Sotted: Drunk

Ben stood at the door of his mother's room, waiting for her to compose herself, knowing she would hate for him to witness such an uncouth display of emotions from the unflappable Dowager Duchess. When the sounds of her sobs had finally quietened, she rasped out, 'You may enter, Rothbury.'

Hesitantly, he stepped into the room to find his mother sitting in a chair by the fire, clutching a piece of parchment in her fingers. Benedict was at an entire loss for what to do. This was the same woman who had wept only once upon learning of Charlie's death, not even at his funeral.

What the devil had happened?

'I swore to myself,' she began on a whisper, 'that I would not.....be difficult with Her Grace. But every time I look at her, all I can see is the fact that they did not even care that my son had died. She married you without blinking an eye as if...... as if Charles meant nothing. As if his death was a mere insignificance. I look at her and see the daughter of a man who thought nothing of exploiting us at our weakest. It makes me hate your father for what he did to you, to our family. I look at her and I cannot help but feel so angry.'

'Mother...' Benedict searched for words to offer her, completely dumbstruck by the mirror she held up to him. He had never thought they were similar in any regard, and yet. He took the seat opposite to hers and took her hand, a gesture very foreign to their relationship.

Yes, this was the same woman who had placed unimaginable pressures upon his shoulders since he was young. The woman who had demanded nothing less than perfection from him at every turn.

But she was also the woman who had gifted him his first book. The woman who had come to visit him at Eton in his first year because he had been terribly homesick. The woman who had ensured that fish was never served while he was in residence, no matter how much both his father and brother loved it. The woman who had held his hand while he had gotten into a bathtub the first time after almost drowning.

Fuck.

Life had been easier when he hadn't really put much thought into the complexities of being human.

'I miss him so much.' She tightened her grip, with the other hand offering him the piece of paper she had held in her hands a minute ago. It was a miniature of the three siblings; Ben was holding an infant Ophelia in his arms, Charlie standing smiling beside the two of them.

'I do too. Every day.'

'It was my-' She broke off, her voice thick once again. 'It was my fault, what happened to Charles. I understand why you have not forgiven me still.'

His eyes nearly fell out of his head.

'What? I thought it was you who blamed me.'

She looked at him then, her heartbreak evident in her eyes.

'No. When he died, I was so lost that I did not care who I hurt with my hurt, I just needed it to make sense. In doing so, I made my son hate me.' A fresh sheen of tears lined her gaze. 'A thousand times, I have tried to write a letter to you. A thousand times I have tried to visit you. But I was too much of a coward to face my own poor behavior. To face the possibility that I was beyond your forgiveness. '

What in the ever-loving name of Jesus?

Benedict felt dizzy.

Surely there had to be a limit to earth-shattering revelations one's mother could foist upon one.

'You are my mother. I cannot hate you.'

Good God, were those tears pricking his eyes?!

'I love you. All three of you.' She wept. 'I never knew how to say it. I did not have a mother, perhaps it is why I did not know how to be a mother. You and Ophelia think that I was always stricter with you because I loved Charles more, but it is not true. I saw what my indulgence did to him and I was so afraid that it would do the same to you. All of you have always been precious to me. I tried to protect you the best I knew how, but I just made a mess of everything I touched.'

'You couldn't have done anything for Charlie, Mother.' Benedict passed an awkward arm around her shoulder, patting her. 'I tried everything. I fought with him, tried to hide the alcohol, begged him not to throw his life away. It was never enough.'

'You were always so good. So responsible. It made it so easy to forget that you were a child.' She closed her eyes in shame. 'I should have been firmer with him, I should have seen that he was out of control. I was his mother. I shouldn't have looked to you to be more responsible than his own parent.'

What? Ben thought dazedly. Of course, it had been his responsibility to keep Charlie safe. Hadn't it?

It was the way of things. Wasn't it?

'Charlie was an adult of five and twenty, not a boy.' Benedict rasped out, for the first time in six years actually believing the words. 'We could not have done anything for him.'

Was he a traitor for listening to his wife's words over what he had known to be true for years upon years?

As the Dowager looked at him, once again he was struck once again with the realization that he was looking at his own reflection. He took after his mother, the dark hair and eyes, the strong jaw, even his famed self-possession. But for the first time, he saw that they were so very similar in levels that had nothing to do with their physical resemblance. How had he not seen that she may be the only one on earth who carried a chasm of grief that was a twin to his own?

Being with his wife made him feel too many damn emotions.

Or was it that for the first time in the last six years that the guilt had receded far enough to make space for other feelings?

But really, Ben had never known his mother had felt a turmoil so similar to his own. What could have possibly brought this on?

And then the answer struck him.

'We will find you a good doctor. Whatever ails you, I am sure someone out there knows a treatment. There are facilities in Europe that deal with all sorts of diseases. I have written to some contacts in Sweden, I am anticipating a response in a few weeks.'

'Whatever for?' She blinked.

'You are not ill?'

'Indeed I am not.' She regarded him suspiciously for a second. 'You think I am being open with you because I am trying to make last-minute amends.'

'Well, you certainly have not been yourself as of late.' He pointed out.

'No, I have not,' the Dowager agreed as she reclined into her chair but did not elaborate further. She stayed silent, contemplating before she finally added, 'I have been an ungracious guest. Though I suppose that is more in line with my typical behavior.'

'You have. And I will not tolerate such behavior from you in the future.' He crossed his legs so one rested on top of the other. He was not up to the sternness that her behavior warranted. 'My Duchess, she is important to me. I do not like for her to suffer any further disrespect.'

Any more than I have already allowed, he added silently.

'Convey my apologies to your......wife.' His mother inclined her head in a regal gesture of concession, even as she said the last word with great effort. Benedict would have preferred that the Dowager make her apologies herself but sensed that she had been pushed far enough today. Even he was not feeling quite himself, absolutely reeling from the realization that he and his mother had harbored such similar sentiments for so long. He was still reeling from the fact that she had felt as if she owed him an apology.

Well. Rome wasn't built in a day and all that.

He needed to silence the whirlwind of emotion roiling in his head lest he was cracked open in ways he had tried very hard to fix. He craved oblivion to stave off the feeling that the very earth had disappeared from under him.

It was too hard to let go of his last connection to Charlie.

What did it mean if he accepted that he had no culpability in what had transpired on that night? What would it mean, when responsibility had been the very foundation of his brotherhood with Charlie? When looking out for Charlie had been Benedict's way of showing him his gratitude and affection? Already Ben could not remember the exact sound of Charlie's laugh, or the name of the play he used to like best. He had to look at the family portrait that hung in his London townhouse to remind himself of the exact shade of Charlie's hair and light brown eyes.

His head hurt.

His heart twisted.

He wanted to see his wife while simultaneously wishing for complete and utter oblivion.

He did not want to examine the answers to the questions running through his mind, fearing they may splinter him in new ways.

He could not afford it, not when he was barely healed even now.

Vera walked into her study on shaking legs, hoping to pilfer some of her husband's port. There were nights that called for stronger drinks than wine.

What had just happened?

The Dowager had apologized to her! And if that wasn't enough, she had been crying! The Dowager usually gave as good as she got, she was not prone to these fits of tears. Indeed, the woman was even icier than her husband!

She really must be dying. Vera concluded a little dazedly.

She had just bullied a dying woman to the point of tears.

And yet she could not forgive any slight against her stepfather, her honor would not allow it. No matter the dowager had been angry in defense of her son. As she ascended the stairway to the study, she saw Ophelia standing outside it, looking blankly at the door.

'Ophelia!' Vera greeted cheerfully, her stomach dropping as she watched her sister jump and go stiff at the sound of her name. 'Is everything alright?'

'No. I mean yes, of course.' Ophelia offered her a weak smile, shaking her head as if to clear her head. Her eyes were puffed and rimmed with red.

The alarm bells began tolling once more.

'You were absent at dinner tonight,' Vera started cautiously. 'Is all well?'

'O-of course. Why would it not be? Needham and I merely decided to dine together. We have not been able to spend much time alone. Where is Benedict? Needham and I are thinking to travel back to Bath soon and I wished to inform him of our plans.'

'Ophelia, won't you come in? Ben has gone to speak to your mother, but there is something I wished to discuss with you.'

'Needham is waiting for me, I mustn't tarry long.' She worried her lip between her teeth.

'I will be brief.'

Vera opened the door to the study and bade the waiting footman to take his leave. She wanted privacy for this particular conversation.

'Have I ever told you about my birth father?' Minerva began as they both took a seat.

'No, you rarely ever speak of him.' She answered distractedly as she shot a look at the clock.

'He was...not a kind man. Not a good husband.' Vera felt herself go a little ill as the phantom scent of gin coiled around her. 'In front of everyone, he used to act the perfect gentleman, a doting father. But behind closed doors was a completely different story.'

Ophelia's attention finally snapped to her. She turned white as a ghost.

'It started small. He would make demeaning comments, he was never happy with what she did. If she spoke for too long with a male customer, he would get angry. He always said he was angry because he loved her, because she made him hurt her by being so disappointing. He would hurt her, and then when he couldn't hurt her, he hurt me. That is not a flaw. It is a corruption of their very morality. It is cowardice.'

'Minerva, I am so sorry to hear that.' Ophelia said slowly, but Vera did not miss the tremble in her lips. 'But I do not understand why you are telling me this.'

'I am telling you this because I just want you to know, that if there was someone I loved who was in the same position, I would do everything in my power to help them.'

Ophelia stared at her and then her face turned crimson.

'I do not like what you are implying, Minerva.' The hostility in her tone made Minerva's heart drop. 'How could you even think to make such an ugly accusation about my husband?'

'Ophelia, I see the way he looks at you sometimes! I thought he was mistreating-'

'Well, you thought wrong!' Ophelia was almost hysterical. 'My husband is a good man. He is respected, he does not drink nor gamble to excess. He loves me. Just because your marriage is a dismal thing, does not give you leave to say horrendous things about mine! How dare you say something like that about Needham! If you were a man, he would call you out!'

Minerva felt her face turn red with her embarrassment. So she had had the right of it when she had worried that her experiences were making her see things that weren't there. And now she had insulted her dearest friend so very greatly.

'Ophelia. I am so sorry.' Minerva beseeched. 'Forgive me for speaking out of turn.'

'I thought you were my friend, Minerva.' Ophelia shook her head, as if mournful.

'I am, of course, I am.' Minerva said almost desperately.

'A friend would not make such a heinous insinuation.'

'Please, Ophelia, I was merely concerned. Forgive me for overstepping.'

'Just do not say anything to Benedict. I do not want him to worry because of you. You have hurt me deeply tonight, Minerva.'

'I- I am sorry. I did not mean to.'

Ophelia shot her one last disappointed look before adding, 'I believe Needham and I shall take our leave tomorrow.'

'Do not leave with any bitterness between us, Ophelia. I shall not ever make such a presumptuous statement again.'

'There is no bitterness, sister. I am just hurt. I know you care for me and I appreciate it. It would also hurt Needham deeply to know that this is what you think of him, so I beg you not to repeat such a thing to anyone.'

'Of course.'

With that Ophelia took her leave, leaving Minerva alone to deal with her embarrassment. If she had caused a rift between herself and Ophelia because of her paranoia, she would never forgive herself. She felt raw after having to open up the wounds left by her sire, and all for naught. She may have lost her closest friend in the country because of her prejudice.

Minerva was wallowing in her pity when the door to the study opened once more. Her heart leaped, she got up hoping that Ophelia had returned, but it was only Benedict in the doorway, looking ashen and strange.

'I need to get sotted.' He informed her, heading straight for the port, offering no other explanations. Clearly, his conversation with his mother had gone even worse than expected.

'You know what?' She asked. 'So do I. I have just the thing. Come with me.'

Some days called for the oblivion that could only be provided by the magnificence of good old American Bourbon. The British could keep their port and whiskey. 

A/N: I cried actual tears writing this chapter. I have been WAITING for this conversation between Ben and his mother. The catharsis felt like my own.

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