Chapter Text
This Author apologises for her absence and the brevity of this issue, for it is with a tremendously heavy heart that she lifts the quill at all.
An unfathomable series of tragedies has robbed our veritable London of many a beloved person. This Author offers her deepest condolences. It was only in early June that Lord and Lady Stewart announced the cancellation of their ball with news of the Lady’s ailing health…
…Lastly, the Viscount Stratford and young Mr. Beaumont left our midst on Sunday evening. May the departed find peace in the Lord’s kindly embrace and fond remembrance in all our hearts.
This Author would also like to extend prayers of recovery to the gravely ill, recently including the Marquess Stanton, Dowager Countess Penwood, and Dowager Lady Bridgerton, who were sequestered shortly after Lady Stewart’s funeral…
— Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 25 July 1816
(The final issue penned in 1816. Delivered through mail to select streets still worked by mailmen. It lists bereaved households of the Ton—lest one goes overlooked in the flood of grief—and those in need of assistance to care for the ill. Publication resumes sometime in 1817.)
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Colin,
Mother is ill. Make haste for Aubrey Hall.
The physician says it is not the same as the illness plaguing London, but whatever the malady, she is in distress. As for leaving for Aubrey Hall... I fear she will not recover here. The very air is thick with melancholy and I have attended more funerals within the month than I have in all my nine and twenty years. We will retire to the country as soon as it is possible for Mother to make the journey.
I have written to Anthony, though I do not know when he will receive my letter and how long it might be before his return.
Safe travels.
Benedict.
— A letter sent under the seal of Viscount Bridgerton by his brother, dated July 1816
(The writing is hurried, to the point some words are barely legible and muddled by the time the letter finds Colin Bridgerton through a diplomat in Germany.)
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A sheaf of unevenly sized paper, marked with charcoal and graphite, tied with thin string. Some sheets bear sketches of an elegant, silver silhouette, some detail a mask and joyful eyes. The same necklace and earrings scattered between the sketches, an etching into memory through sheer repetition. But the newer the paper, the fewer the drawings, and the less they resemble their muse.
Benedict hovers in front of the roaring fireplace, thumbing through the drawings.
For a moment, he is gripped by the thought of tossing it into the fire and erasing the night from his memory.
Who knows if she wasn't one of the young ladies who took ill? Or who died? And even if she was alive, even if the worst of the illness had already passed, would she... Or maybe, in some other lifetime where she hadn't refused to show for three long months, the masquerade a million years away... No. She had vanished in the tumult. Not that Benedict blames her. These have been trying times. No one in their right mind would chase a few moments of romance when all of society has been plunged into loss.
Snow drifts past the windows and he sighs. He should be thinking of his mother, and the estate, and there might be no social season this year, and Colin is great help and Daphne a grand blessing, but neither of them are the Viscount, and, and—
And what?
“Damn it...” He whispers. “Damn it all.”
Even if Kate and Anthony leave India the moment they receive his letter, they will not arrive before June at the latest. Another six months. What if their mother doesn't recover by then? What if it takes a turn for the worse? What if… What if…
Benedict sets the sheaf on the mantle and turns away, fingers itching to reach for drink but he has to settle the ledgers for the day and he promised to spend the evening reading to his mother. She can't do much else while bed-bound.
The decanter glistens.
Maybe just one small drink, then, in exchange for the difficulty of holding onto hope that his lady in silver might still show up one of these days, even if that hope dims day after day.
(“You do not have to spend your evenings by my side, Benedict,” Violet says, clasping his hand with both of hers. Her veins are blue spiderwebs, near palpable on her thinning, wrinkling hands. “When was the last time you left—”
Left the estate? Went beyond the farmland or visited a friend? Resumed his search for the lady? Dashed to attend a party and make merry, chatter with people all night, perhaps find someone to indulge in burning pleasure with? Simply stole away for a quiet, leisurely stroll which wasn't a stroll at all and took him to a nearby inn, then another, and then to the other side of the country? Pushed Eloise or Hyacinth into fretting about their mother by themselves?
He doesn't want to hear it.
He has thought of doing an unimaginable number of things, but he has only thought of them. The sprawling fields taunt him; the river bubbles his name; the clapping of hooves sets him on edge; and the cold bites into his toes every time he slips out of bed before dawn, only to tiptoe to his mother’s ajar door, only to find her asleep with one of his sisters nestled in an armchair. His thoughts make him restless. Then they lance through his chest and leave him asunder.
He covers her hands and caresses them, torn between laughing and leaving the room. He meets her eyes then, considers the exhaustion lurking in their depths, the shadows looming above her cheeks, the paleness of her soft face… and dips his head to lay a kiss on her fingers.
“Mother, I am perfectly alright and there is nowhere else I would rather be. I promise.”)
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to ms sophie baek
stump and willow inn
near applebury, oxfordshire
— A letter sent by Alfie Burrow, dated January 1817
(The letter is damp and quite delayed when it arrives at the inn, with hints of dirt along the fragile edges. It seems to have been dropped by the mailman, rescued by a passerby, and sits in a tray all day while its intended recipient pays her dues and leaves to catch the next stagecoach. The unopened, unclaimed letter accidentally finds itself between the pages of old newspapers, fed to a fireplace as fodder.)
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…While the resumption of Parliament saw some notable faces returning earlier this February, it has been a surprise to see their families follow suit in spite of the surceased social season.
Many remain in mourning, however, that does not seem to deter others.
Perhaps for the first time since his own achievement of majority, the Earl of Penwood has made an appearance in London with his wards, Miss Li and Miss Posy Li, who would have enjoyed their debut this year. Both women are a month from the end of their mourning period but the sizable dowries bestowed upon them have seen more than a couple suitors following after their heels. Men, this posits, do not change no matter how the world and circumstances do…
— Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 1 June 1817
(“I did not agree to this,” Posy says, then presses her lips together, searching for the correct words. “It is Sophie’s dowry, Rosamund.”
“And Sophie Baek,” Rosamund replies, turning towards the window, “is missing.”
Penwood House is the same as it had been when they were told to leave by their mother almost a year ago. Every trinket, every painting, even every pair of Araminta Gun’s shoes is in the exact same place as it had been then, untouched by her death. Stern footsteps could be descending the stairs any minute now. She could sweep into the drawing room and none would bat an eye.
Posy’s skin crawls when she looks at Rosamund and all she finds is the silhouette of their mother, forever in mourning, her hair piled atop her head and a dark gown wrapping her body, just as lacking in life as her demeanour has since the funeral. Posy grips the back of an armchair and sucks in a breath.
“She was dismissed! She must have left for the countryside. It cannot be so difficult to find her, she did not even have any money—”
“The Earl wrote to her and she did not respond. That is all. Even… Even the servants said she did not respond to their letters. It is best to leave the matter be.”
“What if she has travelled farther to find work? We should look for her.”
“She is just a maid, Posy,—”
“She was—”
“—and she will forever remain a maid.” Rosamund says staunchly but unlike the resistance Posy had been expecting, her shoulders lower and she folds her arms so tight it’s almost as if she’s folding in on herself. “It is not as if we are to be married today. We may choose to set her share aside, but do you truly believe she will come once she hears of Mama’s passing? Surely, she must have heard of it already. And she has not come.”
“She might,” Posy tries, defeated.
Sophie had not returned, and truth be told, it was easy to understand why. Why would anyone want to return here when they'd been treated worse than cattle?
“Then she might also convene with the Earl when she does. If she is fortunate, she will come before our accounts are settled—and I do not wish to fight over someone like Sophie of all people… It is beyond our hands now.”)
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Dearest Benedict,
We have stepped foot in England at the very moment I am writing this letter. The weather is inopportune for all three of us to travel on horseback as little Edmund has been sick at sea. However, we have made arrangements to set out for Aubrey Hall at the earliest.
My warmest, warmest well-wishes to you. I sincerely hope you and the rest of our family have been well. It is no question that you have been looking after one another to the best of your abilities. Love truly is our greatest strength and I am absolutely certain Mother has benefitted for it.
We will be there soon.
Much love to you,
Kate.
— A letter from the Viscountess Kathani Bridgerton, dated June 1817
(Benedict opens the letter eagerly, trailing an ink-stained fingertip down Kate’s perfect script. He reads it twice, stands up with renewed vigour to share the news with his sisters—then halts. He dismisses his valet, asks him to close the door as he leaves, and sinks into the chair again, gaze trained between the letter, the ledgers splayed open in front of him, and the bookmark dangling from the latest he's been reading to their mother in the evenings after tea.
She is on the mend, enough so that she can walk around and join them for dinner when her knees don't ache as much.
This is good news.
Kate and Anthony will return, will relieve him of the duties that have shrouded him all year and set him loose, so he can hunt for the skin he shed somewhere between London and Aubrey Hall. No more complaints to deal with, no more letters from tenants, no more investments to assess, no missed gatherings, no compulsory memorials, no sitting in a suffocating library at a desk that isn't his, no more waiting for his mother to wake and call for him, no more daunting letters from physicians, no nothing. He can spend more time with Eloise or escorting Hyacinth to markets. It is excellent news. Wonderful news, in fact, the sort to blow his worries to smithereens.
Yet somehow, it takes him the better part of an hour before he can bring himself tell everyone else.)
(In a few weeks, it is Benedict in a swaying carriage, rolling away from Aubrey Hall with a tight chest and pounding head, bound for his long-neglected home in Wiltshire.)
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Daily Schedule:
Monday: washing / mending / serve dinner
Tuesday: washing / serve lunch / mending
Wednesday: serve breakfast / washing / mending
Thursday: washing / mending / serve dinner
Friday: washing / serve lunch / mending
Saturday: serve breakfast / washing / mending
Sunday: washing / mending / country dances
— A week’s schedule in Sophie Baek’s diary, July 1817
(Detailing her tasks during the few months of her employment at a popular inn located a few hours from Wiltshire.)
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…I know it has not been long since we last saw each other and it pains me to request this of you in a letter, but I'm not certain I can ask this of anyone else.
I require help with John’s paperwork at a particular estate in Kilmartin and I am afraid I do not have sufficient time or means to learn all that's required for myself. Once the matter is settled, I have a personal favour to ask of you, which you may decline at your discretion. I do not wish to discuss it at length just yet. Will it be possible for you to make home here in Scotland for the next few months?
Kate has informed me of Mother's upcoming excursion to Bath…
— A letter addressed to Mr. Benedict Bridgerton from his sister Lady Francesca Kilmartin, dated September 1818