Without a word, the men left him to his retching; the door clicked shut behind them. Alone, the full weight of Benedict’s injuries enveloped him with a shocking ferocity.
His back screamed in pain, all anguish, burning, throbbing torment.
Even bound for hell, Benedict could not imagine the demons there capable of such mutilation. Familiar though he was with his father’s preferred weapon, this was uncharted territory. Never before had Ambrose struck so many times at once, or slashed so deep. It wouldn’t have shocked Benedict to learn that he’d cut to the bone.
Typically, Stark’s kick would have been a mere annoyance. But paired with the severity of his lashing and the heartbreak of watching his violet crushed… Benedict wasn’t certain if he could rise from his knees. And he wasn’t certain that he wanted to.
What would be the point?
There was nothing waiting for him. Nothing worth standing for. No violet. No home. No family. No Eliza.
He stayed there, on hands and knees, forehead pressed to the cool slate, for an eternity while his gut settled and the wounds on his back seared along his nerves.
When the greenhouse door opened again, Benedict tried to scramble back on his knees.
“Easy lad, it’s only me,” a man said, his hands held forward in a placating gesture. It took Benedict’s pain-addled mind a few moments to recognize the elder Weston. “Damn, he’s left you in a right state, he has.”
West’s father had patched up both boys a time or two in their youth, and Benedict relaxed the tiniest bit. Until Weston’s foot rose over the crushed violet.
“Wait!” he rasped before breaking into a racking cough. “Stop.”
Weston froze, staring at Benedict with confusion.
“The flower,” Benedict wheezed, feeling every bit as pathetic as he looked.
The man glanced down to find the bloom beneath his hovering foot. He stepped back, then kneeled to examine it.
“This is your father’s handiwork. I’d know it anywhere. The pot is a pretty little thing. It means something to you?”
Benedict could only manage a nod.
“It’s still got a fair few roots. I reckon it’ll be grand with some babying. You, too, I expect.”
“I don’t… just leave me.”
“Now that’s a fool’s notion. I never left you when you were a boy. I’ll not start now.”
Weston rose and walked around the flower before making his way to Benedict’s side.
“Bloody hell!”
“Yes, he was… inspired today. No one… to blame but myself.”
“The hell you don’t. You’re not fit to stand.”
“I can stand. Choosing not to. Nice enough here—there are worse places to die.”
“You and my son, fair dramatic enough for the stage. I’ll not allow you to die. You can behave and make it easy. Or I can find Effie. She’ll scold you back to life, she will.” Weston said. If anyone could scold someone back from the grave, it would be West’s mother, Euphemia Weston.
Gingerly, he pressed himself up to his knees. The older man caught his arm with great care, steadying him while Benedict righted himself. A wave of sickness crashed over him as he stood. He flopped forward and retched again. Fortunately, there was nothing left in his belly. He spat in a way Bella would have found distasteful, but he wasn’t concerned with what Bella found tasteful at the moment—not after she’d written to their father.
Her betrayal, which had seemed so minor a few nights ago, now felt insurmountable. Benedict very much doubted he could have delivered the news of his failure in any way that wouldn’t have ended right here. But Bella’s letter had stolen that possibility from him.
Benedict straightened again, swaying.
“Easy, lad.”
Weston shuffled him forward, one inch at a time, until he could clasp the edge of the table and hold himself upright. “You’ll not make it to the cottage. Not in this state. We need an extra set of hands. Wait here a tick.”
