedroom door. Bronwyn tried to speak, to ask again what they were doing, to press Mrs. Benedict about where they were going, but Edith gave a girlish giggle, and put a finger to her lips. Bewildered, Bronwyn followed her down the staircase to the hall.

Benedict Hall slumbered around them. Bronwyn heard only the faint sounds of a big house creaking, curtains swishing in the currents of air from open windows, eaves vibrating in the pre-dawn breeze. Mrs. Benedict’s swift breathing was louder than any of these, and growing louder by the moment. She seized Bronwyn’s arm and held it as she unlocked the heavy front door and pulled it open. They slipped through, and Mrs. Benedict closed it with a click that seemed to pierce the darkness.

She giggled again, giving Bronwyn the strangest feeling that they were two girls sneaking away from their parents in search of mischief. Her hand was firm as she guided Bronwyn down the walk and out through the scrolled iron gate to the street.

Mrs. Benedict said, “We’ll have to take the streetcar. I didn’t dare call for a taxicab.” She set off down Fourteenth Avenue at a brisk pace.

Bronwyn hurried after her. It didn’t seem right to let a woman of Mrs. Benedict’s age—and in her doubtful mental condition—go off alone in the half darkness. It occurred to her, as they stepped up into the streetcar and Mrs. Benedict dropped two nickels into the fare box, that she had become the Benedicts’ unwitting and unintentional savior in the past twenty-four hours. She hoped Ramona would see it that way, and forgive her this headlong flight into the dim streets of Seattle.

She saw now that Mrs. Benedict carried a small brocade traveling bag that she set beside her on the bench seat of the streetcar. Mrs. Benedict, following her glance, smiled as if this were all the most natural activity in the world, setting off in secrecy, pattering down Aloha to the streetcar, where the uniformed driver gave them an odd look, and touched two fingers to his cap, but said nothing.

“It’s in here,” Mrs. Benedict said in an undertone. She patted the brocade bag with her hand. “He’s going to be so glad.”

“What’s in there, Mrs. Benedict?” Bronwyn said, in the same low voice, as if there were anyone to hear their secrets. There were no other passengers.

“The sapphire!” Mrs. Benedict whispered, raising her eyebrows as if surprised Bronwyn hadn’t already known. “Preston asked for it particularly.”

“Mrs. Benedict—” Bronwyn bit her lip, searching for a way to ask the important question. She wondered if the older woman would fly into a fit if she said the wrong thing. “Mrs. Benedict,” she began again, speaking as gently as she could. “I know Preston died. We read it in the
Times.
My father brought the paper home and we all—we know about the fire. It was three years ago. There was a funeral.”

“Oh, no,” the older woman said, with a dismissive flick of her fingers. “I told you. I thought so, too, for a long time, but I was wrong. It was all a mistake.”

“Wh-what was a mistake? There was a fire, wasn’t there? There were pictures in the newspaper—awful pictures.”

“Oh, yes, dear, there was a fire. It was terrible. My daughter’s clinic was destroyed. My son tried to save it.”

“But—” Bronwyn’s words trailed off into silence. Mrs. Benedict clearly believed she was speaking the truth.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Benedict said. “Preston was away for a long time, and we all thought we had lost him. Then, a year ago, he came back.” She folded her gloved hands in her lap, nodding primly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I know I shouldn’t have favorites,” she said in a confiding way. “But Preston is different from the other children. He’s fragile. He always has been. Margot and Dick—they’re strong, like their father. Preston is like me.”

She stopped talking, and turned her delicate profile to the darkness outside the window. She looked wistful for a moment, her mouth trembling, her eyelids fluttering as if she were blinking back tears. After a moment, she took a shuddering breath, and as she faced forward again, she fixed a smile on her lips, as if it were her duty. As if this were a formal tea, and she was entertaining a guest.