Page 7 of It Takes Two to Tumble
Thus, he had to concede that there might be some merit to Captain Dacre’s insistence on discipline and order. The captain’s methods were rubbish, but his goals weren’t so bad, and if Ben could help him instill order in less muttonheaded ways, then he had to think it was his duty.
He was glad to find a thread of duty in the strange tangle his thoughts had knotted themselves into. It was nothing less than relief to find that and cling to it, a relief to know that no matter how unclear his feelings, at least he could resolve on the correct course of action.
That evening, after ensuring that the children were tucked into bed with the convalescent dog, Ben slipped out the garden door and made for the village. The sun had set, but with the full moon reflecting off the lake, Ben could make his way plainly to the Crawfords’ house.
He found them all in the drawing room, arranged the way they always were: Mr. Crawford in the wing chair by the fire, Alice propped up on the sofa, and Mrs. Crawford between them so as to easily refill both their teacups. When Ben walked into the room, all three faces turned gladly towards him and he heard three sets of happy greetings.
From the first time he had set foot in the Crawfords’ parlor, dirty and gangly, with uncombed hair and frayed shirt cuffs, he had made it his life’s ambition to have a home as comfortable and safe and normal as theirs, and to do everything in his power to make sure his brothers had the same. A place where food appeared on the table at predictable intervals and regularly paid servants laid fires in the hearth. A home where he had his own bed and well-stocked cupboards. It was, he thought, not too much to ask. The Crawfords seemed to agree.
“You’re alive!” Alice called, her face bright with a smile.
“Cook made your favorite biscuits,” Mrs. Crawford said, handing him a plate.
“Haven’t heard a peep from those hellions since you went there,” Mr. Crawford mumbled sleepily, his eyes barely open. “Job well done, my lad.” With that easy praise, Ben swelled with pride. He had long since stopped resenting the man for insisting that he go to Barton Hall, but now any lingering unease from their last conversation was swept into a hidden corner of Ben’s mind.
Ben pulled a chair in between Alice and her mother, drank good strong tea prepared precisely the way he liked it, and ate the lemon biscuits that were indeed his favorite. It was comfortable here. He belonged.
“We had word Mr. Farleigh is still doing poorly,” Alice said, looking at Ben with concern.
Old Mr. Farleigh was doing poorly indeed, and was all too likely to continue to do even more poorly still, right up until the moment he died. He was old, he was sick, and, well, everyone died in the end. It was only a question of time, and Mr. Farleigh had rather less than Ben might have liked.
“I sat with him and Mrs. Farleigh for a bit this morning,” Ben said. The Dacre children had fed scraps of stale bread to a gaggle of half-feral hens they had found in one of the Farleighs’ disused outbuildings, and the sounds of laughter and squawking had been louder than the prayer Ben whispered.
He knew that he didn’t need to tell Alice anything as commonplace as the fact that he didn’t want Mr. Farleigh to die. It was a small village, and people didn’t tend to come or go except through birth and death; he had lived in this corner of the world for long enough that nearly everyone he buried was someone he knew, someone whose presence he would miss. He glanced at Alice and lifted one shoulder in a minute, helpless shrug. She raised a corner of her mouth in sympathy. That was all she had to do. This was friendship, and he was grateful for it.
At least, some small and vicious part of him whispered, it won’t be Alice. God, he had thought it would be, for an endless succession of hours that spring. He had thought,I will bury her; I will bury my best friend.
The Crawfords were his second family, had been from the time Ben realized his own family was decidedly inadequate, and what was worse, not normal. The Crawfords had been fantastically normal: there was a sensible number of parents (two), a reasonable number of children (one), and, best of all, the desired number of those artistic hangers-on who seemed to colonize his father’s home (zero). The Crawfords were solid and predictable and they had folded Ben into their family as if he belonged. Ben had craved regularity, and the Crawfords had regularity to spare.
It had been only natural and normal that he and Alice should marry. Of course they would. Alice was beautiful and kind; Ben was hardworking and had a modest living at St. Aelred’s. It all made sense. Coming here tonight and seeing the friendly faces of people who loved him ought to feel warm and cozy after his hostile encounters with the captain. It ought to feel like stepping before a blazing fire after being out in the cold.
Why didn’t it, then?
“What’s that look for?” Alice asked him.
Ben realized he must have let some of his thoughts show on his face. “I think that after two weeks with the young Dacres, I hardly know how to conduct myself in civilized company. I’m waiting for turnips to be launched at me. Honestly, Alice, I’m a little hurt that you didn’t greet me with a volley of French profanity and by setting something on fire.”
“How churlish of me not to have thought of that,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Next time, send word and we’ll come up with some suitable display of affection for you.”
“Please do.” He smiled back. She really was beautiful, both in the sense that anyone in their right mind would agree that she was lovely to look at, and in the sense that she was dear to him and therefore he found her countenance pleasing. He loved her, and he believed she loved him. It was right and good for them to marry; their union would be comfortable and easy. This was what marriage was for. But comfort and ease suddenly seemed like pale and flimsy things.
“That face again,” Alice said, regarding him with concern.
Ben made an effort to be decent company. “It’s lovely weather we’re having.” And then he wanted to slap himself, because since when did he have to resort to weather-related conversation with Alice?
“Is this where I mention that we’re due for rain?” Alice shot back, an eyebrow gently raised. She knew him too well. “But I’ll play along. Yes, Benedict, the weather is fine. I do wish I could experience it without a pane of glass between me and it, but it certainly looks well enough through the window.” Even with the support of Ben’s arm, she was only able to walk a few steps; that wouldn’t bring her even to the garden door.
“I’ll carry you outside,” he said impetuously.
“No you will not,” she protested. “We have a Bath chair due to arrive next week, and I’ll be wheeled outside in tremendous dignity.”
He was already on his feet. “Let me take you outside now, though.”
She looked up at him steadily. “Suit yourself,” she said, lifting her arms. “Haul me about wherever you like. Oh, up I go.” She laughed as Ben lifted her, and her mother cast them both a look of indulgence shot through with weariness, and Ben was reminded of how much of a trial the past months had been for the older woman: her only child sick, crippled. It was surely a relief for Mr. and Mrs. Crawford to know that after they died, Alice would at least have a husband to care for her, if it came to that. She didn’t have money or any family that could be relied on; Ben was all she had. He held tightly to her.
Alice felt insubstantial in his arms, as if she were entirely composed of muslin ruffles. Too light. He tried to keep the worry off his face, knowing she could read him perfectly.
He managed to open the French door that led out of the drawing room, then kicked it shut behind him after they stepped out onto the terrace.
