Chapter 18

Benjamin

"Let me rage before I die." ― Virgil

Every day of his long journey to England, Benjamin chafed at the delay in reaching Sarah while at the same time fretting about what would happen upon his arrival there. Would she welcome his return? What would he say to her? How quickly would they overcome the awkwardness of seeing each other in person after all the intimacies they had shared in writing? How would he go about changing their relationship from friends to something more?

All these questions ran through his mind with increasing frequency the closer he got to his destination. Late on a Saturday afternoon, his ship docked in Liverpool and he disembarked, walking on English soil for the first time in nearly five years. He caught the last train to London, but he was too late on arrival there to get a connection to Oxford, so he reluctantly retired to the Stanton townhouse for the night.

He woke the following morning, having barely slept, intent on reaching his destination at the soonest opportunity that day. Some instinct told him that there was no time to be lost in reaching Sarah. Finally, at ten o'clock, his train entered Oxford Station. From there, he procured a carriage to take him the remaining distance to Stanton Hall. There had been no time to send word beforehand that he was arriving, so it was with some surprise that he was greeted by Siddons, the family butler.

"Mr Stanton," he said. "We had not been expecting your arrival. If I had known, I would have sent the carriage to await you at the station."

"That is quite alright, Siddons. I am here now."

"And may I say, sir," continued the butler, "how good it is to see you safely returned from the war."

"Thank you. I need to wash straight away. Can you send up some hot water?"

"Of course, sir." Siddons continued uncertainly, "Had we known of your arrival, sir, cook would have made luncheon, but I am sure she can prepare something suitable."

"No need, Siddons. Just have some bread and slices of cold meat with a pot of tea, and that will be more than sufficient for my needs."

"But sir—" protested the butler.

"No, I insist. Now let me wash off all this grime from my travels." Benjamin bounded up the grand staircase and headed towards the room he had occupied all those years ago. It wasn't long before he had washed and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. As he stood before the mirror, combing his hair and tidying his beard, he wondered despairingly for the hundred's time whether he was enough to win the heart of Sarah Cranshaw. He ran his finger along the jagged scar on his cheek. It had healed to a pale pink but was still prominent. His palm slipped down to his hard chest. He had grown thin during his time at war, but three weeks of eating well had begun to put flesh back on his bones. The mirror showed, at least, that he was tall, and he had certainly grown strong over the years—that was something in his favour, was it not? He hoped he would be enough.

He went down to the dining room where the light repast he had requested had been laid out for him. He ate quickly, not wanting to waste any more time. He had to get to Sarah. He was not sure what he would say upon seeing her, but see her he must. The meal over, he stood and went to fetch his coat, speaking to the butler as he shrugged it on. "I am going out for a walk, Siddons, and do not know when I shall return."

"Yes, sir."

Next moment, he was out the door, descending the front steps of Stanton Hall, then walking quickly in the direction of Ivy Cottage. His heart swelled; his chest tightened. He had to get to Sarah before it was too late. Too late for what, he did not exactly know. He simply felt it.

He unlatched the gate to Ivy Cottage and walked up to the door, pounding on it nearly as fast as his heart pounded in his chest. He waited. There was no answer. He pounded again, and again there was no response. No one was inside the cottage. He stepped back in intense frustration. It was Sunday. Sarah would have gone to church with her brother. Perhaps they were lingering, talking to acquaintances and would soon be on their way back. He took out his pocket watch. It was just after twelve o'clock. He would go for a walk and return in an hour. That was what he would do.

He set off, walking a circuitous route around the Stanton Hall grounds, a route he had once taken with Sarah on one of their walks. At one o'clock precisely, he knocked again on the door of Ivy Cottage. Again, his knock went unanswered. Where was she? He tried to think rationally. It was one o'clock, a time to eat luncheon. She must be out for luncheon, perhaps with those young ladies that she tutored at Gorston Manor. Yes, that must be it. Unless…

What if she were somewhere else? By now, the pain in his chest was transforming into frustration and the beginnings of that familiar rage. He had come all the way from America, damn it to hell and back! Could she not have the decency to be there when he needed her so desperately? Where had she gone? Not there. Please God not there.

Unable to bear the suspense, he set off once again, this time in the direction of Graveley. Mr Templeton's stately home had been pointed out to him during his last visit to England. He knew precisely where to go. He walked quickly, anxiety and anger in every step he took. When he neared the house, he darted furtively behind a set of trees and brought his gaze towards it. There, just beyond the front steps, stood a carriage. And if he was not much mistaken, it was the Stanton carriage.

He needed to be sure that what he was seeing was not what he suspected. Using all the skills he had honed as a scout during the war, he circled round to the back of the house and edged closer. There, before him, was a circular shaped room with floor to ceiling windows, one of which was ajar. He would take a look through there, then work his way around the house. He dashed quickly towards it, keeping down and his body flat to the wall, the way he had learned to do during his many scouting missions.

Once he reached the edge of the window, he leaned forward slowly to peer inside. He saw a large space that looked to being used as an art room. Some canvases were stacked against the far wall. In the middle of the room was a table covered with an artist's materials—paint pots and brushes—and beyond that table stood an easel with a panoramic painting which he could not see clearly from where he stood. Other than that, the room was empty.

He was about to circle back towards the front of the house when he spied some movement at the door. Two persons had entered the room. His heart nearly stopped, then began to hammer in his chest. It was Sarah. And with her was Mr Templeton. She came forward to inspect the painting on the easel, a look of wonder on her face. Then she turned to Mr Templeton, and straining his ears, Benjamin heard her say, "It's perfect!" Then he made out the words, "Thank you." The next moment, that rogue had taken her into his arms and captured her lips.

No! Please God no!Helplessly, Benjamin watched Sarah experience her first kiss. He knew it was her first time from the clumsy way in which she attempted to return Mr Templeton's embrace. He recalled how he had once described to her in detail the art of kissing. It was as if she were remembering his words too, for after bumping lips several times with the man, he saw her hesitantly open her mouth to accept the invasion of his tongue. No! No! No! A piercing pain stabbed his chest. It should have been him, not Templeton, to give Sarah her first kiss.

He watched, his body and mind screaming in agony, as Templeton broke the kiss and spoke soft words to her. Benjamin did not catch all he said, except for the last sentence: "Will you marry me?" Then in despair he heard Sarah's brief response, "Yes." Engulfed in pain, he turned away then, unable to watch anymore.

He ran back to the cover of the trees then continued running, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and that agonising scene. He had known he was going to be too late. He had felt it all yesterday and this morning. Too damnably late! He had come all this way on a fool's errand. He was a damned, pathetic fool. On and on he ran, each pounding step sounding the words fool, fool, fool in his fevered brain. The roads were empty on this Sunday afternoon. He passed no one, save for a bemused-looking farmer walking through his fields.

He did not stop running until he reached the parkland of Stanton Hall, slowing to a walk as he caught his breath. All the while, he berated himself. Why on earth would Sarah wait for him? He had never given her any reason to. He should have told her what she meant to him rather than hide behind the word "friend". Or maybe he had been a fool to think the intimacy of their correspondence had meant something more to her. She was not his girl and never had been—just a mirage, a figment of his imagination, a sap to his fractured soul, helping him endure the madness of war. None of it was real except in his diseased mind.

In a fit of self-loathing, he punched his hand to the trunk of a wide oak tree, welcoming the pain. He punched again and again, until both his hands were a bleeding mess. Then, falling to his knees, he collapsed in a huddle on the muddy ground, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. He was nothing. Always second best. He should have been the one to die at Gettysburg, not Jimmy. What worth his miserable life? He did not even have the courage to end it right here and save everyone the trouble of pretending to want to be around his pathetic, shameful self.

He did not know how long he stayed like this. The cold seeping into his bones eventually brought him back to an awareness of his surroundings. He sat up and took out a handkerchief to staunch the blood still trickling from his hands. It was an ineffective bandage, but it would have to do until he got home and dressed the wounds properly. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet and resumed the walk back to Stanton Hall. He glanced down at his best suit, which he had put on earlier today, full of hope. It was splattered with mud and blood now, a fitting reflection of his bruised and battered spirit.

Siddons exclaimed in dismay upon catching sight of him at the door, but Benjamin waved him away and continued his journey up the stairs to his room. There, he discarded the ruined suit jacket and washed his bloodied hands. He withdrew bandages from his trunk and dressed his wounds with the efficiency of long practice. His wartime wounds were nothing though to the wounds of the heart he had just now received. Finally, he changed into a clean set of clothes and made his way down to find Siddons again.

"Sir, are you quite alright?" asked the distressed butler.

Benjamin waved a hand. "Do not fuss, Siddons, but bring me a bottle of the viscount's finest whisky to the library. I shall spend the evening there."

Siddons looked doubtful as to the sagacity of such a move, but he was too well-trained a servant to voice his disapproval. Instead, he bid a footman go light the fire in the library and went to fetch a bottle of whisky, as had been requested. Benjamin retraced his steps up the stairs, this time heading to the library. He entered the room where he had first encountered Sarah. She had been sitting in that chair over there, shoulders shaking with sobs. How fitting that today, it would be him sitting on that chair and drowning his sorrows.

Siddons came in a few minutes later and laid before him a tray with a whisky bottle and a glass. "Is there anything else I can get you, sir? Something to eat perhaps?" he asked worriedly.

"Nothing," Benjamin replied. "This is all I need, thank you, Siddons."

The butler withdrew, casting one last concerned glance at him. Alone, Benjamin poured a first shot of the amber drink into the glass and knocked it back in one swallow. He welcomed the burn at the back of his throat. Yes, that was all he needed tonight. Solitude and whisky to lick his wounds. He poured another measure in the cup and drank it down.

Slowly, each sip of the alcohol began to numb his pain. He set to thinking about what he would do next. Go back to America? No, he could not endure the looks of pity he would get from his family. So, here he would stay and play lord of the manor in Daniel's stead. Perhaps in the days and weeks ahead, he would find some path forward, some way out of the mire he was in. He poured some more whisky into the glass, his hand not quite steady. In the meantime, he would get wonderfully, gloriously drunk.