The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (26 page)

C
HAPTER
25

Margot approached Preston’s room with reluctance. She kept her pace steady, and her grip on her father’s arm firm, but that was for his sake. Inwardly, she rebelled at having to revisit a problem that was supposed to be solved.

The big orderly pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and sorted through at least a dozen of them before he came to the right one. With a clank of the old-fashioned lock, he pulled the door open. He went in first, stood aside for Dickson and Margot and Dr. Dunlap to enter, then closed the door and stood just inside it, his arms folded and his small eyes watchful. Margot had the impression that Oscar would welcome another opportunity to overpower the intractable patient.

The room was crowded with all of them inside. It was cooler here than the rest of the building, as there was no outer window, but it was stuffy, smelling of bleach and sweat and something else, something not easy to define. Despair, Margot thought bleakly. Despair, and no wonder.

When she saw Preston, his arms bound by the long sleeves of a white canvas jacket and his eyelids drooping under the influence of the sedative, she resented the wave of pity that swept over her. He didn’t deserve her pity. And most assuredly wouldn’t want it.

Preston sat on the narrow cot, his back braced against the outer wall, his chin sagging toward his chest. His eyes were closed, but at the sound of the door, they opened. Without lifting his head, he looked up from beneath his scarred eyelids. His eyes flicked from Dickson to Oscar, and then to Margot. He said sleepily, “A deputation. Oh, joy.”

Dickson said, “Preston. You’ve shocked your mother.”

At this, Preston sighed, and turned his head away to stare at the blank wall. He said, “She shocked
me,
Pater, bringing that girl here.” He wriggled inside his restraints, and Margot knew they must be painful.

“How long have you been in that thing?” she asked.

“Too goddamned long,” he said, without looking at her. “I can’t feel my fingers at all.”

“Dr. Dunlap,” Margot said. “The jacket is tied too tightly. It’s cutting off his circulation.”

“You can take it off, Doc,” Preston said. He turned his pale gaze up to Margot, and she knew he was speaking to her. He had called her “Doc” ever since medical school. He had never meant it as an honorific. “I’m harmless now.”

Oscar, at Dr. Dunlap’s nod, stepped to the bed, and bent to undo the ties behind Preston’s back. Preston groaned as feeling began to return to his hands and arms. He rubbed them, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t stand up, but sat folding back the long sleeves of the jacket. His burned face was as unreadable as the face of a cliff. “What now, Pater?”

“I thought I should tell you. I’m not going to let your mother come again unless you can be—dependable,” Dickson growled. “I have to protect her.”

Preston said, “No more visits. Righty-ho.”

“It’s not funny,” Margot said. “Mother’s not well, Preston.”

His eyes drifted slowly to hers, and fixed on her face. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Doc,” he said, “but I’m not too well myself.”

“No excuse,” Dickson said.

What was left of Preston’s eyebrows lifted. “No? Well, Pater. That seems a tad bit harsh, but there’s no need for you to worry.” His eyes were clearer now, and Margot thought the sedative must be nearly worn off. He rubbed his arms again, and shook out his fingers. “It won’t happen again. I can assure you of that.”

Margot said, “Who is this girl, Preston? Why did Mother bring her?”

Preston rested his hands on his knees, and pushed himself up to stand. Oscar tensed, ready to block him, but Preston waved him off. “Down, Oscar, down. I’m quite tame now.”

Dr. Dunlap and Dickson exchanged a glance, but Margot kept her gaze on Preston. “Why should she have set you off, Preston? What is it about this girl—”

“This
girl,
” he said mockingly, in imitation of his old insouciance. “She has a name, Doc. She is the charming Bronwyn. Bronwyn Morgan.” He waved his hand, and executed a mocking bow. “Of the Port Townsend Morgans, if you must know. Only the best for your little brother.”

“I still don’t understand why she matters so much, or why Mother brought her here.”

“Come now, Doc. It’s not like you to be slow.”

“What do you mean? I know nothing about this girl.”

“Well, you should, sister mine. Bronwyn Morgan is the mother of my bastard.”

 

The stunned silence that followed his pronouncement was most gratifying, Preston thought. Father’s jaw thrust forward in his customary bulldog way, and his mouth worked, but evidently he couldn’t come up with a comment. Dr. Dunlap stiffened at the rudeness of the word, but of course he wouldn’t know anything about the circumstances. Oscar just glowered. Oscar was the glowering sort.

But Margot—now, that was amusing to watch. Satisfying.

Her lips paled, and a muscle quivered in her chin. Her eyes darkened until they were nearly black. He had surprised her. No doubt she had believed he no longer had the power.

But the sapphire was here now, hidden behind the leg of his bed, safely tucked into a hole in the plaster. He had kicked it in there during the night, between sedative doses, and he had felt, despite being tied up like a corpse in a shroud, that she was with him. Roxelana, the laughing one, the slave girl who rose to become a queen. He sensed her spirit in the jewel, as he had the first day he laid eyes on it in the dusty shop of the hapless Turk. He had taken possession of it, and she had bestowed her power upon him. He was the only man worthy of it. And she was the only woman worthy of him.

It was a kind of power the great Margot would never know. He would take it with him. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone else having it.

The stupefied silence lasted for at least a minute. When Dickson spoke at last, sorrow vibrated in his voice. “Son. Your mother said there was a child, but . . .”

“A boy. Your grandson, Pater. Good news, no?”

Margot said, “Preston, if you’re making this up, it’s beyond cruelty. Poor Mother!”

“Poor Mother? Whatever do you mean, Doc? She’s thrilled!”

“What’s become of this child?” Dickson growled. “Where is he?”

Preston shrugged, and said in the lightest voice he could manage, “No idea, Pater. I’ve been—
away
.” He gave a hoarse chuckle. “I would guess our little Bronwyn doesn’t know, either.”

“So that’s why Mother brought her here. Because of the child.” Margot folded her arms, her hands gripping her elbows until the knuckles turned white. “My God, Preston. There’s never an end to it, is there?”

“You’re looking for an end?”

“Preston,” Dickson said somberly. “This is disturbing news. If there’s a Benedict child somewhere, I don’t see how we can ignore that.”

Preston spread his hands and attempted a grin. He knew the effect was ghoulish, nothing like the old charming smile he had always placed faith in. It was all he had, so he offered it one last time. “Thought you should know, Pater. I guessed you wouldn’t believe the mater if she told you.”

“I wouldn’t believe you now, if it weren’t for Miss Morgan,” his father said.

“Well, then. There you are. How superbly providential.”

There was a knock on the door, and Dr. Dunlap put his head out. When he came back, he said, “Mr. Benedict, your wife has asked for you.”

“Good, good. I’ll go to her. I think we’re done here,” Dickson said. He squared his shoulders, and thrust his chin at Preston. “Good-bye, son. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. It may be a while. I hope you’ll reflect on all of this. You should write to your mother. Apologize.”

Preston wanted to give a snappy answer to that, but none came to mind. It was the drug, he supposed, slowing his thoughts, thickening his tongue. Old Dunlap had gotten carried away with the dose this time, and the worst of it was that it made him soft. He didn’t like being soft.

He made himself raise two fingers to his brow in salute. “See you, Father,” he said.

“Son,” Dickson said. His lips pursed, as if he might have wished to say something more, but like Preston himself, couldn’t think of anything. Perhaps, indeed, there was nothing left to say. As he turned to follow Dunlap, Dickson looked diminished somehow, his shoulders slumping and his head down. He glanced back at Margot. “Coming?”

“In a moment. I’m going to have one more word with Preston,” she said.

Preston hated the way Margot spoke, as if she never expected anyone to disagree with her. It was just one of many, many things he abhorred about her, and now there was nothing he could do about it. She gave orders to people, and they usually, maddeningly, obeyed.

He managed to say, “What about Oscar, Doc?”

She eyed him, obviously considering before she said, “Oscar should stay.”

Well, no one could call her stupid. She wasn’t likely to forget that he had come within a hair’s breadth—a razor blade’s breadth, more accurately—of putting her out of both their miseries. And she was right. If he were capable of overcoming the sedative, he would gladly put his hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her.

Instead, he would have to play his final card in this long, long game the two of them had been engaged in. The last blow. It should be one she would feel for a very long time to come.

 

Margot watched her father leave, and her heart twisted at the way the events of the past three years had aged him. He was like a granite pillar, once seeming invulnerable and unbreakable, but now worn down, as if by the incessant current of a river. Preston had brought such pain to Benedict Hall that she was sure it would take years to fully measure it.

And for how long, she wondered, turning back to face her brother, could they maintain him here? Too many incidents like the one of the day before might cause the Dunlaps to refuse to keep him. It wasn’t their business, after all, however profitable they might find it. It could be, in truth, that he belonged in some other place, some less lenient establishment.

“So, Doc,” he said. Only his eyes were the same as they had been, glittering with intelligence, humor, and malice. “What now?”

“I’m not going to see you again, Preston. I thought I should tell you that.”

“Gosh,” he said. He tilted his head, and grinned. “How will I bear up?”

“I’ve never understood why you feel the way you do about me, but I think I understand you better now.”

“Do you, Doc? You think so?”

“I do.” She took a step closer, causing Oscar to move also, staying near her elbow. She looked into Preston’s face, searching for the brother she remembered behind his distorted features. “I think, Preston, that you were never capable of living in the world the way everyone else does.”

“Oh, that’s a bit unfair,” he said. His gaze met hers without flinching. “I could live in the world just fine, as long as it was on my own terms.”

“What terms, Preston? What would you have changed?”

“I think you know.”

“It couldn’t all be about me. There are always people we don’t like, but we manage to go on with our lives just the same.”

“You do. I don’t.”

“You can’t just kill everyone you dislike.”

“Sad, isn’t it? Because I’d prefer that.” He laughed without a trace of humor.

“I know you hate it when I use medical terms, but I think there’s one that fits you.”

“You’re thinking of Birnbaum?” he said, with a flick of his fingers. “Oh, yes, I’ve read him. I’ve known all about that for a very long time, of course, but aren’t you the clever one to figure it out. Yes, it seems your little brother is a psychopath, if there is such a thing.”

“So you know. But you don’t care.”

“That’s the very definition, Doc. I don’t care.” Preston heaved a long sigh, and sank back down on his narrow bed. He leaned back and crossed his legs, the posture looking incongruous in the untied straitjacket, with the sleeves folded back and the tail hanging loose around his waist. “The thing is, Margot,” he said, and she thought for just a moment she saw a flash of the man he could have been. “The thing is, I can’t change. This is the way I am.”

“People can change, Preston. They do it all the time.”

“You would have to want to change, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

He stopped smiling, and regarded her soberly. “You still don’t understand, Margot. I don’t feel what other people feel. I especially don’t feel what
you
feel.”

“Yet you’re kind to Mother.”

He shrugged. “Mother appreciates me. She’s the only one.”

“Hattie adored you.”

He put up one finger. “Ah. Note the past tense.”

“What about this girl? The one you claim bore your child?”

“I didn’t claim it. She did it. I went to Port Townsend to make certain. She had the child in Vancouver, a boy, and her parents shipped him to Seattle.”

“Do you have any feelings for her at all?”

“Nope. Couldn’t care less.”

Margot glanced to her left, where the orderly stood staring at the ceiling, then looked back at her brother. A wave of sadness swept over her at the futility of all of it, the waste of life and possibility. “If you could feel what I do, Preston,” she said softly, “you would be able to understand how sorry I am for you.”

His neck stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be sorry for me. I don’t need it.”

“But I can’t help feeling it any more than you can help not feeling it. You’re my brother, and I grieve for you.”

“Grieve for Mother, if you want to grieve for someone. Leave me out of it.”

“I’ll try.” She nodded to Oscar, who pulled out his key ring and began sorting through it. To Preston, she said, “I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you.”

“Since when did you ever do anything for me, Doc?”