The distinction mattered. He would provide for his wife, protect her, ensure she wanted for nothing material. But he would not—could not—offer her anything more. His capacity for connection had burned away with everything else upon thatSpanish battlefield. What remained was duty, discipline, and the quiet satisfaction of feeding a cat that would never love him.
It would have to suffice.
It would have to suffice, because it was all he had.
***
The rain continued throughout the evening. Benjamin took his supper in the study, as he always did, eating mechanically while reviewing estate accounts that required little genuine attention. The routine soothed by its predictability: food, work, the slow ticking of the clock upon the mantel, the occasional crackle of the fire.
At nine o’clock, Dawson appeared with a final cup of coffee and a carefully neutral expression.
“Will Your Grace require anything further this evening?”
“No.” Benjamin did not look up from the ledger. “You may retire.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” A pause. “The letter for London. Shall I have it dispatched first thing?”
Now Benjamin did look up. Dawson’s face revealed nothing, but his eyes—those shrewd, perceptive eyes that had seen Benjamin at his worst and never spoken of it—held something that might have been concern.
“You read it,” Benjamin said. It was not a question.
“I would never presume, Your Grace.”
“You read it, and now you are concerned.”
“I am merely ensuring Your Grace’s correspondence is handled with appropriate efficiency.”
“Dawson.”
The valet’s composure cracked, if only slightly. “Forgive me, Your Grace. But a wife… it is a considerable undertaking. And you have been alone for so long.”
“I prefer being alone.”
“I know, Your Grace. That is precisely what concerns me.”
They regarded one another across the shadowed room. Outside, the rain had softened to a gentle patter, almost musical against the windows.
“Send the letter,” Benjamin said at last. “First thing.”
“Your Grace—”
“I have made my decision.” He returned his attention to the ledger, though the numbers had long since blurred into meaninglessness. “That will be all.”
Dawson did not argue. He had learnt, over eleven years, which battles were worth contesting. This was not among them.
“Good night, Your Grace,” he said quietly, and withdrew.
Benjamin sat alone in the lamplight, listening to the rain and the fire and the hollow echo of his own breathing. Tomorrow, the letter would be sent. Soon thereafter, his life would alter in ways he could not yet imagine.
But tonight, he was still alone. Still silent. Still master of his own solitude.
He tried not to consider how deeply he dreaded losing it.
***
He dreamed, as he always dreamed, of fire.
The details shifted each time—sometimes he was running, sometimes he was frozen, sometimes he was giving the order, and sometimes he was receiving it—but the fire was always the same. Orange and ravenous and alive, crawling across the Spanish hillside like something possessed of intent.
