The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) by Cate Campbell

Author:Cate Campbell [Campbell, Cate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2014-08-26T00:00:00+00:00

Bronwyn was exhausted from the long, confusing day, and the bed was soft, with cool sheets and a feather-light comforter. One of the maids had opened the window to a rose-scented breeze, and the night was dark and peaceful. Despite her shame, Bronwyn slept more soundly than she had since leaving Port Townsend. When a hand fell on her shoulder, and shook it, she swam up from the peaceful depths of a dream with reluctance, mumbling protests all the way.

“Shhh,” someone said. “Miss Morgan, we need to be quiet. They’ll try to stop us.”

Bronwyn forced her eyelids to open. In the half-light of what felt like the middle of the night, she saw who was bending over her, and gasped. Fully awake now, she wriggled upright, clutching the comforter to her chest. “Mrs. Benedict!” she hissed. “What—what is it you want?”

Edith Benedict was a pale ghost in the dimness, her gray hair in a cloud around her thin face, her lips and cheeks all but invisible. Only her eyes, with their light, luminous blue, held any color, and they seemed sharper and more focused than they had at dinner. “You want to see him, don’t you?” she breathed. She leaned forward, a little too close, enveloping Bronwyn in the scent of lavender water.

Bronwyn couldn’t help shrinking back. There was something odd about Mrs. Benedict and more than a little scary. She was a small woman, but she seemed tightly wound, like a watch stem twisted so far it was about to break. The hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder was insistent.

“Mrs. Benedict,” Bronwyn said. Her throat and mouth were dry, and she swallowed. “Mrs. Benedict, I don’t know whom you mean.”

“Preston!” Mrs. Benedict said. She smiled, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, as if she hadn’t just invaded Bronwyn’s bedroom in the small hours and woken her from a sound sleep. “You want to see Preston, don’t you?”

“What?” Bronwyn stiffened, staring at the older woman. “Mrs. Benedict, you know that can’t be. Preston’s—”

Mrs. Benedict moved her hand to cover Bronwyn’s mouth. Her hand was cool and dry, and smelled of powder. “Shhh,” she said again. “I’ll explain everything, but not now! If they hear us, we won’t get away. Come, get up and get dressed. Clean your teeth and brush your hair. If we hurry, we can catch the five o’clock train.”

The thought flashed through Bronwyn’s mind that she might still be dreaming. She dreamed so often of Preston and their night in the garden. This could be an extension of the dream, a sort of wish fulfillment brought on by days of fever and a bizarre day of strange adventures and new people. It was cruel, in a way, when she had made such an effort to relegate it to the land of dreams where it belonged.

She drew a long breath, trying to convince herself of this, but Edith Benedict seized her wrist with her hard little hand, and tugged on it. “Get up, Miss Morgan,” she hissed.

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