Benedict

Benedict stood in the gardens of Harrowmere, watching his two sons, now fourteen and eleven years old respectively, racing across the lawn at intervals. Now and then, they would stop to let their much smaller, two-year-old brother catch up to them on wobbling legs. He closed his eyes, letting the laughter and joy of their play reach deep into his heart like sunshine warming his face. 

There had been a time when he believed Harrowmere would forever remain defined by grief and memory. Now it was defined by noise, laughter, and children. His and Lavinia’s small son, little William, had been a surprise addition to the family, but both Edward and Henry had welcomed him with open arms. He was their favorite plaything, and the only person in the world who could slow down Henry’s galloping pace for even a moment. 

Now, as Benedict watched, Henry raced back to William’s side and swung the child up on his shoulders. “Ride the horsey!” he called up to the little boy, who giggled uncontrollably at the introduction of his favorite game. 

The landscape of Harrowmere was not the only thing that had changed in their lives in the last few years. Rosamund and Captain Whitmore visited the Hall so often that Lavinia teased that they should simply stay and live in the renovated lodge by the lake. They had a small child of their own, and another on the way. 

The Earl of Bamford visited often as well, although he seemed to Benedict a much different man now than he had been upon first acquaintance. Watching him soften around his grandchildren, Benedict could not help wondering if his earlier rigidity with Lavinia was born out of fear for her welfare. For it truly seemed as though, now certain of her and Rosamund’s future, he could relax any control on their lives and simply enjoy the women they had become. 

The last visit, he had even ventured to swim in the lake himself, and was good-humored when Edward and Henry nearly drowned him with splashes and cannonballs off the side of the dock. 

As he reminisced, Lavinia came up next to him and slipped her small hand in his. Benedict squeezed hers gently in return, never tiring of the way her fingers felt in his. 

“Strange,” he murmured. 

“What is strange?” she asked. 

“There was a time,” he said, nodding to their clasped hands, “when I did not think I had the right to do this.”

“Indeed,” she answered, smiling up at him. “But I think you have more than made up for that confusion ever since. I am hardly beside you that our hands are not intertwined.”

He grinned at the boys. “William seems to be holding his own.”

“I thought you all came out here to set up a game of rounders,” she said, arching a brow. She had dressed for the day in a simple brown frock with light lace around the neck and sleeves, her blonde hair pinned minimally back out of her face. To Benedict, she looked every bit as beautiful as she had the day they were married. 

“We did,” he said with mock exasperation. “But William kept moving the pins, and in the end, it turned into this chase … whatever it is. I believe William is a jockey and Henry the horse. What Edward’s role is remains to be deciphered.” 

Edward, for his part, had begun hopping about and making loud ape-like noises while chasing a shrieking William and Henry. Lavinia smiled, but as Benedict scanned the sweet face he had grown to know so well, he saw something hidden in her blue eyes. 

“Are you quite well?” he asked, frowning. “Is something occupying your mind?”

“I am a woman,” she retorted with a slight smile. “Something is always occupying my mind. As a matter of course, I usually have three to four primary subjects vying for prominence. It is a veritable battle of Waterloo in there.”

He laughed easily. It was always easy to laugh around Lavinia, now that he let his guard down. “So what thought is winning the war?”

“I received a letter today from Rosamund,” she said. 

“Already? Did your sister not depart two days ago for London?” Benedict laughed. “Could she not have shared the contents of the letter before leaving?”

“We had much to discuss when she was here!” Lavinia protested, laughing a little in response before sobering slightly. “But no, she did not know this particular piece of information at the time. They learned it upon returning.” She looked over at Benedict. “Lady Celestine was married three days ago, while Rosamund and Whitmore were here. Apparently, it was a grand affair, although they did not receive an invitation at the time, and only heard about it after the ceremony had ended.”

Benedict felt not even the slightest pang of regret at these words. As a matter of fact, he hardly felt anything at all. Celestine had withdrawn three years prior in fury after being turned away by Benedict, and had never since darkened the halls of Harrowmere. Adrian kept in slight contact, although his travels and a pretty new French wife kept him engaged elsewhere, but Celestine faded from the history of Harrowmere over time. Benedict rarely thought of her, except in connection with Lavinia. 

“This troubles you?” he asked at last, choosing his words carefully. 

Lavinia turned big eyes up to Benedict. “I thought that it might trouble you,” she said, with the frank honesty that had developed between them in recent years. 

“Ah.” He pressed her hand in his. “Because you once thought her a better duchess than yourself?”

“Once?” Lavinia laughed drily. “I am still convinced she would have filled the role well enough. It is only in one matter that I believe she would fall short.”

“And what is that?” he asked, looping an arm about her waist. 

Blushing, Lavinia murmured, “Well, my dear, you love me. That would make it dreadfully awkward to share Harrowmere with anyone else.”

“Indeed. You are a bright lass to have named the facts so clearly,” he said. Then, noting the expression still in her eyes, he ventured to add, “Lest there be any reason to doubt, my dear Lavinia, I am only glad that Celestine has found some measure of happiness. The chapter she once occupied is fully closed.”

“Rosamund writes that the gentleman is some wealthy widower from the north,” Lavinia said, biting her lip. “I hope she chose love, in the end.”

“As do I,” Benedict said, meaning it. “But I cannot say I am sad about the distance, my dear wife. The estate will go to her husband, and they will likely settle far from here. You will not need to see her in a social setting.”

“It is strange to bid goodbye to such a formative season of our lives,” Lavinia said at last. “And yet I believe you … it is well and done with.”

“She is, yes,” Benedict agreed. 

Together they watched as Edward and Henry helped William scramble up the lower branches of a tree. Edward’s hands were firmly on the child’s back, ensuring that there was never any danger of a fall, and Henry had climbed up above to tug at William’s suspenders. The giggles and cries of delight were easy to hear, even across the length of the garden. 

Lavinia laughed, a sound that filled Benedict with a vast contentment he had never before known. 

He turned and looked at her, realizing that everything he once feared losing had become possible at last … but only because he had stepped outside his fear and chosen something more … chosen her. 

He drew Lavinia close and kissed her in the soft summer sunlight. 

“You taste like sunshine,” she said, pulling back and smiling. 

“You taste like forever,” he answered, pulling her close again.

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