Page 27 of Scars of a Passionate Revenge
Benedict nodded. “Me too,” he lied, then glanced at the rest of the group, a little way ahead of them. “I think we should rejoin the group. What do you think?”
“I quite agree.”
They sped up their pace and before long they were walking amongst the other guests, chatting amicably as they made their way back to the house.
But Benedict could not suppress the gnawing sense of panic in his stomach at the thought of coming face to face with a horse, his biggest fear. He knew that he would be able to think of nothing else for the remainder of the evening.
***
Much later, Benedict finally made his way up to his chamber for bed. The party had enjoyed another fine dinner, then a game of charades in the drawing room which had become rather boisterous. He had tried to join in and to enjoy the festive atmosphere, but his mind kept on returning to the situation he had to face the next morning.
He was embarrassed to feel such fear, especially in the face of something that most gentlemen of his status would not think twice about. Everybody rode horses, and hunted, and some gentlemen even drove carriages with multiple horses harnessed to them. Benedict could just about manage to get onto a horse-drawn vehicle, but anything more than that was likely to make him panic.
And try as he might, he could not think of a way around it. He thought about it all through dinner, to the point that Cecil jibed him more than once about not concentrating on the conversation that was going on around him. His friend no doubt thought that he was mooning over Alice, rather than panicking about the nature of their assignation the following morning. But of course he could confess none of these things to his friends.
And now, as he lay down in bed to go to sleep, he felt no better. He would just have to swallow his fears, he thought, and make the best of it. He could not tell her that he did not want to ride, and he certainly could not admit to her the reasons behind his fear, so he would simply have to pretend that everything was fine.
He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, before finally falling into a fitful sleep.
***
There was smoke everywhere. He couldn’t breathe. The hay all around him was bursting into flames. The horses! How were the horses going to get out? He coughed, fighting for breath, and feeling the burning smoke starting to infiltrate his lungs.
Could he free the horses and save himself? He couldn’t think straight. Panic began to flood through him. Was this the end? Was this the day that he would meet God, in Heaven? Perhaps his mother would be waiting for him.
He wanted to lie down on the ground and give in to it. It was too hard, to escape, to work out what to do. But he forced himself on. He dropped onto all fours and crawled across the floor of the stable, then reached up to unlock the door of the stalls, where he knew three horses were confined.
He fumbled at the catch, willing it to open. The thought of those poor horses dying in the flames was almost too much to bear.
The lock gave way and the door flung open, crashing into his head. He was thrown backwards, reeling, and the sound of hooves pounded through the stables as the horses fled, jostling against each other, and neighing in distress as they fought their way through the smoke, out into the open air.
He groaned and forced himself up from the ground. He had to get out. If he didn’t, he would die, in a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds. He crawled on his hands and knees. The short distance to the door felt like miles. His muscles screamed in agony. But he had to carry on.
Finally, he was outside. He sucked in huge lungfuls of air, his throat burning. The air was dark with smoke and ash. He fell to his knees and felt a gust of wind, then the creaking of door hinges. Then a crash, as the door flew towards his head and hit him hard. Then blackness. Nothing but blackness.
***
Benedict awoke, his bed sheets wet with sweat. He shivered and tried to slow his breathing. Had he been shouting out in his sleep? He hoped that no one had heard him. How humiliating it would be to cause a disturbance in the middle of the night. A grown man having a nightmare and waking up the whole house!
He sat as quietly as he could, listening for footsteps in the corridor, but none came. He breathed out a slow sigh of relief. At least he had been quiet and would not have to suffer the shame of everyone knowing he had had a nightmare.
He lay back on his bed, trying to relax, but he knew that sleep would not return. His mind went over the dream, again and again. He had released the horses. His father had not stolen them. He was sure of that. But his memories of what had happened before the fire, and what had happened immediately afterwards, were so vague that he could not be sure of anything. All that he knew for certain was that his father was not a thief.
He cursed himself again for not asking his father what had really happened before he died. Now it was too late. But while he was alive, his father had never wanted to talk about the past. He always told him to look to the future, and try to forget what had happened before.
And now, as he lay alone in the darkness, thinking of the fire and everything had happened since, he remembered what Cecil had said to him, back in London, when he first began to talk about his plan for revenge against the baron. Perhaps Cecil was right—maybe he would be happier if he just let the past go?
Chapter 12
The following morning, Benedict rose early and forced himself to make the walk along the path by the side of the house towards the stables. His heart was pounding, and he knew that there was no way he was going to be able to hide his fear from Alice. She was sensitive and sweet in nature, so he was sure that she would not laugh at him or mock him, but his pride was wounded in advance even before his secret was revealed.
When he arrived at the stables, Alice was already waiting for him, dressed in a well-fitting riding dress, a dark green jacket, and gloves. She looked perfect and he felt another twinge of guilt about his devious plans regarding her reputation. How could he be about to do such a terrible thing to such an innocent and sweet young lady?
But at the sight of the horses, all tacked up and ready to go, he forgot all thoughts of revenge, or anything else other than his own terror.
“Mr. Fletcher,” Alice said in greeting. “What a pleasant morning it is for a ride! Are you ready?”
He nodded. “Which—which horse is mine?”
