The letter was an invitation to the wedding, though Hugo did not hold high expectations of Ben’s being there.
I did not have Lady Gramley’s direction, he had written, and neither did anyone else. I wrote to Kenelston for it, but by the time your brother’s reply reached me, far too much time had passed and it seems impossible that you could be here even if you felt inclined to tear across half the country just for my nuptials. Imogen is coming from Cornwall, though, and Flavian, Ralph, and George are already here. I have not heard from Vincent yet.
Ben felt a longing to be there too, even if it was London. It looked as if he might be the only one of the Survivors not to attend Hugo’s wedding. And he was the first of them to marry. Was he also the only one who ever would? They all liked to think they were healed and ready to take on the world again, but in truth they were a deeply damaged lot. Not that self-pity was their besetting sin. They had all fought hard against that particular trait.
The wedding was in a week’s time. He could get there for it if he set out without delay. The lure of seeing them all again when they had parted not so long ago, not expecting to be together again until next year, was almost overwhelming. And they would be gathering for a happy event. It really was happy. Ben had liked Lady Muir very well indeed, and it had seemed to him that she and Hugo were perfect for each other despite the obvious differences of social status and temperament.
For a moment he felt a wave of envy. It was not jealousy. He had not fancied Lady Muir himself. It was just envy that two worthy people had found each other and connected with each other’s heart, for undoubtedly it was a love match. And so they would marry and settle to a lifetime of shared passion.
Perhaps he would go, Ben decided. Not today, though. There would be too much chaos if both he and Beatrice were preparing for a hasty departure. He could still arrive in time if he left tomorrow morning, though it would mean traveling in longer stages than he found comfortable. He would not need to stay in town for long, just long enough for the wedding and a leisurely visit with his friends. He could still go to Scotland after leaving there, making his slow, meandering way back north, writing down his impressions as he went.
Was it absurd to imagine that he could write? It probably was, but he could at least try. He had to do something.
Beatrice left just before one o’clock. Ben waved her on her way and smiled at the sight of her traveling carriage piled high with baggage while more followed in a smaller conveyance. And the bulk of her belongings were to follow her to London?
He went back inside and upstairs to the room adjoining his own where he did his daily exercises.
He had made the definite decision by the time he was finished that he would go to London, that he would surprise Hugo by turning up at the last minute to make their number complete, assuming, that was, that Vincent was going. Partly, he knew, it was procrastination that drove him. Although the idea of setting out for a tour of Scotland excited him in the abstract, the prospect of actually setting out alone, no particular destination in mind, was less appealing. Perhaps Ralph or Flavian could be persuaded to join him. Or even Vince. It might be interesting to add the observations of a blind traveler to his book.
He was coming out of his room after washing and changing out of his sweaty exercise clothes when he heard the sound of voices in the hall downstairs. Beatrice’s butler was informing someone that her ladyship was not at home.
“Oh,” the other person said. And, after a pause, “When do you expect her back?”
It was a woman’s voice. Mrs. McKay’s. Ben prepared to step back into his room, where his valet was beginning to pack his bags. He had done a successful job in the past few weeks of avoiding her, of avoiding causing her any gossip in the neighborhood, for that was what it would have come to if he had continued to call upon her.
“She has gone away, ma’am,” the butler explained, “and will not be back until the summer.”
“Oh.” Somehow there was a world of flatness in the single syllable.
Ben hesitated, his hand on the knob of his door.
“Should I see if Sir Benedict is at home, ma’am?” the butler asked.
Ben frowned and shook his head.
“Oh,” she said, “I do not know. No, perhaps I ought to …”
This had not been intended as a social visit. Something in her voice told Ben that. There was distress beneath the flatness of tone.
“Who is it, Rogers?” he called loudly enough to be heard downstairs, and he made his way to the head of the stairs so that he could see for himself.
“It is Mrs. McKay, sir,” the butler told him, “come to call on Lady Gramley.”
The dog was with her. It barked once and wagged its tail at him. Why that wretched hound liked him, he had no idea. Perhaps because he had never kicked him in the chin when that part of his anatomy had rested on Ben’s boot?
She looked up at him. Her dark veil had been tossed back over the brim of her bonnet to reveal a very pale face, even allowing for the fact that black tended to leach color from the skin.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I did not know your sister had gone away. I—I will not disturb you. I am sorry. Come along, Tramp.”
“Did you walk here?” Ben asked.
“Yes,” she said. “We were out for a stroll and I decided on a whim to call here.”
“We certainly will not send you away without any refreshments,” Ben said, beginning the slow descent of the stairs. “Will we, Rogers? Show Mrs. McKay into the small salon, if you please, and have a tray of tea brought there. And some brandy.”