The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (27 page)

Margot made a wry face. “I tried, Preston, believe it or not. I did try.”

“Waste of energy.”

“Yes. Evidently.”

Oscar had unlocked the door, and was holding it open for her. She turned her back on Preston and started toward the corridor. She had one foot over the doorsill when Preston called, in a low voice, “Doc.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Find the baby. My son. Your nephew.”

For a long, long moment Margot gazed into her brother’s eyes. They had gone, as they so often had, guileless. Innocent. She didn’t trust those eyes, and didn’t trust his expression, but there was something in his voice, the vulnerability in his words, that touched her just the same. “Why?” she finally said.

“For the mater.”

“You think that will help her?”

“I think it’s the only thing that will.”

Margot said wearily, “We’ll try, Preston, of course. We’ll do everything we can.”

“And tell her good-bye.”

“Do you want to tell her yourself?”

“No. I’m done.” He turned away to face the empty wall. Margot watched him for a moment longer, but he didn’t speak again. She turned abruptly to walk away. Behind her, she heard the click of the door, and the clank of the key in the lock. Then there was only silence.

C
HAPTER
26

“There was no need to lie to me.” Olive Ryther sat behind her cluttered desk, wiping her spectacles on a handkerchief. She replaced the glasses on her nose, and picked up a fountain pen. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“I was afraid you would write to my parents.”

“You’re not a child, Miss J—I mean, Miss Morgan. You needed a place to live, I believe. You had no money. Your reasons were not my concern.”

“Just the same, I’m sorry, Mother Ryther. You were kind to me, and I—well, I’m not proud of running off that way. I didn’t really intend to do it. It just sort of—happened.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Ryther removed the cap of her pen and opened the thick ledger in front of her. “If you’ve come to apologize, I accept. I don’t think I can take you back into my home, however.”

“No. I didn’t expect it.” Bronwyn shifted in her chair. She could see that Mrs. Ryther was eager to get on with her paperwork, but finding the words for what she had to ask was proving to be difficult. It had been much easier to lie to this woman than it now was to tell the truth.

“Something else?” Mrs. Ryther said with a touch of impatience.

“Y-yes.” Bronwyn looked down at the handbag in her lap, which still carried a bit of money from the charity box of Mr. Bernard’s church. She had managed to pay for a hotel room, which included a bath and a chance to wash her hair and sponge the stains from the dotted swiss material of her borrowed dress. Though the dress and her hat had seen better days, she had done the best she could. She knew she looked down-at-heel, but at least she was clean. She drew a deep breath, and made herself meet Mrs. Ryther’s gaze. “Yes, Mother Ryther. I need to tell you that—the thing is—I had a baby. Three years ago.”

Mrs. Ryther showed no surprise. “Yes? Did your parents throw you out, then?”

“N-no.”

“You were fortunate. Many girls find themselves out on the street.”

“My parents—no. They were angry, of course, especially my father.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because they sent my baby here. To you. I came to try to find him.”

Mrs. Ryther’s expression changed at that. She laid down her pen, and folded her hands across the open pages of the ledger book. “That wasn’t your decision, Miss Morgan?”

“No, but—they meant well.” As Bronwyn said it, she recognized the home truth of her own words. Her parents had indeed meant well. They had tried to do what they thought was best in what had seemed an impossible situation. What was best for her. “I was only sixteen,” she said ruefully. “I was shockingly ignorant.”

“You’ve learned a few things since then, I think.” Mrs. Ryther smiled a little, and Bronwyn thought it was the first time in their association that she had seen the old woman show any feeling at all. She dealt in action, not emotions, and that could be hard to understand.

“I want to find my child, Mother Ryther. I need to know he’s safe. That someone loves him. That he’s not—not like the little boy who was just left in the yard. The one who died.”

“Whoever left that child here might have meant well, too,” Mrs. Ryther said. “Sometimes people simply can’t take care of their children.”

Bronwyn thought with a pang of her beautiful bedroom, her closet full of clothes, her mother hovering over her. “It’s so sad,” she breathed.

“Not when we can do something about it.” Mrs. Ryther straightened, and spoke crisply. “I have to tell you, Miss Morgan, that your parents were here looking for you.”

“Oh! They came here? Did you tell them?”

“How could I? I thought you were Betty Jones.”

“Oh, dear. Were they—are they all right?”

“They’re terribly worried, of course. Think about it.” She fixed Bronwyn with a hard gaze, made even more daunting by the gleam in her spectacles. “You’re worried about what’s become of your child. You are your parents’ child, and naturally they’re fearful for you.”

“Do you know where they went? I have to find them!”

Mrs. Ryther hesitated, tapping her lips with the closed fountain pen. “I couldn’t say, of course, where they are now. But they mentioned something about Benedict Hall. Something about a clipping they found in your room.”

Bronwyn jumped to her feet, and tucked her handbag under her arm. “I’ll go there,” she said. “I know where it is.”

“They also asked about your baby, Miss Morgan. Your mother and father.”

Bronwyn put a hand to her throat. “What did you tell them?”

Mrs. Ryther came to her feet, too, laying aside her pen, pushing herself up with an effort. “A child,” she said stiffly, “is not a toy to be tossed away and then picked up again when you change your mind.”

Bronwyn lifted her chin, and met Mrs. Ryther’s stern gaze as best she could. It wasn’t easy. The bubble of grief and guilt in her chest swelled until she could hardly speak. “I know, Mother Ryther,” she said. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m no longer a child. I’ve felt like one—and acted like one—for far too long.”

Mrs. Ryther nodded. “Then you’ll understand. I don’t know where your child is now. I remember a baby who might have been yours, brought in by a nurse from Vancouver. He stayed with us for quite some time before he went to a foster family.”

“Surely you have records,” Bronwyn said.

“As I told your parents, I’m not even sure it’s the child you’re looking for.”

“But it could be?”

Mrs. Ryther pursed her lips. “It’s not possible to keep track of every child who comes through my doors, Miss Morgan. That little boy could be the one. He might not be.”

Bronwyn tried to adjust the drooping brim of her hat. “I think, Mother Ryther,” she said carefully, “that you know where he is. But you don’t want to tell me.”

“Because I’m not sure.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be sure of anything again.” Bronwyn started toward the door. “Thank you for seeing me, and for your kindness. I don’t know what I would have done.”

Her hand was already on the doorknob when Mrs. Ryther said, “I told your parents, and I’ll say it to you as well. I think you should keep the baby in your prayers, but leave him be. Go on with your life.”

“I suppose I’ll have to.” Bronwyn turned the knob.

“Wait, Miss Morgan. Where are you going?”

“Benedict Hall. I should reassure my parents.”

“I can telephone to them. They had their motorcar, I believe. I’m sure they’ll be happy to come and fetch you.”

Bronwyn closed her eyes at the thought. Her mother would be tearful. Her father would be rigid with fury, but he would come. She had to admit, as tired as she was, as emotionally drained, it would be a great relief to hand herself over to them once again. If only it didn’t feel like a step backward.

She pressed her forehead to the rough wood of the door, trying to think. For a long moment, she didn’t speak, and didn’t move. Mrs. Ryther, with uncharacteristic empathy, waited for her. At last, Bronwyn opened her eyes, put her back to the door, and nodded. “Yes, please. I think that would be best.”

 

Blake, Dr. Margot, and the elder Benedicts had been on the road the better part of two days. Mr. Dickson rode in the front seat, while Dr. Margot stayed in the rear with her mother, keeping her medical bag close at hand.

Mrs. Edith spent the drive gazing blankly out the window. Blake was sure she saw none of the scenery, which was a shame. The mountains were richly forested, layered in shades of green from the lightness of feathery pines to the near-black of ancient spruces. Frequent waterfalls spilled beside the road, fed by snowmelt from the peaks and sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine. Despite the grim circumstances, Blake enjoyed the drive. The Cadillac rolled smoothly on the freshly graded gravel, and the mountain air was cool, a relief after the stifling heat of Walla Walla.

He was also, he admitted to himself, glad to have Dr. Margot safely in his own hands. He trusted the motor and the frame of the Cadillac far more than the frail-looking airplane the major favored. He only wished she didn’t look so worried.

She wasn’t enjoying the scenery, either. She watched her mother, and though she didn’t try to get her to speak, she did coax her to take sips of water, and to drink cups of tea when they stopped for food. Blake had to wait outside, of course, as the Benedicts ate. He assured them he was glad of the chance to stretch his legs. Mr. Dickson always sent out a sandwich or a platter of bacon and eggs, and Blake leaned against the hood of the Cadillac to eat his meal.

At their last stop, the Benedicts went into a small roadhouse in Fall City to use the washroom and order sandwiches to last them the rest of the drive. Traffic had increased steadily as they left the mountains, and the driveway of the roadhouse was crowded with trucks and automobiles. Blake dropped his passengers off in front of the entrance, and parked the Cadillac beneath a tall maple that bent so far to one side its branches trailed in the current of the Snoqualmie River. The sun was high and hot. He got out of the automobile to stretch. He removed his driving coat and cap, and lounged against the trunk of the tree, enjoying the fresh breeze that carried the scent of the river up over its banks.

A family emerged from the roadhouse as he stood there, a man and two tall sons, with a woman in a straw hat and a summer dress. They walked toward their automobile, a battered Dixie Flyer, but as they passed, the boys paused to admire the Cadillac. Their father, a thin man in a pair of worn overalls, glanced across the automobile’s hood, and spotted Blake. “Hey, boy,” he said. His eyes were narrow, fox-like. “Whatcha doin’ there?”

Blake pushed away from the tree, and smoothed his shirtsleeves with deliberate movements. “Are you addressing me, sir?”

“You bet I am,” the man said. He strutted toward the Cadillac, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his overalls. “You gotcher eye on this motorcar?”

Blake felt an old, familiar resentment rise from his belly, a resentment he would have to ignore. “Yes, sir,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “I drive this automobile.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s a boy like you doin’ with a Cadillac?” The man slapped the shining green hood with a grimy hand, then bent to look through the open window.

Blake drew a slow breath, willing himself to be calm. The man’s two sons, grinning now, flanked their father on either side. The woman, who had been waving a paper fan to cool her face, folded it, and stood frowning.

“This motorcar,” Blake said, “belongs to my employer. I am his chauffeur.”

“Oh, yeah?” one of the boys said. He reached in through the rear window, and fingered the stamped leather of Dr. Margot’s medical bag where it rested on the seat. “What’s this, then?”

“Sir, if you please,” Blake said, although the boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “That’s a medical bag.”

The youth grinned. “Yeah? Good stuff inside, then?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”

Before he could finish his sentence, the boy hooked his finger through the handles of the bag, and hoisted it out through the window. Blake said again, “Please, sir. The bag belongs to Dr. Benedict. She’s in the restaurant, but she’ll be back in just a—”

The boy was paying him no attention. He held the bag in one arm, and began to work the catch with his other hand. Blake, his belly tight with tension, cast the parents a pleading glance, but the woman had turned away, and the man was smiling as if it was all a great joke.

The catch clicked, and the bag opened. Blake, his options gone, took one long stride forward, and put out his open hand. “Give me that, young man,” he said.

The woman belatedly turned, and in a nasal voice said, “Now, Tommy, don’tcha go—”

Her husband threw a hand up in her face. “Shut up, Dolly,” he said. “I’ll handle this.” He thrust his other hand into the pocket of his overalls, and drew out a small, ugly pistol. He held it barrel up, pointing at the sky, and fixed Blake with an angry look from his narrow eyes. “See this, boy?” he snarled. “You best get away from my son, or I’ll—”

Blake hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching on the packed dirt of the road. He didn’t realize she had returned until Dr. Margot’s long-fingered hand closed over the handles of her bag, and tore it away from the boy in a gesture violent enough to make him stumble to one side. The man in the overalls whirled to see who had interfered, and found himself looking up into her face, which was drawn in lines as severe as Blake had ever seen.

Her dark eyes flashed, and her voice was almost as deep as Blake’s as she said, “Put that thing away this moment.”

The thin man stared at her, the pistol hanging limply now from his hand. Dr. Margot glared at him with her jaw thrust forward. “Your son was interfering with my private property. Get away from here, or I’ll have the police after you for attempted theft.”

“Oh, miss, he wasn’t gonna—” the woman began, but Margot threw her such a hard look that she let her protest die away.

The man thrust the pistol into the pocket of his overalls, and said, “Come on, Dolly. I just didn’t want that Nigra givin’ you any trouble.” He put his arm around his wife’s waist, and strutted across the road to his own dilapidated car. His sons trailed after him, and Blake was gratified to see Tommy glance warily back at the tall woman who had taken such swift command, and whom his father hadn’t dared to challenge.

Mr. Dickson and Mrs. Edith appeared a moment later, and when Dr. Margot explained what had happened, Mr. Dickson’s face darkened. “I’ll just have a word,” he said, turning toward the Dixie, but Blake stopped him.

“No, sir,” he said in an undertone. “Just let it go, if you would, Mr. Dickson.”

“I won’t have you treated in such a manner!”

“I appreciate it, sir, but we won’t see them again. Those people are likely a bit worked up because they’ve been to that rally. The one in Renton.”

“What rally?” Dr. Margot asked.