Page 90 of Indecent
Bennet took her arm and steered her from the entry hall.
“Will you come to my study so I can speak to you without the chorus chiming in?”
She walked toward his study, her back stiff and her shoulders high. Once inside, she stood off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. She was the visual representation of someone closed up tightly, and he didn’t blame her. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Who is Agatha?”
He moved to stand in front of his desk, emotion raging within him. “Agatha is my father’s other sister. He was the oldest, then Agatha, then Judith. She lives in a hospital in Lancashire.”
“Why?”
“It’s very hard to explain. Which is why I haven’t before now.” He glanced at the floor, murmuring, “One of many reasons why.”
“Try.”
“You will already have noticed that everyone is somewhat eccentric, but it’s more than that. There are…swings of emotion, including those fits of pique my great-aunts mentioned. There is also delusion—in the case of Agatha and with my father. One of the reasons he lost so heavily at the tables was that he would often think he was actually winning.” He struggled to explain everything properly. It was so difficult for others to understand.
“Agatha is in hospital because of this?”
He nodded. “It’s an illness of the mind and seems to affect everyone differently. Minerva and Flora can become quite obsessed with their activities. Minerva will paint for days without leaving her painting room. She’s typically maudlin during these periods, but if you interrupt her to try to coax her to come out, she can become despondent. Flora is overly protective of her flowers and newspapers. Her moods can range quite heavily from excessive excitement to incredible sadness. She’s gone days without sleeping for her love of reading and flowers.”
Prudence blinked, but he couldn’t remotely tell what she was thinking. “Why is Agatha in hospital and they are not?”
“Agatha’s moods are quite severe. Her rages and bouts of despair were so challenging to handle that my grandfather committed her to the asylum when she was nineteen. She’s been there ever since.”
Prudence stared at him in shock, her eyes round and her mouth open.
He wanted to stop, but knew he had to keep going. “I’m told my father’s moods were similar to Agatha’s, but he drank a great deal of alcohol, which tended to mellow his emotions. Until it didn’t, and he would lose himself to anger and frustration.” Bennet recalled so many occasions in which his father went from drowsy intoxication to growling fury, throwing things and driving everyone away from him. “He was also incapable of making good decisions for the most part. He gambled away nearly everything. Many of the things that are gone from the house were sold by him before he died.”
“Oh, Bennet, I wish I’d known.” She spoke so quietly that he could barely hear her.
“My grandfather wasn’t like this, but his sisters were—Flora and, to a lesser extent, Minerva—as was his brother, who died when a horse threw him at the age of twenty-five. Cousin Frances is his daughter, and she is also afflicted. Judith, however, does not seem to have the illness. Nonetheless, she chose not to marry or have children lest she pass it on to them.”
Her features seemed to be carved from stone. “You did the same. Or at least, you wanted to.”
“I never wanted to marry, but then my father made it so I would have to. I’d hoped to avoid having children. That’s one of the reasons I chose to wed Mrs. Merryfield. She already had children. I didn’t think she’d mind when I refused to have any.”
“You really were content to let the title die with you?”
“More than. The thought of my child ending up like Aunt Agatha…” He pressed his lips together and clenched his jaw.
“You don’t know that will happen,” she said. “It didn’t with Judith, apparently.”
“She is in the minority.” Bennet didn’t want to have to justify his fear or what he knew to be true—the risk was too great. But it was too late now. The baby was coming, its fate already decided. Panic rose in his chest, stoking his fury. “Furthermore,Iam afflicted. My emotions get the best of me, as they are doing right now, and I make horrid decisions such as kidnap people.” He turned from her and stalked to the window. His fist burned to punch through the glass if he could. He would welcome the pain if it would dissipate his rage and reclaim his control.
The silence in the room was more frightening than if she’d railed at him. He looked back at her over his shoulder and felt a surge of anguish. Her face was unreadable.
“And not telling me about any of this.” Her voice was low and dark, and he felt the tremor of it in his chest. “That wasn’t a good decision either.”
“Perhaps not.”
Her nostrils flared. “Now I understand why you didn’t want me to come here. I think it’s best if I return to London.”
Overwhelmed with hurt and anger, Prudence started to turn.
Bennet turned away from the window and took a step toward her. “Wait.”
“For what? I suppose I must ask what else you’ve kept from me.”
“Nothing.”
