Page 133 of The Meaning of Love
“I knew he was evil,” Benton said. “Years ago, before he went to India, his regiment was stationed near the village where I lived with my mother and sister. My sister’s a sweet, pretty thing. One afternoon, he and a couple of his friends raped her and left her for dead. I found her, and my mother and I put it about that she’d caught a debilitating fever, and I nursed her back to health. It took months, and often I feared she’d never recover, but eventually, she did. And then she met the local deacon. He’s a kind, gentle man, and they fell in love and married, and I could finally stop worrying about Dolly.”
Her face hardened. “But late last year, Findlay-Wright came back to the village. He saw Dolly and her husband, and from the way Dolly fainted away at the sight of him, the evil man realized the deacon didn’t know what had happened to Dolly all those years ago. But he didn’t approach Dolly—she wouldn’t have been much use to him. He found me instead. He said he’d tell not just her husband but the whole village that Dolly had whored herself to him and his friends. It wasn’t true, but of course, he’d be believed, and Dolly’s life, and my mother’s and mine as well, would be ruined.” Her face darkened. “Or worse. Dolly was bad enough the first time. With it all brought back and made public, her marriage destroyed…she’d be like to end herself.” Benton looked at Melissa. “I didn’t want that to happen.”
Melissa hadn’t expected to feel sorry for Benton. Hadn’t expected to find tears in her eyes. But they were there, and she nodded. “I understand.”
Benton blinked, then drew in a breath and looked at Julian. “It was the first time I’d heard their tale, but I knew what it meant. Between us all, we explained to Findlay-Wright that we knew he’d killed Colonel Delamere. Manning and I knew the colonel was Mr. Gordon’s father. We told Findlay-Wright we could prove that he did the deed, that we knew where the three witnesses were, and that we’d be telling you everything we knew first thing in the morning—as we are.”
“Of course,” Manning said, “we’d no idea he would take his life rather than face justice.”
“But,” Benton went on, “last night, we spelled out for him just what that justice would be. Not only had he murdered your relative in cold blood, but he’d then tried to kill several of you as well. He’d be convicted, and it was likely the Army would also take an interest. There was no way he would escape the hangman.”
“As soon as we mentioned India,” Richards said, “he fell silent. We didn’t know how he was reacting, so to make sure he understood, we went on and on. It was a case of the worm turning. We’d been under his thumb for months, but now, we’d turned the tables.”
“And as we pointed out to him,” Mitchell said, “if it hadn’t been for his grand scheme that had landed me, Richards, and Manning in the same cell at the Delamere principal estate, so we learned who the family was and could share our stories and understand what they meant, he’d never have been caught.”
“But now that you—the family—would soon learn the truth from us,” Manning said, “there would be no escape for him. While it was him against us, he would always win, but once it was him against the Delamere family, he would lose. He would hang, and he knew it.”
“He didn’t say a word,” Benton said. “Didn’t make a peep. We eventually settled down for the night—it was the first night I slept easily since he came back into my and my family’s lives.”
The three men nodded.
“Then we woke this morning”—Benton straightened in her chair—“and when the staff came with our breakfasts, we discovered he’d taken the coward’s way out.”
Silence descended.
The four simply sat there, staring vacantly as if they were looking back on the past months and barely daring to believe their ordeal was over and they were free of Findlay-Wright’s yoke. Melissa saw the moment when they realized that was true. The tension that, until then, had gripped them eased, and animation returned to their features. Almost in unison, they drew in deep breaths, squared their shoulders, raised their heads, and looked at Julian.
All his family also looked at Julian. Even Gordon, still at the window, turned so he could glance sidelong and watch Julian’s reaction. Everyone waited to learn what he would decide.
Julian studied the four people lined up before him, then formally inclined his head to them. “Thank you for telling us all you have. I commend your honesty and, indeed, your bravery. In our society, reacting as you did to threats to weaker family members would be judged a mark of honor. That doesn’t excuse what you did, but it does make your actions much more understandable.”
Much more relatable.
He paused. Knowing full well that, had he been in their shoes, he would almost certainly have done as they had, evenly, he said, “I wish to consult with the countess and other members of my family before deciding what should be done regarding you.” He glanced at Phelps. “Please take Mitchell, Richards, Manning, and Benton to the small parlor and wait with them there. One of us will fetch you and them when I’ve made my decision.”
Phelps bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He turned, and the four ex-members of staff came to their feet. They also bowed, then preceded by the footmen, filed out of the room under Phelps’s direction.
When the door shut behind the procession, Damian blew out a gusty breath and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs. “My God! What a turn-up!” He looked across at Gordon. “Gordon?”
Gordon drew in a breath and, his expression set, walked back to the armchair he’d earlier occupied and sat. Stony-faced, he looked at Julian. “I vote we let all four of them go. I know they did terrible things, but none of them actually killed anyone, and they were in thrall to the monster who killed my father. I’ve seen how he works. He gets into people’s heads, finds a weakness, and exploits it. He sows doubts and makes them unsure of their own minds, then he takes control. He does it—did it—with Mama constantly.”
Frederick gave vent to a disaffected sound. “They might not have managed to kill anyone, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
Veronica turned her head to look at him, then reached out and grasped his hand. “They acted out of love. Love for their families.” She looked at Damian, Felix, and lastly at Julian and Melissa. “How can any of us blame them for that?”
That was an unanswerable question. Julian glanced at Melissa. She’d been quiet, clearly thinking. He waited until, sensing his regard, she glanced at him and, trapping her gaze, arched his brows in silent question.
She held his gaze for several seconds, then said, “I was thinking of the Ride and of Herne, and of how the blessing of the gods is bestowed in return for compassion. I wonder if this is one of those situations when compassion is called for—when it’s the right response in a difficult situation.”
“So I should let them go?”
“I think you should. They’ve already paid a price, one that should never have been demanded of them. They’ve sacrificed some of their humanity in order to protect their loved ones, and as we’ve all admitted, we can’t fault them for that. They were inherently good people forced to behave as the agents of an evil man, and I judge that what each was forced to do has left a scar on their souls that they will carry for the rest of their lives.” She paused, her gaze steady on his, then concluded, “Like Gordon, I don’t think it would be fair to add to their punishment. I, too, vote to let them go.”
Felix stirred and, when Julian looked at him, inviting his comment, his brother offered, “If you think about it, in pushing Findlay-Wright into committing suicide, the four of them have saved us, the whole Delamere family, considerable anguish and distress. A trial of any sort would have created a furor, no matter how much we tried to keep things quiet. Just think of Helen, let alone our aunts. Hysteria would have been the least of it.”
Julian inclined his head. “That’s true.” He looked at Damian.
Damian nodded. “I’m with Felix. Yes, they nearly harmed some of us, but they didn’t, and in the end, they’ve done us a good turn. We haven’t lost through what they’ve done—what they were forced to do.” He paused, then amended, “Well, aside from the punt being holed and the gig disintegrating and the old barn burning down, but those are such minor things against the benefits of having Findlay-Wright exposed and removed from this earth, by his own hand, no less.” He glanced at Gordon. “And we’ve learned the truth about Maurice. That’s important, too.”
