“You really are a good son, Christian,” she said. “I’ve never worried about anything financially. You’ve never caused any horrific dust-ups in town. I’m very lucky to have you. It’s why I wish so for your happiness.”
“I’m lucky to have you, too,” he said. “I’m glad you were here tonight, Mama. Just like this, you were enough. You helped.”
Maybe that was all she had needed to know, because he could feel a subtle tension leave her frame.
Item E: Judith wanted to know what had become of the money. Well, if he wanted to get rid of the guilt he felt, he needed to stop thinking about him. It had been his dreams, his journals, his hopes that had been his main focus.
Item E: He had thought of himself quite enough these past years, thank you, and that selfishness had the tang of mind-clouding laudanum to him now. Cloying. Blinding.
He felt as if he were waking from an opium dream to the clarity of reality.
Christian needed to help Judith. Not to earn Anthony’s journals. Not to bring her round to his cause. He needed to do it without expectation of any return.
He could only change the future, and there was one thing he was certain of: If he ever intended to look dream-Anthony in the eyes, he needed to do the things that Anthony wasn’t here to do for her.
Chapter Fifteen
A few days later, with milk warming on the stove and kittens to feed, a knock sounded at Judith’s door. She wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and this wasn’t Daisy’s half-day at the flower shop. She had no idea who it was until suddenly…
It’s Camilla, whispered the part of her brain that refused to be cautious. It’s Camilla. She received the letter. She’s come. She’s come.
“Theresa,” she said, handing over a spoon and wiping her hands on her apron. “Please stir the milk, and when it’s warm, take it off the stove.”
Doing things for the cats was one of the few tasks she was sure she could trust to her sister.
“Whoever it is,” Theresa said, “ask them if they want a kitten! Or three.”
If it was Camilla, Judith would let her keep all the kittens. No; she couldn’t let herself build up that imaginary future. It would hurt too much when her hopes were dashed to pieces.
It was a good thing she hadn’t done so. When she opened the door, it was not Camilla. It was Christian, standing on her stoop, holding a basket of strawberries. He stood somewhat awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.
He should be awkward. He’d told her she didn’t know her own brother. He was the anti-Camilla—the last person she wanted to see at the moment. Her hopes didn’t just fall; they shattered.
For a second, Judith imagined slamming the door on his face. Then she imagined opening it again, just to slam it once more.
“Here,” Christian said, holding out the basket. “These are for you. I’m sorry.”
The berries inside were a little larger than thumb-sized and a brilliant red. It had been forever since she’d had a strawberry. She could smell them—that faint, sweet, tart smell that was so reminiscent of her childhood summers. They were so dear in London; she couldn’t even remember what strawberries tasted like.
She only remembered that she had once loved them. She’d loved them even when they were a common treat, easily obtained from the hothouse on her father’s estate.
He knew she loved strawberries.
For a second, Judith imagined taking the strawberries…and then slamming the door on his face.
Alas. If only she were a hair pettier. She would have much more fun, if less self-respect.
“I’m sorry,” Christian repeated. “I’ve been thinking. I’m sure over the years you’ve heard enough abuse leveled at your family. You didn’t need to hear it from me. You asked me to help. I should help.”
He did not look particularly well.
He looked as if he’d not slept since last she saw him. His eyes were red and ringed by dark circles. He was clean-shaven, but so newly shorn that she could see small nicks where the razor had broken his skin.
“Please,” he said. “You’re right. Not about any of the other things I said—but I can’t live with myself. Anthony’s not here because of me. I owe you because of that.”
“You owe me strawberries?”
“No.” He swallowed. “Help.”
It would be easier if he were not so innately fair. She’d spent eight years building him up in her mind as a villain. Someone who jumped to conclusions. Someone, perhaps, who had purposefully hurt her and her family. Someone who was unthinking, uncaring, unfeeling. It hurt to be reminded that he thought, he cared, and he felt.
On the one hand, she didn’t understand how he could be the person who had destroyed her family.
On the other hand…strawberries.
Gluttony won over principles. She took the strawberries. “Thank you,” she said. “Come in. Have a kitten.”
“A what?”
“A kitten,” she said, stepping to the side and allowing him to enter. “In fact, have two.”
He frowned. “Is that a euphemism for…?” But he stopped in the entrance, cocking his head. Inside, the mewing from down the hall was immediately evident.
“Wait your turn.” Theresa’s voice floated down to them. “Stop clawing. Smidge, that’s not nice. There. That’s better.”
“Oh.” He gave her a confused smile. “I suppose it’s not a euphemism for anything.” When he smiled, all his weariness slid away, leaving him simply…sweet.
She didn’t want him to be sweet.
“Under the circumstances, two kittens is actually a euphemism. Anything under ten is a euphemism. Welcome to the hopefully temporary cat menagerie!” Judith said brightly, shaking off her unease. “These things happen in the Worth household. Think nothing of it.”
“Ah.” Christian cleared his throat. “All in a day’s work.” He took off his hat and set it on the side table. “I’ve been thinking. I was hoping to be of service to you in another way.”
Judith clapped her hands together. “Don’t tell me. You want three kittens. Oh, today is a good day! The kitten emporium is open to all customers. We accept strawberries as barter.”
“Actually.” He looked upward. “I hadn’t contemplated kittens at all. I was thinking about Benedict.”
She shut her mouth. “Ah.” Her brother was upstairs. He was doing better, at least on the outside. His bruises had faded; he would go out on walks in the afternoon. He would even smile and laugh, particularly if there were kittens involved.
But only when Judith was watching. When she wasn’t, he would curl up and make himself small. He would look off into a corner of the room, as if seeing something she could not see. And she wasn’t sure what the expression on his face denoted, but it made her want to find the boys who had done this to him, the ones who had stolen the joy from his life, and…and…
And there her imagination failed. She was an adult. It wasn’t appropriate for her to beat small children to a pulp, no matter what they’d done to her brother. Not that she’d have the choice, of course, because Benedict wouldn’t tell her who had done this to him. That left her with no tools for dealing with this mess except kittens, ginger-ginger biscuits, and attempting to coax false smiles from her brother.
“What of Benedict?” She looked over at him. “If you tell me he needs a man’s influence, I will hit you with a…a…” She looked around the entry for a reasonable weapon. “With a chair,” she finished. “Eton was nothing but men and boys, and look how well that went.”
“No,” Christian said. “Not a man’s influence. Just the company of someone who had his own problems at Eton.”
She looked over at him. She had never heard of any problems. Christian was funny. Everyone liked him.
And she could bake a tower of biscuits, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, she’d taken the strawberries. “Do you think you can help?”
“I don’t know if I can,” he said with a shrug. “But at least I can make sure someone is
asking the right questions of him.”
“Are there right questions?”
“No,” he said, “but there are wrong answers. Boys can be very cruel to one another, and if you’ve never experienced it, you might not understand.”
“Very well,” she finally said, and led him upstairs.
Benedict was sitting on his bed, reading a book, with three cats—Squid, the adult, and two kittens—cuddled up to him. He looked up as Judith tapped on the door.
His bruise had vanished. His lip was healed. He didn’t look like a boy who had been hurt so badly he refused to go back to school.
But he was.
“Benedict,” she said, “do you recall Christian Trent, Lord Ashford?”
At the words Lord Ashford, her brother curled up on the bed, an arm going protectively around the two kittens. She wasn’t even sure Benedict was aware he was doing it.
“He’s the one from the other day,” Benedict said in a low voice. “Is he…here to take a kitten?”
Christian shook his head. “What is the business with all the kittens?”
“Yes.” Judith ignored Christian. “He is taking a kitten, but not Snippet or Smidgen, so stop worrying.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Scrap?”
“Scrap is my kitten. He can’t have Scrap.”
Christian blinked. “But what if I want Scrap?”
Of course he’d ask. “Then your wishes will be thwarted,” Judith said primly. “You can’t have my kitten, not for any strawberries. Might I suggest Fillet? She’s sweet, kind, and excessively pouncy. She would be an excellent companion.”
“What kind of monster names a cat Fillet?”
“When she’s curled up,” Benedict offered, “with her markings—she looks a little like a fillet of beef. With a stripe of fat along the side.”
Judith cast Christian a scornful look. “Who names a cat ‘Fillet’? Someone who has eleven kittens to name.” She put her hands on her hips. “I will hear no criticism from anyone who has named a smaller number of kittens.”
Christian just nodded thoughtfully. “An excellent point. I am not a professional kitten-namer. I am not even a hobbyist. I suppose I ought to leave the kitten-naming to the kitten-naming-specialists. This young man is one of them?”
A tiny smile touched Benedict’s lips. A real smile, and Judith’s heart twinged. Oh, Christian was good. She’d forgotten how good he could be at this. No—forgotten was a lie. She had purposefully purged all of his good qualities from her memory.
Christian sat in a chair, and Judith followed suit.
“Your sister,” Christian said, “when she asked if you remembered me, was asking if you remembered me from eight years ago. I was a friend of your elder brother’s. I visited your home over a great many holidays. Before you were born, and after.”
Benedict sat straight up at that. “You knew Anthony?”
“I did,” Christian said. “We went to Eton together.”
Benedict’s shoulders slumped and he shot Judith an accusatory glance. “Oh,” he said in an entirely different tone.
Christian ignored this. “We both know that there are a number of ways that boys mistreat each other there. I had nightmares when I was a child—ones that made me scream and kick out. Sometimes I would walk in my sleep, too, and I’d fight anyone who tried to stop me. And worst of all, I could never recall any of it in the morning.”
Judith blinked at him in surprise. She’d never heard of any of this—but then again, boys of that age were unlikely to confide in their friend’s younger sister. There was a ring of truth to his voice.
“Boys at Eton are like a flock of chickens,” Christian continued. “You know what chickens are like.”
Benedict shook his head. “We’ve never kept chickens.”
“Ah, well.” Christian shrugged. “Then I’ll tell you what chickens are like. They’re stupid, cruel, prone to fighting. If they think one chicken is weak, the others will peck it. If one draws blood, the rest move in and if nobody intervenes, next thing you know—dead chicken.”
Benedict nodded pensively.
“I was weak,” Christian said. “And what was worse, I thought it was my fault. I thought there was something about me that demanded henpecking, the same thing that made me thrash about at night. So I thought I would tell you three things that your brother told me then, three things that changed my life. Since he’s not here, I’ll tell you in his stead.”
Benedict leaned forward.
“Number one,” Christian said. “It—whatever those boys did to you—is not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You aren’t to blame, whatever they or anyone else told you.”
Benedict inhaled. Judith felt a sore spot in her chest. When Christian spoke, he unconsciously leaned back against the chair and looked at Benedict. For a second, she had caught a hint of Anthony in his voice, in the cadence of his words. She could almost see her elder brother, sitting in that chair, saying those things.
“Number two.” Christian didn’t seem aware that they were both watching him. “You’re better than them. Anyone can be a chicken pecking in the yard. But the top chicken never lasts. It is always dethroned. Some day, there will be a younger chicken, a stronger chicken. The only way to win is to not be a chicken. You’re not a chicken, are you?”
“No.”
“There you are. You’re better than them.”
Benedict considered this. “What is number three?”
“Number three.” Christian folded his arms and smiled. “Ah, that’s the fun one. It’s this: They will pay, and you will make them do it. Since you were the one they wronged, you will determine what you think is adequate recompense. But we—your sister, of course, and me, if you wish it—will help you execute your vengeance. Whatever it is you think you need to feel better.”
Benedict took this in. He closed his book and stroked a kitten’s head. “I don’t want vengeance. If I do to them what they did to me, I’ll be no better than they are.” He very carefully did not look at Judith.
“That’s the other thing.” Christian looked over at him. “For me, it was the usual—some ritual beatings, a great many snide remarks, the occasional dunking of my smallclothes in the communal chamber pot. I gather that you experienced all that?”
Benedict nodded.
“They likely stole your food, too—anything sent from home, and the choice bits from your meals.”
Another nod.
“See? I told you they were nothing but chickens.”
Benedict smiled.
“I suppose they jumped you more than they did me. Daily? Twice daily?”
“At least.”
Oh, she hurt just thinking of what it must have been like for Benedict.
“And made it out to be your fault, so that if anyone interfered, you were punished more than they, I suppose.”
Judith felt her fists clench.
Benedict shut his eyes. “Yes.”
“Anything worse?” Christian asked casually.
What could be worse?
Benedict didn’t look up from his kitten. “No.” His voice broke. “Nothing worse. It wasn’t even as bad as it could have been, and I still can’t go back.”
“There.” Christian shook his head. “You’re allowed to hate the way you were treated even if it could have been worse.”
What could be worse than what had happened? She stared at him in confusion for a moment—and then came to a realization, one that choked her voice from her. She hadn’t even thought to ask, didn’t know what she would have done in any event. Thank God. She wanted to vomit.
But Christian nodded, as if this were all entirely normal. “Remember: You’re not to blame. You’re not a chicken, Benedict. What do you want to do?”
Benedict considered. “What did you do? What was your vengeance?”
Christian shrugged. “Well, they would always steal the sweets my mother sent me from home. So I asked her to send me an enormous hamper. The worst offenders gat
hered in my quarters one Saturday, gorging themselves on cake and cordial, to which I had added a generous libation of spirits.” He looked upward and smiled. “They fell asleep. Your brother and I removed the door to their room from its hinges. We nailed a sheet of wood in its place, and then covered the wood with a thin coat of plaster. We had just enough time to apply a matching coat of paint.
“They left my room late that afternoon, staggeringly drunk, only to discover that they had nowhere to go. No room. No door. Nothing. There was only an empty hallway where they’d once lived.”
Benedict grinned. “That’s brilliant.”
“It was utterly glorious. They were sent down for knocking holes in the wall.”
Benedict considered this. “I still don’t want to go back. I’d have to go back to do that.”
“You don’t have to go back to get even,” Christian countered.
“But how?”
“Well, that’s the trick. You’ll have to figure it out. It has to be your idea, see. Because they stole something from you. They stole from you the belief that you could make a difference in your life. You have to take it back. I know you can do that.”
Benedict stroked his kitten’s head once again. “Hmm.”
“They’re chickens,” Christian said, “but…” He leaned down to him. “Who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?”
Judith choked in her seat.
Benedict, though, looked up, his eyes wide. “Who?”
If he said Hamlet’s uncle…
“You will be,” Christian said. “I promise you.”
If anything, Benedict looked more perturbed. “But—”
“Metaphorical chickens,” Christian said. “Figurative killing.”
“Oh. I suppose that isn’t a problem.”
“Think on it.”
They left Benedict looking thoughtful rather than wary. It was a marked improvement.
Judith, too, was immersed in thought. She frowned as they descended the staircase.
She shook her head and gestured upstairs. “That was very kind, what you just told my brother. I’m not sure it will work—he’s refused to listen to all talk of his returning—but—”