Page 48 of Scars of a Passionate Revenge
Lord Grant bowed and turned away, walking back towards the house with a spring in his step. Despite the turmoil in her own mind, Alice could not help but feel a surge of joy at Clara’s good fortune, to have found a man like Lord Grant to fall in love with, and for him to fall in love with her too. Alice was convinced that they had a lifetime of happiness ahead of her.
She glanced at the letter in her hand, her fingers trembling a little. Could it be what she thought it was? Could Benedict be writing to her father to ask for her hand in marriage. She could not imagine what else the letter could contain. She knew that she should not read it, but she also knew that this was a temptation that she could not resist. She walked quickly towards a bench in the rose garden, tore open the letter and began to read.
Moments later, the letter dropped from her hands, and she let out a sob. How could this be true? How could her kind, compassionate Benedict do something so terrible to her?
I have ruined her reputation, but I will never marry her.
Alice could scarcely believe what she was reading. It seemed like the letter must be a joke, a prank, it seemed so unlike the Benedict she knew and loved. But no one would be so cruel as to play this trick on her. She had been convinced that he loved her, but the whole thing had been a ruse, so that he could avenge himself on her father.
She did not know what had really happened that night, all those years ago, and perhaps it was more complicated than she had realized, but surely she did not deserve this?
I wish you luck in trying to repair Alice’s reputation and finding some poor man who will marry her.
Alice felt the tears begin to flow as she read Benedict’s words again. Not only had she lost the man she loved, who she thought had loved her too, but now she was ruined. Benedict had betrayed her entirely. There was no hope. All was lost.
***
Benedict paced up and down in the drawing room of the baron’s house. He was still convinced that he was doing the right thing in waiting for him to wake up, but he was becoming increasingly restless now.
He crossed the room to a large mahogany bookcase and pulled a volume from the shelves, then leafed through the book. He replaced it then took another and did the same, then repeated the process over and over again until he could barely see the words on the page.
He considered storming out of the room and going upstairs to find the baron’s room, waking the man up himself and demanding answers to his questions. But he had promised himself that he would behave properly, like a gentleman. He did not want to give these people anymore reason to criticize him.
He poured himself a cup of tea, even though he did not really want it. There was not much else to do, while he was waiting, other than drink tea and stare into space.
He returned to the bookcase and resumed his desultory browsing of the baron’s book collection, thinking as he did so what a fine thing it would be to have a house as grand as this, and to fill it with books.
Suddenly he began to feel sick, a wave of nausea crashing over him. He leaned against the bookcase, gasping for breath. His stomach began to cramp. The pain was not too bad at first, but gradually it became worse and worse, until he was almost doubled over with pain.
He reached out to steady himself on a nearby coffee table, but before he could stop himself, he fell to the ground with a thud, knocking the coffee table over as he did so, the crash resounding through the room.
He lay on the floor and let out a moan. What on earth could be happening? All he wanted to do was close his eyes and give in to the pain, and the blackness that was threatening to descend upon him, but he fought with himself to stay awake.
The door flew open and the butler entered. “Good Lord, Mr. Fletcher! What has happened?”
Benedict was unable to form a sentence, but instead let out a moan.
“Thomas!” the butler shouted.
A footman appeared almost immediately.
“Go and call a doctor, at once,” the butler instructed.
The footman disappeared, and in his place, the baroness appeared. Benedict, still fighting to stay awake, saw the look of terror on her face.
“What on earth has happened?” she demanded.
“I have no idea, My Lady,” the butler replied. “I came in and found him like this. I have sent for the doctor. I shall go and get everything ready upstairs so that we can find a more comfortable for Mr. Fletcher to be examined.” He bowed and left the room.
“Sarah!” the baroness yelled.
Benedict winced. Every noise seemed to pierce his skull.
The maid appeared, the one who had brought him the tea. She looked petrified.
“Did you take a tea tray up to the baron?” the baroness demanded.
The maid shook her head. “I only brought this one in, My Lady,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
