Benjamin James Morgan was not a confrontational man by nature, but he often wished he was not so easily intimidated, pushed onto the back foot when there was no reason to be other than his knowledge of his own inferiority. He did not even believe in inferiority—not by birth, anyway—and yet, he was too often aware of his own, and he was painfully aware of it now.
Martha had insisted these past weeks she wished to wait to become engaged until she was twenty-one, and though Benjamin had no regrets throwing a spanner in those works and changing the plan, he was not precisely thrilled to have to speak to Whitcomb, to seek the man's permission to marry his sister. If Mr. Whitcomb had been alive, that would be one thing. It would be nerve-wracking, of course, but in a reasonable way. This was not at all reasonable.
Though society did not agree, Whitcomb and Benjamin were peers. They were born to the same set, had attended the same school, and were a mere four years apart in age. They had served in the same army and were both officers, though Whitcomb was a captain and Benjamin a lieutenant.
And Benjamin did like Whitcomb—it was impossible not to, even if he was not the friendliest of men. There were people who had a certain air about them, a magnetism that was difficult to ignore, and Whitcomb was one of those men. He excelled in everything he attempted, whether physical or intellectual pursuits. He had clearly won the lottery of life—intelligent, handsome, charming, and wealthy—and anyone with half a mind for self-preservation should want a friendship with him. He was also, unfortunately, a complete ass at times, as Benjamin could attest.
Still, Whitcomb had followed him out the back doors of the mansion and to the courtyard, where they could have some privacy. And he did not look particularly standoffish this evening—he was not relaxed, but there was also no air of antagonism.
"I am aware you likely know of what I wish to speak to you," Benjamin began, stumbling over his words in an attempt at formality. "Would it be possible to spare my blushes and skip to the heart of the matter?" Damn it—he had not intended to sound so accusing. Whitcomb had been nothing but polite to him for his entire stay in the man's home, and here he was, being curt and standoffish. It was not the way he wished to handle this, not at all. "I apologize—"
Whitcomb shook his head. "It is entirely possible, yes," he agreed. "If it is also possible to skip this absurd deference and speak to each other as men. We both know we are only having this conversation as a formality, and I am under no impression that I hold any sort of ownership over my sister. So no, I am not going to refuse my 'permission'."
"...oh," Benjamin replied, glad the evening darkness hid the blush that he had not been spared. He realized only then that he had been gearing up for this conversation in a similar way he might before a skirmish. And now Whitcomb's bluntness had punctured his sails, leaving them deflated and Benjamin uncertain of where to next proceed. "Thank you."
"I wish you to know that I am sorry for what I said to you," Whitcomb began without acknowledging Benjamin's awkward words. He leaned against the railing that separated the back terrace from the lush gardens beyond, staring out into the darkness. "It was an unfair thing to say, and quite deplorable for me to treat you in such a hostile manner without any cause. I am ashamed when I think back on it."
YOU ARE READING
The Madam of Purgatory Reach
Narrativa Storica1870, Philadelphia, USA. Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...