Chapter 28

Benjamin

"Remember when life"s path is steep to keep your mind even."― Horace

"No, we must not," she had said. "This was wrong." The words echoed inside his head as he lay on his bed, not bothering to undress. It had felt so right to him, but she had said no. He had put aside his pride and pleaded for her, told her of his love. To this she had turned her back and said no.

He pressed a hand to the hollow ache in his chest. It was time to accept the cards that fate had dealt him. He and Sarah… it was not to be. Despite the rightness of them together, she would not change her mind. He had done all he could to win her, but it had not been enough. He did not think he could bear to be here a moment longer. He had to go home, hide in his new house and lick his wounds.

When morning came, he washed and dressed, going down to the breakfast table looking, he knew, pale and haggard. It did not mark him out for attention as his fellow guests were similarly indisposed, though perhaps for different reasons. Benedict clutched his head and bemoaned his overindulgence in alcohol the night before. A pale-looking Grace rested her head on her husband's shoulders and refused any food, contenting herself with a cup of tea. Even Philip Templeton looked to be under the weather. Sarah sat furthest away from Benjamin, avoiding his gaze as best she could. She looked wan, dark smudges under her eyes betraying her lack of sleep.

By mutual consent, all the guests departed soon after, most probably to go rest at their homes and recover. Benjamin bid them farewell, and again, Sarah refused to meet his eyes. Benjamin drank in his last look of her as she climbed aboard the carriage that was to take her and Ambrose back to Ivy Cottage. He stood watching it go. Once it was out of sight, he turned and with heavy steps, climbed back up to the house. He called to Siddons with a set of instructions, then went up to the library and sat at his desk to compose letters to Ambrose, Benedict and Sarah. To the first, he was brief, merely explaining that he had decided it was time to return home to America and that he was leaving the running of the estate in Ambrose's capable hands. To Benedict and Grace, he conveyed apologies for his abrupt departure and sent his good wishes. And finally, he began to write to Sarah.

January 1st, 1866

Dearest Sarah,

I wish I could say I was sorry for what happened last night, but I am not. I have loved you for years and I hope you will not begrudge me that one and only kiss, one that I will remember to my dying day. Do you recall the words you once wrote about such a kiss? You said it is quite one thing to embrace someone you love and another to embrace one you are simply dallying with. Last night, I saw the truth of those words. No kiss has ever consumed me or felt so right as when your lips met mine. So, I cannot be sorry for it, despite what occurred afterwards.

I came to England with one purpose only, Sarah. It was to win you. Imagine my distress when I discovered I had arrived a day too late and that you had pledged yourself to Philip Templeton. You see, I came straight to see you, but you were not home, so then I went to Graveley. I was concerned that you might be there, and my fears were realised. Through a window, I observed that man give you your first kiss, and I heard as you accepted his proposal of marriage. My heart cried that it should have been me! Oh the pain of seeing you with him that day. I ran back to Stanton Hall and vented my anger. That was the reason for my bandaged hands that day you found me in the library, and for the empty bottle of whiskey.

And so I endured. I went from day to day, trying to make myself a better person, one that would be worthy of you. I hoped, you see, that you might change your mind and end your betrothal to Templeton. It was clear to me the man did not love you as he should. He said sweet words of affection, but his actions were not the ones of a man in love. I was determined to show you in all the ways I could how much you mean to me. I bided my time patiently and kept on hoping. But last night, all hope was lost. I will not importune you with my presence any longer, nor can I endure the sight of you with him another day. So, it is time for me to leave. By the time you receive this letter, I will be long gone.

Goodbye, dearest Sarah, and God bless you. I wish you every happiness even though you will not be mine. If ever you wish to write and resume our correspondence, then I will respond, though of course with the right degree of propriety. No longer will I share descriptions of my indiscretions—not that there will be any, not now that I know what it is to kiss the person I love. My heart is yours, always.

Your loving friend,

Benjamin Stanton

Benjamin put the pen down, assailed by a memory of how in this very room, on first meeting Sarah, he had thought it odd that she should persevere in harbouring a passion for someone in the face of evidence that it was hopeless. And now, it was him that was doing it. Grimly amused, he folded the sheets into an envelope and sealed it. He addressed it to Sarah in his neatest writing and left it on the desk for Ambrose to find, along with the other missives. Then, he went to his room and put together his meagre belongings. Less than an hour later, he was on his way to the station.