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"Fatherr!! Look, Constrable, that's my father. Lord Briggerton. Father, the contsable…conshable…what was your name? Anyway, he helped me find my way home in the dark. You know, it's so dark you can't see the tip of your nose out there. I know you don't like us riding in the dark so lucky we ran into each other, really. And we made it, didn't we, mate?"
"Lord Bridgerton, I thought I should deliver your second born personally," the village Constable stood in the entrance hall of the Bridgerton country estate holding a grinning Benedict by his upper arm.
Edmund Bridgerton was at a loss for words. Why was his son being presented to him by the Constable when he should be asleep upstairs?
"I…um…Thank you," he replied weakly.
"Someone informed me they met a friendly young man sitting next to his horse on the side of a lane a little way out of the village that might require some assistance. I imagine he was with some friends enjoying some spirits then lost his way coming home."
"Oh yes, Father. I was quite -hic- turned around-"
"Benedict, hush!" Edmund snapped.
"Oh, sorry, Father! Shhhhh," he shushed himself.
Edmund was mortified and threw an apologetic look at the Constable, but the faraway look in Benedict's eye said that nothing would come of lighting into him at the moment. He could at least attempt to get him to shut up, though, for both their sakes.
"Thank you for bringing him home. And our apologies for your inconvenience. He will be staying out of trouble the rest of the summer, I assure you," Edmund finished darkly and took Benedict from the other man's hold.
"You're welcome, Lord Bridgerton. Don't fret overmuch, this isn't the first nor is it the last late delivery of a boy to his father this summer. Good evening, my lord," the Constable tipped his hat and was let out by one of the footmen who had attended this late call at the door.
"Goodbye, Con-hic-stable!!" Benedict waved as the man retreated.
Edmund tightened his hold on Benedict's shoulder while he counted to ten.
He's unharmed. He's fifteen. Boys experiment. I've heard similar stories from friends, I didn't sire the only reprobate. It could be much worse mischief.
"Let's get you to bed, scoundrel," Edmund sighed.
"Rise and shine, Master Benedict," Edwards, the valet the eldest Bridgerton children shared, opened the curtains wide letting in the bright, late morning sun.
Benedict groaned at the blinding light, trying to bury his face further in his pillows.
"No thank you, Edwards," he grumbled.
"Unfortunately, I do not think you have much of a choice. Your father wants to see you within the hour."
Benedict shot up, then gasped and cradled his throbbing head. Oh god. He was home. In his bed. How? What had happened? Oh GOD. No. Please. The constable must have been a dream. Please let that have been a dream. He let out a pitiful whine as realization started washing over him. The little flashbacks he was experiencing were only making him more queasy than he already was.
"Nooo…" he croaked, falling back down to his pillows.
"Sadly, yes. Let us get you fixed up first so you do not show up to your father's study looking like that. Tea and water and a little breakfast will do wonders. Trust me," Edwards was sounding much too chipper in this absolutely nightmarish situation.
Breakfast helped with some of the morning's ailments, but not all. Benedict's stomach twisted into another kink with every step he took towards the study. He wildly wondered if his father would forgo his punishment if he got sick on the floor.
Edmund Bridgerton was not a man who tended towards violence. He was not even particularly strict, thank goodness. But Benedict could only guess at the state he was in when he was brought home last night and the consequences of his little outing would surely be dire.
He stood outside the study door for several minutes trying to gather his courage then jumped when his father's voice boomed, "Benedict, come in here."
He was dead.
Eyes on the floor, he slowly made his way through a tiny crack in the large door and over to the worn spot in front of the desk where his father expected misbehaving children to stand at attention. When he finally dragged his gaze up his breath caught in his throat when he noticed a rather robust looking rattan cane laying on the desk between them. He wasn't even aware there was a cane in residence at Aubrey Hall!
"How are you feeling this morning?" Edmund asked.
"I've been better," Benedict mumbled.
"I imagine so, but I would reconsider the cheek if I were in your position. Would you care to explain your version of what happened last night? Are you able to recall any of it?"
The edge in his father's voice made Benedict shiver.
"I do. Some. Sir."
"Well, please, go on."
Benedict drew in a shuddering breath, "I snuck out and…"
He paused, but before he could think how he might protect his friends his father cut in, "I will have the whole story, Benedict. Right now. Including who you were with. And I can only imagine it was John Rookwood."
Benedict sighed, sorry Rook, "I snuck out and met John and his cousins at their old groundskeepers cottage. They had drinks and cigars and, um, we overindulged. I remember leaving, and then I think the Constable found me."
"So you snuck out of bed, rode all over the countryside in pitch dark, met your friends in an unsafe building, and partook in so much alcohol you could not walk straight nor stumble your way home without assistance. Do you even know how long you were out there before the Constable found you? Benedict, are you out of your mind? Did you think for one second about what could have happened?"
"I-I didn't think anything would happen," he plead.
"What if anyone besides the Constable picked you up on the side of the road? What if one of you got hurt? Clearly the rest of you were in no shape to do anything about it. What if you fell off your horse and broke your fool neck all while your mother and I thought you were asleep in your bed?!"
Benedict gaped at his father. Of course he hadn't thought all that. If he had he might have been able to talk himself out of the whole fiasco. All he was thinking was that it would be fun. And from what he could remember it was. He thought. At least he could remember laughing a lot…
"I just…I didn't think…I'm sorry. We-"
"No, of course you did not think. Benedict, I am not totally ignorant nor unsympathetic to the ways young men experiment with adult vices, but I am beyond disappointed in your recklessness. How does it feel? Knowing that you rendered yourself as helpless as an infant with your choices. That any fool could have taken advantage of you and you would have been defenseless against them."
Benedict's face burned with shame. The answer was it didn't feel great, but he didn't think he could open his mouth without bursting into tears so he kept silent.
"You can contemplate the answer to that in the corner after we are done here. For now, you can go get that chair and bend over the back. Trousers and pants down."
Benedict was no angel and had felt the cane more times then he cared to remember by masters and prefects and head boys and the headmaster twice, but never bare. He forced himself to obey and much too soon was bent over, arse sky high, awaiting his sentence.
Immediately the cane tapped across the top of his bottom and before he could brace himself the room filled with a spectacular CRACK. Benedict yelped a split second later when he felt the line of fire ignite across his backside. Not surprisingly, the cane on his bare arse was no joke. His father wasn't messing about either. Tears that had already been brimming from the dressing down spilled over and it was only the first stroke.
The second cracked down just below the first and the air whooshed from his lungs. Would if he could cry out. Stroke three landed just as the pain of two reached its peak, pulling a sob from his chest. His father's timing rivaled Master Anderson. And he was much less frail.
The welts pulsed and burned, forcing Benedict to fight every instinct to stay in his much too vulnerable position. Sweat dripped off of his nose with the effort. His father clearly was determined and continued methodically laying burning parallel lines from the top of his buttocks to the tops of his thighs. When the last stroke branded him diagonally across his battered bottom, Benedict fell limp, crying freely.
"You may stand, Benedict."
Edmund put a hand under Benedict's arm to steady him as he stiffly unfolded from atop the chair. His red and tear stained face broke Edmund's heart, but rather than comfort him immediately, he led his son to the nearby corner to finish his punishment. Benedict went meekly without a noise of protest, just an occasional sob.
Over the next twenty minutes Benedict's thoughts wandered from the overwhelming urge to squeeze away the throbbing sting covering his exposed backside, to how he might burn this new instrument of torture that, legally, he should have a break from during his summer holiday, to how he would die if the new young maid came in while he was on display in the corner, to what bad luck it was that the Constable found him, to how maybe it wasn't so bad that it was the Constable rather than highway men, and finally to how idiotic and dangerous his adventure last night now seemed. He'd calmed his breathing and tears only to well up again thinking how hurt his parents and siblings would be if something had happened.
"Come, let's talk, Benedict," Edmund said before Benedict could work himself up.
Benedict slowly bent to fix his trousers, grimacing and hissing the whole way at the uncomfortable movement and drag of fabric over his sore skin. The night he could barely remember was NOT worth the current state of his arse.
"I'm really sorry, Father," Benedict sniffed once he limped his way back to the desk, "It was terribly stupid and dangerous. I'll never listen to Rook again. Or drink to such excess."
"I think that will be a difficult promise to keep, but I hope you do try. Most importantly, I need you to have a care for your own safety and think about the consequences for you and for others before you dive into something. And not just the types of consequences that await you in this room. When you are grown and do not have to worry about meeting me on the opposite side of this desk will you be able to control yourself and conduct yourself in a way that makes your proud? That is part of becoming a man, letting go of a child's selfish thinking. Do you understand?"
Benedict wiped an arm across his eyes, feeling quite chastened and ashamed of himself, "Yes, sir."
"Then you understand that this afternoon you will sit and write a note of apology for you conduct to the Constable and we shall ride to deliver it when you are done. And of course you will apologize profusely to your Mother for your incredibly foolish behavior last night and consider yourself her lady's companion and personal footman for the next few weeks."
"I-Yes, Father. Anything she wants," Benedict very nearly protested having to ride to town, mostly because it seemed physically impossible, but caught himself before he could. That was a problem for later. For now he just wanted forgiveness for his idiocy.
"Alright, Ben," Edmund stepped forward with arms out, hoping that Benedict would want some comfort as much as he wanted to provide it after such a harsh lesson.
Thankfully Benedict fell forward, soaking up his Father's forgiveness as Edmund whispered reassurances.
"You're forgiven. We love you, Ben. We would be devastated should anything happen to you. You are a kind and good natured, but forget to think things through in the heat of the moment. I want to see you working on mastering your impulses, is that clear? We are here for you for anything, but you need to show up for yourself as well. And I do not like these little meetings any more than you."
Benedict nodded into his shoulder before pulling away. He went to wipe his nose and tears again with a sleeve before Edmund intercepted him with a handkerchief.
"I'll try. I suppose I should go find Mother and apologize. And show her I'm alive."
"Good idea. Then straight back here to write that note," Edmund couldn't hide his grin at Benedict's pained expression.
"Can't wait," Benedict blurted out. He could have kicked himself. He was still within sight of the cane for god's sake.
To his surprise, Edmund barked out a laugh before schooling his expression, "Out. Before you get yourself in more trouble."
Benedict didn't need telling twice and fled the room to find his mother.