The second man climbed out after and clapped Benedict on the shoulder, offering something that looked like an apology before the men carried the blanket wrapped bundle off to a wagon.
She hadn’t made a conscious decision to move, but Eliza found herself beside Benedict as he stared, unmoving, at the wool-covered bundle that contained his father.
Carefully, gently, she ran a hand down his arm. He seemed to startle at the touch before turning to her.
“Eliza, I don’t—” For the first time, Benedict sounded soft, small. A wave of tenderness crashed over her, and she reached up to run her fingers through the soft curls at his temple.
“I am so, so sorry,” she rasped. On the last word, Benedict fell into her. His arms banded around her waist, pulling her to his chest. His face found her shoulder as her hand twined through the hair at the nape of his neck.
She didn’t notice the dampness at first, too overwhelmed by the surrounding turmoil, but when a shudder shook his frame, she recognized the tears for what they were. The lump that grew in her throat had nothing to do with the ash and acrid smoke.
Benedict whispered something into her shoulder—too quietly for her ears to make out. It was clear from the soft volume that he didn’t particularly care if she heard him or not.But she wanted those words desperately, no matter what they were, and she strained to listen.
When she finally heard him, her heart seized with overwhelming anguish as he repeated over and over, “You’re alright, you’re alright…”
Her hand slid into his sooty waves, holding him to her. For the first time since the orangery, her heart unclenched.
“I’m alright,” she whispered, reassuring him, sliding an arm down to pull him even closer.
Benedict stiffened with a sharp inhale, and she loosened her grip.
Beneath Eliza’s palm, she felt something damp. When she pulled her hand away, it was her turn to gasp. “Benedict?—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re alright.”
She pulled back in spite of his clinging grip. “You’re bleeding. Why are you?—”
Her father strode over, interrupting her questioning. “They’re nearly finished here, son. Why don’t you let Eliza see to your back? This Effie woman offered her house. Seems a pleasant sort of assertive. I’d love to see what she could do with my club.”
Benedict’s nod was shaky, but he caught her hand and guided them down a small hill to a fine stable master’s cottage in the dull light just before dawn. It was in a much better state than the house itself had been, which puzzled her, but not enough to question it. Ivy clung to the white exterior, but it did not overtake the windows, which had been recently washed.
He strode inside to a worn but well cared for kitchen and sitting area. A large lamp hung beside the door, providing enough light to see while casting intimate shadows about the room.
“Wait here,” she whispered. “I saw a pump outside.”
“I’ll—”
“You sit. You’ve done plenty.” She stepped back out and rounded the side of the house where she found the pump and a basin.
When she returned, the sight of Benedict’s back stole her breath. His shirt—once white—was now nearly black, the linen clinging wetly to the line of his spine, outlining the wounds beneath.
Benedict himself stood in the center of the room, seemingly a little lost. She maneuvered around him and placed the basin on the dining table. Turning, she fussed about in the kitchen, searching for some fresh toweling. She located a few in a drawer near the wood stove and brought them to join the water.
At last, she turned back to him, considering where to start. He was caked with soot, save for a band between his eyes and neck. Eventually, she determined the wounds would need to be washed first. Otherwise, she had no hope of keeping them clean.
She swallowed—forgetting for a moment that each swallow was a blade dragging down her throat—before gathering her courage.
“Take off your shirt.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
How many timeshad he imagined hearing those exact words? They’d certainly never been in this circumstance.
Benedict complied with Eliza’s order and lifted the shirt up and over his head before untangling the ruined bandaging Wayland had assisted with earlier. Once free of the fabric, he found Eliza standing before him, eyes wide with a peculiar expression.
“I can— You do not need to?—”
She shot him a look, and he ceased his protesting.
