Chapter Text
Part 11
We’re all mad here.
Before Violet
There is a specific kind of stillness that arrives only once in one’s life. It is a kind of quiet that blankets the soul, when the world around you stops screaming, when the body calms itself from defending.
Sophie yearned for that stillness, gained it in many ways after Alice. All that it took was surrender.
“Do not worry about anything. We will take care of it, dearest,” was Benedict’s mother’s confident assurance.
Sophie loved and lived in the world inside her mind, and welcomed the opportunity to switch off from the world. When all that she had decided before had left her to the loss of her entire world, what a relief it was to give herself to someone else.
She vaguely recalled sitting in the breakfast table, looking at the screen as Kate flipped through photos on her tablet, showing her a curated shopping list for her child. She had chosen such bold and vivid colors. Sophie had no such carts, or Pinterest boards, or plans at all.
Benedict’s mother would take care of it all.
Around that breakfast table, it was decided. Between Violet and Anthony, the amniocentesis made perfect, logical sense. She supposed that if she had been truly present in the conversation, she would have agreed without issue either. One had to be prepared, after all. One had to know.
If they had the same knowledge about Alice, would it have changed a single thing?
She would have loved that princess all the same. And she did not have Benedict to ask.
Shortly afterwards, Sophie lay on the bed in the private care office. The antiseptic used to clean the skin of her abdomen was cold. The form wand that pressed against her belly moved as the doctor located the baby. With a satisfied hum, the nurse applied a local anesthetic to numb the skin.
Sophie jerked in bed the moment that she saw the long, thin, hollow needle. Kate, who had come for the visit for her own prenatal checkup as well, held her hand in support. Sophie turned her head to the side, searched the room for someone who was not there, willed her mind to conjure the phantom from the world he built.
She swore of a moment that she succeeded. For a few glorious seconds, he was sitting there, handsome and kind, playful with the smile he had when there was a secret that only the two of them would share. And he took her free hand in both of his and he kissed every fingertip, trailing to her palm, and then her wrist. Her scarred, damaged pulsepoint. Her ugly truth in which she harmed not just herself but the life he left behind with her.
His phantom faded like crumbling ashes in the stale air.
Then it was his mother clutching her hand, her eyes tearful as she assured her that all will be alright. Sophie closed her eyes, the heavy pressure on her belly tightened as the needle entered her abdominal wall and pierced into her womb.
The pressure relieved, and she concluded the extraction was complete when the ultrasound wand once again measured the baby’s heartbeat. The steady beat filled the room once more. A few hours of recovery, she was told. Kate and Violet offered to stay with her. When she was wheeled into the recovery room, it was gloriously austere and empty save for one of her books from the house. A pale yellow sticky note was glued to the cover. She reached for it and read.
I’m taking mother and Kate for tea. Bookmark shows you’re on page forty seven. You have more than enough left over for the four hour recovery. If not, text.
A
Sophie turned the book to page forty seven, picked up where she left off. By page seventy eight, the persistent pain in the extraction point of her abdomen bothered her enough that she shifted in her position. She used her elbows to raise her hips and move around. Finally, she settled where the pain was the least, even if it was not thoroughly gone.
She closed her eyes again.
“You are going to cry by chapter five,” she heard his voice say, in that quiet, low tone in warning.
Times like these, she knew enough not to open those eyes and find what was real. “I’m way past chapter five. I haven’t even stopped crying yet.”
“You were always more sensitive than you ever let on,” he said thoughtfully.
“Why are you here now?” she tested lightly, so afraid that any louder she would scare him away.
And then his hands, gentle but firm, found the spot on her belly aching from the needle. His lips, warm and searching, kissed the impact point so gingerly, like she was a fragile vase he would not dare break. “Because you’re hurting, and you need me,” he answered.
There was a beautiful world, all inside her mind. Beautiful in its denial, beautiful in its glorious disaster. She threaded her fingers in his hair as she relished the warmth of his kiss where the skin burned stitching itself back together, the puncture wound healing well with his attention.
Beautiful, perfect, only if she never opened her eyes.
Forty eight hours later, Sophie sat in the same, old doctor’s office at GOSH. Across from her, her mother-in-law sat eyeing the nondescript room. “We should donate some art pieces,” she murmured. “It would make the space less daunting, don’t you think?”
Anthony leaned back, standing, in the corner of the room. Sometimes she wondered if Anthony did these things to threaten and chase away the possibility of unfavorable news, as if his glower could contain it. If only it could, nothing bad would ever visit the Bridgertons.
The practical, no nonsense rundown of the results, emotionless and cool, filled the room. Sophie held the stapled sheets in her hands, leafing through them to catch up to the information that the doctor referred to at every stop.
“The result does not indicate an active or immediate diagnosis of leukemia.”
Benedict’s mother clasped her hands in front of her, in a silent prayer. There were not many occasions when Violet Bridgerton was outwardly religious nor spiritual save for the society-acceptable weekly show at St George’s. Still, Sophie watched in silence as the dowager viscountess celebrated.
“Sophie, this is fantastic,” Violet prompted, waiting for a break, a smile, an outward sign of relief.
But she had spent far too long with Alice’s test results, knew there was not a staple wasted on what should have been a line. She held herself firm, and addressed the doctor steadily.
“…pathogenic germline variant detected… associated with Familial Platelet Disorder with a propensity to FDP or AML, representing a significantly elevated lifetime risk for hematological malignancies—”
“No, no,” Violet said firmly. “The child is not sick. That is what matters.”
“Mother, could you let Kate know the good news? The rest of the family has been waiting to hear as well. I’ll wrap it up with Sophie and the doctor,” Anthony intoned from the corner of the room.
Anthony took the seat that his mother vacated. “What does this mean—in the practical sense? What do we need to do?”
He was confident, and strong, and allowed Sophie to retreat briefly into safety. Anthony had it all under control. She closed her eyes, blocking out the room, letting both men in the room fade away.
His warm hand covered both of hers as they rested on her stomach. “What are these two going on about?” she heard him whisper into her ear. “Quarterly tests? That seems excessive. Have they felt her kick? She’s so strong. They don’t know what they’re saying. Don’t worry. She’ll be perfect, just like you.”
Present
If there was one thing that Benedict Bridgerton trusted in this world, it was that his large family would always show up for one another. That the old money, aristocratic clan gathered together in the family London home within days’ notice was proof positive that the family crest motto remained as true on this day as it was when it was first settled.
Family above all.
The weekender slung over one shoulder was hefty, but not nearly enough for what he would require for a weekend in their home. No, he would have to hope that there was clothing stocked and stored from his visits half a decade ago. And since he had learned that Anthony and his family lived in the family home now for most of the year instead of Aubrey Hall, he was certain he could borrow pieces from his brother as his mother’s agenda for the weekend fell into place.
The door to his old bedroom was open, and he heard the quiet, gentle voices in discussion inside. At his approach, Sophie looked up. For a split second he saw in her eyes the same spark of rebellion, a short indignation, come across before it was gone. It was replaced with a quiet surrender.
Benedict found that he did not quite enjoy that surrender. If only he could call back that strong willed dissent that made her come briefly alive.
He stepped into the bedroom, his head cocked to the side in silent inquiry.
Across the bed from where Sophie stood was his mother, holding aloft a pretty, complicated dress. The box lay unopened on the bed. “Benedict!” greeted his mother. The dress was laid back down carefully alongside the box. She approached her son and wrapped her arms around him. He bent low and returned the embrace. And then Violet took his hand and patted it, then pulled him deeper into the bedroom. “Don’t you think that Vi would look wonderful in this?”
He did not miss the slight stiffening as Sophie straightened her back. Three options lay in front of her, equally pretty but much simpler dresses, similar to the one that he had found Violet in on the day he saw her by the lake, like an apparition he would never forget.
It was an easy answer. It should not even have been a question.
“Violet is a little image of her mother. Loveliest girl in the world,” he said softly. “She would look pretty in anything, mother.”
If only for the nearly negligible way that she relaxed her shoulders, Benedict carved a win in his mind’s eye.
“Well,” the matriarch breathed, “I shall leave this here for further consideration, Sophie. I will go see to the preparations.” As she passed by Benedict she reached for his arm and squeezed. “You will be staying in the teal guestroom, dearest.”
And then they were alone in the bedroom where they had spent countless days in the highs and lows early in their courtship. Every corner of the bedroom screamed memories at him.
He wondered what had since happened to their posh flat. Perhaps he could have Anthony’s assistant look up property deeds, and see if he could purchase it again. He might need to refurnish, set it up with a child’s bedroom. But Sophie had mentioned moving out of London, a desire for a life of their own. He would need to know the city, and begin looking for a place. It did not matter where. All it mattered was being there.
“I’m sorry to displace you. Your mother insisted on the space.”
His wife and daughter had been living here for years. Together, sharing space in his old bedroom. “Please. It’s yours. I’m sure the guestroom’s been outfitted so well it would put the Ritz to shame.”
Her lips curved. “Your mother does tend to go overboard at times.”
“Let’s pray the activities themselves go smoothly.” Her eyes fell to the dresses laid out on the bed. “Those are lovely choices, Sophie. You cannot make a mistake choosing any of those.” He stepped forward, tentative, uncertain. She looked up at him. She gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod. And so even closer he stepped forward. “You raised a bright, loving child, despite all the challenges against you, overcame the worst possible situations. And you did all of that despite me. Don’t question your worth, or second guess yourself.”
He could see it, her reactions, her expressions still so much like the wife he knew. Her eyes lingered on his lips as she sucked in a steadying breath.
A younger, stupider version of himself would have lowered his head, pulled close, and then take her in a breathless kiss to solve this thing that hung between the two of them. He would take that version of himself aside for a good talk in front of the mirror.
This thing between them was never undecided. Through the long separation that he had imposed upon themselves, despite their tragedy, and bolstered by what they shared that so clearly pulled them together— One thing remained true, never questioned, and each time they crossed paths the heavier it was underlined.
She loved him still. He loved her even more.
All this between them, skirting around, hurting, holding on to pain—they were all necessary to move on forward. But the love was never in question, never uncertain.
He loved her through the countless metaphorical deaths as he struggled with his demons. He would love her even if she never forgave him again.
“Settle in, Benedict,” she said then, stepping back. “Kate will bring Violet by after playtime with Mary.” At his blank stare, she clarified, “Anthony’s youngest is Mary—named after Kate’s stepmother. She’s a few weeks older than Vi.”
By now, she knew more about his own family than he did. “I think I’ll need your guidance this weekend before I switch whose kid is whose.”
At the large drawing room, the family gathered. Sophie sipped her cocktail as she named subtly reminded him of husbands and wives that Benedict so clearly remembered, but he did not tell her that, because she seemed so giddily delighted at the short anecdotes about each one. This was her family now, well and truly. It was no wonder that they took to her, and remained so embedded in their lives.
Violet walked in hand in hand with a little girl he had never met. At the sight of him, Violet began to pull along who could only be her cousin Mary. At once he dropped to his knees to meet the two eye to eye.
“Daddy, this is my best friend Mary. Mary, this is my daddy. I told you he’s real.”
Benedict extended a hand and offered it to Anthony and Kate’s youngest daughter. The girl scrunched her nose, and then did a quick little curtsy instead. He lowered his hand, and then the tightest arms wrapped around his neck for a hug. And just as suddenly as he was overwhelmed by baby powder and vanilla, the embrace was gone.
I knew he was real, Vivi,” Mary whispered. “Just not real like my dad!”
“Well now he is. Ha!”
He was left looking at the backs of the little girls who sped away like accomplices.
“We are never as important in their lives as we are when they are helpless infants,” Anthony muttered. “How that they don’t need us to burp and change them—”
And he missed every single one of those, he thought. It stung, but it was no fault of anyone but himself.
“Look. Here are the duchess and her entourage.”
The Hastings greeted the Bridgerton family with the warmth expected of true close relatives, separated by distance, but negligible now in these days. Daphne’s boys and Anthony’s came together in boisterous, teenage laughter and despite their rearing devolved into the coded language of their gaming lives.
They met in servers each night, apparently. There was no estrangement to be concerned about. They saved and killed each other more times in one stretch of game than they ever would have encountered each other if they were enlisted in times of war. Daphne’s daughter, on the other hand, was as prim and accomplished as her mother had been, and so dutifully stayed beside her mother until she found the rest of the cousins who were not wrapped up in talks of games.
Sophie and Vi were not in large drawing room anymore. He searched the room for their lovely black hair and found the place sadly lacking their presence. He was about to leave and look for his wife and child. When he reached the door he found himself right in front of his favorite sister, who raised her brows in inquiry.
“So you’re alive,” greeted Eloise.
At the observation, he flushed. “I am.”
“And already planning your escape, I see. I don’t blame you.”
Behind her, the large man that was her husband, two teenagers and three younger ones filed in. Sir Philip shook his hand and dropped a kiss on Eloise’s cheek before vanishing into the throng of Bridgertons that gathered now, filling the drawing room and delighting the matriarch of the house.
“You’re a brave soul coming here.”
Benedict gestured to the drawing room behind him. “This looks more like a gathering for mother than for me.”
Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You were not born yesterday, my dear brother. You do know you’re going to be flayed alive.”
He sighed. Still no sign of Sophie or Vi over Eloise’s shoulder. “Nothing less than what I deserve, I am sure.”
Finally, Eloise’s voice softened. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You did what you had to do, Benedict.”
He had heard that before, many times. His team at Paracelsus certainly made sure that he would hear it from them every time they debriefed on his progress. “Doesn’t mean it was the right thing for them.”
“Sometimes what’s right for us isn’t exactly what suits the rest of the world. And we should we okay with that. You taught me that, Ben.”
“It was shortsighted. Those were the words of a selfish man.”
The way that Eloise looked at him was too intimate, like she could see parts of him that he had not even admitted to Sophie, those shadowed pieces of who he had accepted yet still feared discovery. Especially her. Always especially her.
“And it’s no longer you.”
And therein lies the gap, the difference that five years made. When even the sibling that had been closest to his truth no longer knew who he had become.
“That selfish man is part of me. But I’ve learned to remind him that life isn’t always about what he needs. There are far more important people in my life now, and I failed them.”
Eloise turned her head and considered him for a long time. The old Eloise would have grumbled at the stretch of time that turned him into a man she barely knew. She glanced towards the room, her gaze warming at the sight. He did not need to turn to conclude on who it was that shifted her. Instead, she patted his arm. “You can’t change the past. At least they’re here. And you’re here. If you didn’t do what you had to, that might have been a completely different story.”
His attention moved to Eloise’s sympathetic expression to the sight that appeared behind her. A wide smile broke on his face upon seeing his daughter, now outfitted in the Harrod’s outfit that was in discussion between his mother and his wife. Lady Violet Bridgerton had always had such sophisticated taste, and his daughter glimmered in the outfit that her grandmother bought. Behind Violet, Sophie followed, her gaze cautious and intent.
“Oh my God, she is delightful.” Eloise elbowed him in the ribs. “How did you produce that?”
The biggest miracle, he thought to himself, as he watched Violet beam in her dinner gown. Her black hair was plaited into a French crown.
Daphne and Simon were ahead of them now, and Vi curtsied prettily in front of the duke and duchess. His sister took a small box from her purse and handed it to her niece.
“Pretty hair clips for the prettiest little lady,” she proclaimed. “You can curtsy like I taught you, way better than anyone else!”
From behind her, Sophie took the bejeweled accessories and pinned them to her daughter’s hair.
Simon bent low. “Your papa said you did very well at GOSH this week. Let me see.” The duke murmured his approval at the smoothness of Violet’s arm. He raised a hand and Violet met it in a resounding high five. “That’s a Bridgerton lady through and through. Did you cry?”
Violet emphatically shook her head. “Not in front of mommy.”
Simon nodded with a smile. “That’s our girl.”
Sophie pursed her lips. He stepped forward, suddenly possessed by a need he could not name. All he knew was that the kindness and cheer felt much too stifling, too ill-suited for what he wanted to his daughter and his wife.
They always had this way—he and Sophie. Even without words, she knew. He looked to her, and she shook her head. Not the time, not the place. Never was going to be until he made it so.
Sophie took Violet’s hand in hers and walked into the drawing room. When she passed by him and Eloise, his arm wrapped around her waist and she did not flinch or draw away.
His favorite sister nodded towards the piano in the corner of the room, bringing his attention to the gleaming instrument that had served as a focal point in many of the family gatherings with which he had grown up. Of course there was no Bridgerton family weekend without the showcase of talents that kept his mother entertained and proud of the next generation of the esteemed family.
God, Benedict hated those. There had always been a reason that he preferred his painting over any performance art. Even Francesca who adored the piano always shied away from being paraded, a sacrifice in the altar of social events.
“Watch this,” Eloise prompted, her hand on his back.
The hush fell over the large crowd that consisted of his mother, his siblings and their partners, and the number of his own nieces and nephews. From the crowd stepped forward his little girl, four turning five, in her expensive frock straight from Harrod’s. Her hair was clipped back with the sparkling clips that Daphne had gifted.
“Your daughter is a chameleon,” Eloise said warmly. His throat swelled with trepidation more than pride. “She is a delight to this entire family. She brings happiness to everyone. Who can’t help but love her?”
His Violet walked forward and climbed up the stool of the piano. Her little hands reached for the keys. She sucked in a deep breath. There was a smattering of applause, an act of encouragement, but he saw the subtle flinch of her tight shoulders. From the other side of the room, he saw Sophie step forward.
The first keys were uncertain. The stumble was audible.
From the distance, the sheen of those little eyes was visible.
He met Sophie’s eyes. Benedict walked forward and stopped by his daughter’s side. Violet looked up at him, her eyes uncertain, fearful. He nodded to the empty space on the piano bench. “May I, darling girl?” Slowly, she nodded her head. “I have a piano duet in mind. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to play with my daughter. Is that alright, Vi?”
Slowly, she smiled. He took the spot next to her, then tapped the two keys for Violet to play over and over in the desired tempo. She did, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Like this, daddy?”
“Exactly that,” he affirmed, to the little girl’s delight. “Your notes will be my foundation, darling girl. You’ll be my guide. You’ll ground the rest of the keys I’ll play from now on forward. Ready?” She nodded. “On your cue, Violet.”
He listened, then anchored himself to the tempo that Violet hit. On the eighth strike of her keys, Benedict entered the piece, hitting the complex combination of the keys, speeding up and slowing down, grounded by the steady, consistent pattern that his daughter set. He looked back towards his daughter as the large grin became a permanent fixture on her lovely little face.
By the end of the piece, the drawing room was boisterous in their applause. “Thank you, Violet. I couldn’t have done that without you. You saved me.” He stood from the bench and helped his daughter down. Sophie wiped furiously at the tears on her cheeks. He and Violet took a bow, and then the girl released his hand to throw her arms around his thighs.
He bent down and picked up his daughter.
“We shall be a duo as long as you would like to play with me, Vi. Would you like that?”
“Did you like it?”
“I like being with you, Violet. Whatever you want to do.”
“Piano makes me nervous, daddy. Can we make bracelets?” She raised a hand and showed him the colorful plastic explosion hanging around her wrist. FEEL BETTER spelled the block letters with their flowers and animals and other random charms. “Mary made this for me. Can you help me make one for her?”
Benedict was going to need to find out where the pretty little monstrosities were purchased, and pray to God the last of his descendants were gone from earth by the time those were discovered in landfills.
“I will be honored to make bracelets with you, Vi.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “And you never have to perform in grandma’s little talent showcase ever again if you don’t want to. Everyone will love you all the same.”
tbc