Page 51 of Scars of a Passionate Revenge
He jumped up, now, and rang the bell for his valet.
Soon after, the man entered the room.
“Ah, Stevens, thank you for coming so promptly,” the baron said. “I would like you to help me dress, please. I thought that since I am feeling so much better now, I would join Dorothea for dinner, and perhaps we have time for a walk in the gardens before it is time to eat.”
“As you wish, My Lord,” Stevens replied. “But Marie has just told me that Her Ladyship has retired for the evening already, with no intention of coming down for dinner.” He paused and gave a slight cough. “Apparently she has a headache, which is no great surprise. There has been some upheaval within the household this afternoon.”
“Upheaval? Indeed!” the baron exclaimed. “You see, I am missing everything that is going on in my own house, reaming cooped up in the dammed room! What has been going on?”
“Well, there has been a visitor, but he has been taken ill, and the doctor has been called,” Stevens said, as he crossed the room and opened a large wardrobe. “If you plan to come down for dinner anyway, My Lord, perhaps you might tell me what you would like to wear?”
“Oh, blast the clothes!” the baron cried. “Who is the visitor, and what has happened to him?”
“The visitor is a Mr. Benedict Fletcher,” Stevens replied, his tone almost irritatingly calm. “At first Smith thought he was here to call on Miss Dunberry, but it turns out that he wanted to see you, My Lord. The baroness had him wait in the drawing room until you woke up, but then he took a turn and collapsed.”
“And where is he now?” the baron demanded. Stevens was being a consummate professional, as always, but the baron was becoming impatient.
“In one of the guest rooms, My Lord,” Stevens replied, taking a jacket out of the wardrobe. “Will this one do for you this evening?”
“Oh hang it, I do not care about all that.” The baron strode towards him. “I shall wear whatever you first put your hands on. Then I shall go and see this Mr. Fletcher, and see what he wants.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, as he strode down the corridor a few moments later towards the guest room where the visitor had been settled. He knew that there had been a Mr. Fletcher who seemed to be paying court to Alice, but now that he heard his full name, he felt a flicker of recognition.
And when he opened the door and saw the young man with dark hair, sitting up in bed looking rather disheveled and confused, he knew at once who he was.
***
At first, when the door to his room flew open, Benedict felt a surge of irritation. Did no one even knock in this house? He was trying to rest, to gather his thoughts and work out what on earth had just happened to him, and he just wanted to be left in peace.
But when he looked up and saw who was standing in the doorway, his heart jumped in his chest.
An aging man, with greying hair around the temples. He had changed a lot in the intervening years, but Benedict would have known him anywhere. The baron.
And yet, he did not feel the surge of hatred that he had expected to when he saw the man. He looked rather kind and gentle, and as Benedict looked at him, he felt a flood of memories returning to him from his childhood.
The baron had been kind to him then, not punishing him when he was caught taking apples from the orchard and allowing him to play with the dogs in the yard whenever he liked, even if he was making a noise which might disturb the household.
Could this be the man who had betrayed his father? Benedict’s mind was a flurry of confusion.
“My dear boy!” the baron said, striding towards him with arms outstretched. “I thought it must be you, when I heard your name, and now here you are.” He looked at Benedict frankly.
“You are the very image of your father, you know. He was a fine man.” He paused and chewed his lip. “I wonder why Dorothea did not tell me that this Mr. Fletcher who was new in our acquaintance was the very same young man who used to live here all those years ago. It is all very strange.”
Benedict frowned. That the baron remembered him came as a little surprise, but what was even more surprising was the fondness with which he greeted him. If the baron believed that Benedict’s father had stolen from him, then surely he would not remember him with such fondness, nor greet his son with such warmth.
“Might I sit down and talk with you awhile?” the baron asked.
Benedict nodded dumbly, still unsure what to say. He could not have been more astonished at how things were turning out.
“And how are you feeling? Better, I hope? My valet tells me that you had a strange turn earlier on.”
“I am feeling much better, My Lord,” Benedict managed to say.
“Well, I am very glad to see you, and I am sure that you will tell me in due course the reason for your visit. But first, do tell me how your father is?”
Benedict swallowed. “He is no longer with us, My Lord. He passed away a few years ago.”
The baron frowned. “Well, I am sorry to hear it,” he said softly, and his eyes showed that his sorrow was genuine.
