“Not—” Coughs broke from Benedict’s chest. “Not your wife,” he wheezed.
“No, you fair took a beating. I’ll spare you the tongue lashing. Alice saw Blackwood with the whip. Came to find me. I’m only sorry it took me so long. Wait here. I’ll fetch her and back to the cottage we’ll go. And then we can fix your flower.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Now, what gave you the fool idea that you choose what I care to fix?”
“It’s just a flower. Leave it.”
“I’ll not be doing that.”
“Weston…” Benedict cautioned.
“Ben…” the other man mocked. “You don’t want your bloom. So you’ve said. If it’s fair done for, then it’s nothing wasted but time. If I can fix it and you still don’t want it, you can knock it right back over. I’ll help you do it.”
“Fine,” Benedict bit out.
“Now, wait here.”
Benedict nodded, frigid, sweaty palms pressed against the wood. Weston abandoned him, the door swaying in his wake.
For several minutes, Benedict resisted the siren call of the violet. Eventually, his gaze caught on the purple petals. He shuffled around the table, using his palms for stability. When he reached the flower, he tried to lean down.
Fire shot through his back and his knees failed him. He collapsed to the ground with a sickening smack, barely missing the bloom. The pain in his back was so severe, he could not even feel the fresh pain surely radiating from his knees.
Without permission, his finger reached over to brush along the blossom. It was still intact, only one petal separated from the rest. Weston was right; most of the roots remained.
He gathered the largest piece of his pot, the bottom cup, split along an angle but still capable of containing the bit of root, dirt, and flower that remained. The pot trembled in his hands. No sooner had he placed the remnants of his violet in its final, equally broken urn, than Weston returned.
He observed the scene for a moment before taking the pot and plant from Benedict and placing it on the table. “You don’t care a bit about that flower. Not at all,” he teased, gentle, bemused. “‘Leave it,’ he says.”
“Where is your help?” Benedict asked, a bitter note creeping in.
“Alice went to fetch the wagon. Reckons it’ll be smoother than the walk.”
A moment later, the woman in question rounded the corner with blankets piled high in the wagon. “Come now, lad. We’ll settle you inside. And you can bring your flower with you.”
“It’s only a flower,” Benedict repeated.
At some point, without his notice, his fingers and toes had grown quite chilled. He let Weston haul him to his feet again before rubbing his hands together. The fabric on his cut palm unraveled for his efforts.
His frustrated sound earned ashooshing from Weston as he guided Benedict to the waiting wagon. Alice helped guide him inside, then wrapped the blanket around his front.
She froze when she caught sight of his back. “Christ above! What has he done to you?”
“That pretty?” Benedict asked, voice quivering with his frame. When had he started shivering?
“Oh, lad. I am so sorry. I should’ve stopped him somehow.”
“It would’ve been you then, Alice. And Blackwood needs you far more than it does me.”
“That’s not true?—”
“Here you are. Hold onto your little pot,” Weston interrupted, then thrust the pot into Benedict’s twitching hands. “You hold tight to that now. Keep it safe.”
“Alright,” Benedict said. He swayed along with the wagon all the way to safety.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
