The aftereffects of his night spent drinking made what should have been an exuberant day painful. Tessie’s high-pitched whistle as she chugged back to the warehouse after a successful run of the track almost split his head open. When Oliver patted him on the back in excitement, he almost cast up his accounts on the spot.
But despite him, Tessie had done what she needed to. When she’d finished, the two Americans had gone over every inch of her, asking questions about every design feature that differed from Trevithick’s existing model. After that, they’d gone to the upstairs office and pored over every test record, every costing, every piece of thinking behind her design. They’d asked to see the letters of patent, and after four solid hours, they turned to him and offered him the contract.
To move to America.
They would buy the license to build three engines. But the parts would be built in America, and he would need to supervise.
Benedict gave the excuse that there was work still to be done when he saw Grunt and Harcombe into the wagon with a promise to give them his decision that night. In truth, he needed the long walk home to process their offer.
A cloud of fog marred his vision as he sighed into the night air. The licensing fee was better than expected. With it, he could turn the firm’s focus to producing a prototype of Fiona’s invention. The town would still have work, just not the work they were expecting. And diversifying their investments was a smart strategic move.
He could achieve what he’d set out to—bring enough industry into Abingdale that no one in his town would need to survive on the goodwill of the aristocracy if they didn’t want to.
But it would come at a cost.
He felt nauseous—a roiling pit of fear and guilt and heartbreak had settled into his core the second he’d realized he was considering the offer.
Perhaps Amelia would welcome a move to the Americas. Perhaps it would be the fresh start they needed. He tried to picture her—perfect Lady Amelia—in a country with no traditions, where wealth was no indication of breeding, and an Irish working man could have the same influence as a gently-born aristocrat.
He couldn’t ask that of her.
Benedict kicked his boots against the wall by the servants’ entrance, knocking off as much mud as possible. At least the kitchen was warm and bustling. Mrs. Duggan gave him a nod as he passed through, barely pausing in her direction of the staff around her.
He climbed up the back staircase. He needed to see her. He was hungry for the sight, the touch, of her. They’d barely exchanged more than a quick peck on the cheek since their guests had arrived.
When he found her, she was at the piano, friends crowded around as she sang.
She was beautiful. She was smiling. She was happy.
How could he think of taking her to America? She’d finally found her way back into the bosom of society.
Nathaniel joined her for the chorus, his voice smooth and polished. Every move of his slight form was graceful. His appearance perfect.
Benedict looked down at his mud-stained boots, the ends of his coat sodden where it had trailed through uncut grass. Amelia might be where she belonged in this company, but Benedict would never fit in here.
As the music trailed off, he ducked out of the doorway. A dead, numbing weight settled over him. The sound of her died away, and with it went what little spark of hope he’d had.
He knew what he needed to do.
“Hello, poppet,” he said as he opened the door to Cassandra’s room. She was sitting up against the bedhead, knees drawn, a book resting on them as usual.
She’d braided her hair before bed, the thick plait hanging over her shoulder. He preferred it like this, rather than the artificial tumble of curls Daisy had nearly perfected. The simple braid was a reminder that she was still the little girl he’d raised.
“Ben!” She put aside the book and patted the blanket beside her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He crossed the room and settled in on the bed next to her, drawing her into a hug. “Sorry I haven’t been in to see you today, poppet. I’ve been caught up.”
She snuggled against him, the only person who’d ever just loved him with no conditions and no hesitation.
“Yes,” she said. “Amelia mentioned you’ve been working with the Americans.” There was a twang to her voice—a slight shudder at the Americans—and Benedict wondered if the less-than-desirable aspects of his ever-so-desirable wife were rubbing off.
“I think we got there. Tessie was brilliant today.”
Benedict had no idea who had shortened the coupling chains, or why, but the Americans had believed his story that one of the newer workers had misheard an instruction.
The deal was ready to be signed, if he could bring himself to do it.
It wouldn’t be forever—a couple of years at the most—but it was long enough that Amelia could really establish herself in London, unencumbered by a husband who simply couldn’t be the perfect gentleman she needed.
Hopefully, two years would ease the agony he was already feeling. Because she was going to leave, sooner or later. These past few days had proved that.
The house would never go back to what it was before she arrived, and there were too many memories of her for him to stay once she’d gone.
So America it was.
“How do you feel about an adventure?” he asked Cassandra.
“Oooh, London? Amelia said Lord Roxburough was planning to sell his townhouse and that she wants to buy it.”
The words hurt to hear, but if she was already talking of leaving for London, then he was making the right decision. “I was thinking a little farther than that. Maybe Boston.”
Cassandra wrinkled up her nose, a crease forming between her brows. “Amelia would hate that. She says the Americas are full of people with too much money and not enough polish.”
His wife at her finest, clearly.
“I think it best that you don’t get too attached to Amelia, poppet. I don’t think she’ll be around much longer. We need to let her go back to where she belongs.”
Cassandra pulled away. “But she’s our family. She belongs here.”
He rested his chin on her head, giving her a tight squeeze.
He wanted her words to be true, but after the past few days, he could no longer convince himself that Abingdale was where Amelia would be happy.
“I don’t think that’s the case, Cass. But we’ll get by in America without her.”
It was like a physical blow. Amelia struggled to breathe, sagging against the hallway wall next to Cassandra’s room.
She’d thought she’d finally found The Place. The Person. After a lifetime of having no one who truly loved her, she’d found herself with a family.
Except that family didn’t feel the same if they were planning to leave her here and go away.
After a long moment of not moving, not breathing, she quietly put down the tray with Cassandra’s dessert and left.
She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping away the tracks her tears had made. She had ten minutes before she needed to be back downstairs. Ten minutes to put a smile on her face and be the perfect hostess once again, despite the world beneath her fracturing.