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23 June 1817 - Mr and Mrs Benedict Bridgerton’s Wedding Breakfast
The wedding breakfast was held in the Bridgerton House at the insistence of, if Lady Whistledown was to be believed, none other than the Viscountess Katherine Bridgerton herself. The turnout had been modest to say the least, nothing like the Viscount’s own wedding breakfast just three years prior. But then again, a second son will have to do with some modesties. For this event, there were the immediate Bridgerton family, the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, that simpleton Posy, and what she could only assume was the extended Bridgerton relations alongside a few trusted friends.
She could not for the life of her understand what she was doing in this ballroom, celebrating the wedding of someone who was not fit to be in the company of half the people in this room. She wondered why they’d received an invitation to begin with, though she supposed it may be some petty vengeance on the bride’s behalf. There was no love lost between the two and never has been. What completely befuddled her, and she praised herself to be quite shrewd indeed, was her own Mother’s insistence that they attend that abhorrent celebration. If anyone loved Sophia Becket any less than she, surely it was her own mother.
And yet, Rosamund Reiling, had been dragged to this infernal breakfast, thanking God she’d been spared the wedding ceremony at least. She’d only briefly greeted the bride and groom in what surely was the most uncomfortable minute of her life and then proceeded to the refreshments table for a glass of champagne. It was the Duke of Hastings’ personal reserve, she’d been told later, who’d insisted on contributing to his brother-in-law’s happy day.
Rosamund wondered why everyone was making so much fuss about this wedding. Surely, the fact that a member of the ton and the son of a viscount, the most eligible catch of the 1817 season no less, would lower himself to wed a lowborn maid, would cause a lot more scandal and uproar than it would good wishes. Yet the Bridgertons seemed either too foolish and oblivious to the storm of gossip coming their way, or they were downright arrogant in believing they could weather it and come out unscathed. Rosamund had read about many more powerful and titled peers being destroyed after the smallest hint, the gentlest whisper, of scandal, let alone having that scandal become a reality. Why would a lowly Viscount and his opinionated family be spared when Earls, Dukes, and Princes have been brought to their knees?
Rosamund smirked into her glass in a self satisfied manner as she watched her mother make small talk on the other side of the room. The newlyweds would be off on their honeymoon, but afterwards surely they would make an appearance at events. She could not wait to have a front row to Sophia’s reception then. While no one would be crass enough to offend her on her wedding day or in her relation’s home, a society event was a different matter.
The band beginning to play a waltz interrupted any further train of thought, as she, by instinct, directed her gaze towards the ballroom only to see her most hated nemesis dance in the arms of a man she could never dream to deserve. To make matters worse, Rosamund had to admit, even though she was absolutely loathe to do so, that Sophia was a good dancer. Better than she had any right to be. She could feel the bile rising in her chest as she watched the happy couple, young, beautiful, and ever so happy glide around the dancefloor and a small part of her burned at the injustice of it all.
“Rosamund!” she’d heard the approaching bark of her mother’s commanding tone.
She gulped whatever was left in her flute and scurried away in hopes to avoid her. Her presence may have very well been demanded but she drew the line at socializing with people at this farce of a wedding.
21 February 1820 - The Wedding of Mr and Mrs Hugh Woodson
For a little over two years she had heard nothing of Sophia Becket, Rosamund could not for the life of her refer to her lifelong rival by her husband’s name, other than brief mentions in the Lady Whistledown papers. And even then, she would skim and skip any mention of Sophia in her fiercest wish to pretend the other woman did not exist.
She would occasionally glimpse her in the only two balls Sophia and her husband seemed interested to attend - Lady Bridgerton’s yearly ball and the End of Season ball hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings. Luckily for Rosamund, the two of them seemed to have an unspoken agreement of giving the other a very wide berth and not engaging in conversation unless absolutely necessary. Then again given that Rosamund avoided the Bridgertons like the plague, and Sophie was rarely interacting with anyone outside of her in-laws, it seems the heavens were merciful indeed, to grant Rosamund this small reprieve.
However, she thought today's event had been inevitable, and once again, none other than The Lady Penwood’s fault. They had been living perfectly well without her sellout of a sister with only occasionally running into her at the Milliner's or the Modiste. She had no idea why her Lady Mother had seen fit to re-establish her connection to Posy. Heavens knew nothing good will come of it - the only good thing she could have hoped to gain from a connection to Rosamund’s younger and much less accomplished sister would be to gain the favour of the Bridgertons. The Dowager Viscountess had all but adopted Posy and her unmarried daughters seemed to dote on Posy, though what they saw in her Rosamund could not even begin to comprehend.
She was quite certain that had her Mother’s lapse in judgement not occurred, Rosamund would most definitely be spared the beastly two day ride from London to whatever forsaken corner of the English countryside her once-sister has decided to call home.
A throat cleared beside her, pulling Rosamund out of her silent lamentations. The noise had come from the right and she had just enough practice by now to school her features (and avoid scowling) as she took her husband’s hand. She only glanced briefly towards him to find him looking as bored and out of place as she herself felt. Though she could not stand to look at him for long, for he was a reminder of her failure.
Yes, Rosamund had married the year after Sophia to a Mr Phillip Cavender. They had first met in London and while she found him amusing, handsome, and a like-minded fellow, Rosamund knew it was her duty as the eldest, and now only, daughter to marry well. Especially if she were to keep her Mother’s caprices and accustomed living alive.
Yet, it had all come crashing down when they had been caught in a compromising position at a soiree hosted by his own parents. It had been a blur of too much wine and too little chaperoning. However, the deal was done, and whatever hopes Rosamund had to snag, at the very least, an eligible young Earl had been dashed completely.
Her Mother had not stopped reminding her of her error since. Araminta Gunningworth had inserted herself into their home only six months after her marriage with the insistence that she supervise the proper running of their house. Incidentally, this period had been enough for her husband to show his true colours - a cruel and unfeeling man, who cared only about his own privilege and entitlement. He was the picture of manners, elegance and wit in front of her Mother. Yet as soon as The Lady Penwood retired, he shone for the beast he truly was and more often than not it was up to Rosamund to bear his ire.
Ire, which only grew after she’d continuously failed to bear him an heir or any offspring at all. Yet more ammunition for her Lady Mother.
Rosamund shook her head to rid herself of the bout of self pity that hovered above her like a cloud and looked around the church. It was very… plain. Not at all to Rosamund’s tastes. The decorations consisted of a variety of ribbons and flowers - though where they had managed to find flowers in the height of winter, Rosamund could not begin to guess. More importantly though, she wondered how on earth was Posy able to afford having such flowers on her wedding day. Surely fresh flowers in February must have cost a pretty penny.
She felt a tug on her hand and let herself be led by Cavender to their seat. They followed the usher who led them to the fourth row and with the small number of people in attendance, she might as well have been sitting at the very back of the church.
Rosamund bristled at the offence.
“Boy, I am the bride’s sister, as such I am entitled to sit up front” she started haughtily. “I am Lady Rosamund Cavender, you will take me to my seat,”
The church boy who could have been no older than eleven, blushed in embarrassment, and rummaged in his pocket.
“Par-Pardon me, m’lady, but my instructions are to seat you as well as Lady Gunningworth in this row,” the boy said after consulting a somewhat crumpled paper he’d pulled from his coat pocket.
Rosamund gave him a cold glare and the most saccharine smile she was capable of.
“Give that here, I doubt you are literate,” she told the boy as she snatched the paper from him.
Surely enough, she had seen and interpreted the scribbles - a seating arrangement it seemed like - to mean exactly what the insolent boy had told her.
She could feel her face heat up, both in embarrassment, and as a reaction to her husband’s heated glare. The hairs on her neck stood up - he did hate it when she caused a scene.
He gave one sharp push forward and propelled her towards their pew where her Mother was already seated.
“Take your place,” he hissed at her, dismissing the church boy with a wave of his hand.
“This is your fault,” she whispered towards her mother, before straightening up in her seat and focusing her stare dead ahead towards the altar.
Mercifully, their scene either went unheard or no one cared enough to mention it.
Time passed very slowly when all one could do was sit still in place with nothing to occupy one’s time. The only thing to do was watch as the rest of the invitees slowly filtered into the small church. Unsurprisingly enough, a lot of them seemed to be Bridgertons. With their infernal number it was a miracle she had avoided them at all.
A familiar voice cut into her third perusal of the decorations.
“I told you we should have told Nurse to come earlier, we almost ended up being late to the ceremony,” the melodic, soft, and absolutely unbearable voice of Sophia Beckett said to her left.
Against her will, Rosamund turned her head to see exactly that same woman, walking down the aisle on the arm of her husband, who had looked no less fetching than when she last saw him three years ago.
To Rosamund’s delight she could not help but notice that Sophia appeared to have put on some weight. Serves her right, she thought as she smoothed the front of her dress.
“We can hardly blame the boys for not wanting to part with you. I certainly cannot,” Mr Bridgerton said to Sophia, in a tone just barely loud enough for Rosamund to overhear.
“Besides, darling, I would never have allowed you to miss the triumph of your first successful love match,” He’d added as they passed them by, not sparing a glance to anyone but each other, and he led her towards the pew up front.
Rosamund watched as they sat down in the first row, reserved for the closest family. She watched as after obligatory family greetings and small talk, Benedict Bridgerton appeared to only have eyes for his wife. Their earlier affectionate exchange ringing in her ears.
She hated Sophia Beckett.
And when she noticed the way her husband stared unabashedly at that Bastard, playing at being a Lady, she hated her even more.
14 July 1824 - The National Gallery, London
Spring in London was one of the small joys in Lady Rosamund’s life. A married woman in her thirties, she was mostly free to roam around. Especially considering the ailing health of her Mother, who had always been prone to the less favourable effects of pollen, as well as the fact that her husband had disappeared to God knew where and would return God knew when. Secretly, she had hoped he never would, every time he would leave.
Theirs had quickly become a marriage of strangers. He had discarded her several years into their marriage - a small mercy perhaps - once it had become clear that she could not bear him any children. He had, as was his nature, thrown the blame at her feet. Their parents agreed with his conclusion as Phillip Cavender could do no wrong in their eyes. And if their constant backhanded comments and accusatory glares were not enough, she had to endure Phillip parading his mistresses and two bastard children in her face - gloating, as if to say “I told you so”.
She was glad for their estrangement and did not care one bit about any whelps he had sired. They were of no consequence to her. The more time he spent with his various whores and dull friends, the more he was away from her. Which was the only thing she cared to maintain.
She was walking around Hyde Park when she heard the excited whispers of a new exhibit at the national gallery. Apparently some artist from the Country was taking the whole of London by storm. She made a mental note to make sure to visit the opening of the exhibit. Surely, for the amount of buzz generating around him it would be a notable social event - appropriate for the ending of the 1824 Season.
Rosamund returned home only to find that her husband had returned home, unannounced. Whatever good spirits she had gathered under the April sun quickly flew out the proverbial window at the sight of her husband’s valet.
She had joined him in the study, only enough for a polite greeting. He did not spare her so much as a glance. Let alone return the sentiment. Rosamund did not bat an eye at the slight. She was used to it. Him paying attention to her never led to anything good.
She did not know what possessed her, but as she was about to leave him to his business, she said:
“There is apparently quite a buzz about a new exhibit at the national gallery. It is on Wednesday at noon. We should attend.”
Her voice was quite impassive and she was glad to keep any nervousness out of her voice.
Cavender grunted in what she surmised was agreement.
Rosamund hurried to her room without another word. She knew enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Even more shocking than her husband’s agreement to visit the Gallery, for he was never one for the finer points of art, was the fact that he actually kept his word.
They travelled together to the gallery. While they may lead their separate lives, to the public eye they were very much husband and wife. Both of them had no desire to draw the attention of the ton’s gossips any more than Cavender’s dalliances already have.
To say the place was packed was an understatement. Rosamund sighed and looked around for a familiar, and tolerable, face, and when she found none, she looked for a waiter for some wine. Luckily, that proved more successful.
Mercifully, she managed to lose Cavender in the crowd. Where he had disappeared to she did not have the least bit of inclination to find out. Instead she pushed her way, gently, through the crowd so she may observe the new paintings.
She could indeed see why London was buzzing in excitement about this artist. It had been a while since they had had new talent in the city. The oil paintings on display varied in size and theme. Some displayed serene country sceneries, others Nature Morte that seemed almost lifelike. And then she reached the ones that seemed to depict various scenes of everyday life, though it was peculiar that all of the people portrayed had their back turned to the observer, acting more as a silhouette.
A loud bell ringing to her left pulled her attention from the portrait she was examining - a woman in a pale blue dress who was sitting at the edge of a lake on the background of rolling green hills. It was very serene, all in all.
“I wonder how much it would go for…” Rosamund murmured to herself.
“I am afraid this particular painting is not for sale,” A male voice behind her startled her.
Rosamund recoiled ever so slightly and thanked the heavens her drink remained in her glass instead of spilling over her dress.
“A pity, “ she commented, not bothering to turn around and face him, “Why display it at all then.”
“I was told it is part of the artist’s personal collection, but that it was chosen as a display piece as it showcases the range of his talent,” the same voice answered quite leisurely.
Rosamund turned around to face the man who had engaged her in conversation and what little colour she had in her cheeks these days drained from her face.
In front of her was none other than Benedict Bridgerton. And based on the amiable smile on his face he did not seem to recognize her. Rosamund did not know if she should be glad for it or not.
Before she could so much as think of a response some member of staff came and ushered Benedict away with a murmur that he was needed up front.
Rosamund followed him with her gaze as he made his way through the crowd, stopping briefly to squeeze the hands of his sisters and to kiss his mother’s cheek.
And that’s when she saw her.
Sophia Beckett.
Only she looked as if she had tripled in size if the size of her midriff was any indication. She was standing in front, between Penelope Bridgerton and Eloise Crane, and her hand seemed to be occupied by two boys no older than ten years old each.
Whatever satisfaction she’d felt at Sophia’s distorted figure, had been squelched at the burning in her chest when she saw the boys. It was gone as soon as it had appeared. Rosamund swallowed, trying to force the bile of jealousy stuck in her throat down, but it proved futile.
She was Lady Rosamund Reiling, a highborn lady of the ton with impeccable manners and looks. She had damn near been the Diamond of her first season. Yet she could not help but wonder how someone as common, and lowly, as Sophia Beckett got to succeed in every one of Rosamund’s failings.
In her single minded focus on Sophia, Rosamund missed whatever speech the gallery’s curator had prepared. She found that she did not care one bit for it.
That is until she heard the name Benedict Bridgerton announced loudly, and none other than the man himself taking the stage with an easy yet bashful smile.
She forgot all about Sophia then. Shifting her focus wholly onto Benedict.
“I was told to prepare a speech,” he said, “yet anyone who even remotely knows me, will rest assured that I will spare you of this torture. As you may have surmised, I have a gift with the brush. Not so much the pen,”
He paused as the room erupted in gentle laughter.
“The gift of words belongs to my wife.” He paused and turned his head to smile brightly at Sophia’s direction.
“I would like to extend my never ending gratitude to my family, immediate and extended alike, for supplying me with a lifelong source of inspiration.” He paused again, all smiles at his siblings.
“Lastly, but definitely, not by importance, I would thank my wife most sincerely, for her support and encouragement to exhibit my work to begin with. For her endless faith in my talent and her infinite patience as I unwittingly leave the occasional colourful handprint about the - “
He never finished his speech, however, because he’d turned to Sophia again and suddenly all leisure was gone from his face, replaced instead by a furrow and unmistakable concern.
Without further concern to his audience or his hosts, he marched off the small podium towards his wife and held her close. They appeared to be speaking in whispers. Then much to the shock of everyone he lifted her into his arms.
“You will excuse us, but it seems our child wishes to grace us with her presence today, I am sure any who are parents will understand.” was all Benedict said as he marched through the crowd, which parted for him as the Red Sea. “Eloise, mind the boys,”
All Rosamund could do was watch as Benedict Bridgerton carried Sophia Beckett out of the National Gallery and to the eyes of the whole ton as if she was a heroine out of a novel.
Rosamund’s chest burned.
August 1829 - Wiltshire
It was the hottest, most blistering summer England has seen in a decade and Rosamund found herself stuck in a carriage with none other than her Mother as they rode from her husband’s estate in the country towards her sister. Though ‘sister’ was perhaps too strong a term.
Posy had written that she had had yet another baby only three weeks prior - a girl - and that her name was Araminta. Her mother had insisted on visiting Posy as soon as they got word. Rosamund, whose own relationship with Lady Penwood, was as strained as it could get, did not miss the glimpse of self-importance and ambition on her mother’s face as she read the child’s name.
Posy had always tried to steal Rosamund’s thunder and now she got to give their mother a namesake. Something that should have been Rosamund’s task to do.
She quickly dabbed her sweating forehead with her kerchief, lest her mind drifted to more dangerous waters. The only thing she hated more than long carriage rides and being in close space with her Mother, was her own husband. Of whom she had not heard for nearly three months. She sincerely hoped he had fallen off the face of the earth.
Despite it being the height of summer, they seemed to have befallen some sort of ungodly storm. Rosamund had tried to reason with her mother that they should postpone their trip. For one due to the unpredictable weather that had befallen them - blistering sunshine one day, a pouring rain the next. For another, she had no desire to see Posy and her idyllic family.
Naturally, as was her way, Lady Penwood never cared for anyone’s opinion other than her own.
And so halfway to Posy’s home, they had been attacked by a sudden influx of dark stormy clouds and the rainstorm followed shortly. Rosamund’s spirits seemed to very much mirror the abysmal weather. A scathing “I told you so” at the tip of her tongue, but she did not wish to deal with her Mother’s incessant nagging should she accuse her of anything.
The carriage came to a sudden, violent stop, causing both Rosamund and Araminta to jerk forward, just barely keeping their seats. It seemed however, that was the limit of Rosamund’s patience.
She banged her fist as much as violently as she could against the carriage wall on the driver’s side and shouted for an immediate explanation. Before she could even finish her tirade the carriage door opened to reveal their soaked driver, she could not recall his name, he was her husband’s creature and as such she had taken no interest.
“We cannot continue, My Lady,” he yelled over the sound of the rain hitting the carriage. “The horse slipped on some mud and has gone lame.”
Between his yelling and the loud gunshot-like sounds of the rain hitting the roof of the carriage, Rosamund could feel the oncoming of a headache.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” She snapped at the driver. “You are the driver, and I am paying you to take me to my destination. Fix it.”
And with that she’d leaned forward, just enough to grab the handle of the carriage door and slam it shut in his face. After all, it had taken her weeks to convince Cavender to allow her to buy new slippers. She could not risk the rain to spoil them.
She did not know how much time had passed since her interaction with the driver. She had pulled a magazine and attempted to read, not her usual pastime but anything to distract her from her abhorrent circumstances.
That is until the carriage door got yanked open again and that same driver appeared before her.
“I was able to find a cottage nearby, m’lady,” The driver told her, “The owners were kind enough to lend us a horse and would give us shelter until the storm has passed.”
Rosamund nodded, mutely. It’s not like she had a choice. She could lower herself to the common people for a few hours.
She leaned towards the small window as soon as she felt the carriage make a turn along the road, just in time to see a sign “My Cottage”.
What a ridiculous name for an estate, even a country one.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the house and no sooner had the horses halted, the door opened with a footman offering her a hand.
Rosamund took it and grimaced at the rain that would still wet her clothes. Couldn’t the driver have stopped closer to the entrance?! She could not find it in her to wait for her mother to exit the carriage but rather headed straight for the main door.
Even though she took less than a dozen steps between the carriage and the house it was enough to soak through her, giving her, no doubt, the appearance of a drowned rat.
She managed a nod towards the butler who greeted them and all but threw her soaked cloak at him just as her mother joined them in the entryway.
The butler took her mother’s cloak as well and proceeded to lead them through the overall unimpressive cottage towards what turned out to be a small sitting room.
“We lit a fire after your man departed to fetch you. A maid will be along shortly with some tea and biscuits. Mrs Crabtree, the housekeeper will be along shortly to see if we can provide you with some dry clothing in your sizes.” the butler informed them dutifully. “You may make use of the towels,” he gestured towards the couch.
Rosamund balked at the idea that she should dry herself. Next they would expect her to dress herself as well…
“You can ring if you need anything. The Master will be with you shortly,”
That piqued Rosamund’s interest. A man lived here then, how interesting, she hoped he was not some sort of crippled old recluse. She could use handsome face to raise her spirits.
He left them to their own devices then. Rosamund lunged towards a towel and started patting her hair, silently lamenting her ruined coiffure. She took some time to look around the room and found it to be passable if overly simplistic to her own tastes. The walls were a sunny, soft yellow, and the walls were adorned with a number of art pieces, as well as what appeared to be a wedding portrait above the fireplace mantle. There was something vaguely familiar about the groom and bride, but Rosamund couldn’t quite put her finger to it.
“Rosamund, you must assist me!” Her mother called out imperiously.
“You are a grown woman of over fifty. You can manage your own hair,” Rosamund snapped back at her and proceeded to tend to her own hair.
Seconds later she felt something solid hit her back. If she had to guess, her mother had thrown a small object at her.
“Insolent, ungrateful, wretch!” Her mother hissed. “I have dedicated my entire life to you and this is how you treat me? All our money went towards your improvement. Oh if only I knew then what I know now, I would have thrown you to the dogs for the failure you turned out to be.”
Years ago those words might have hurt Rosamund’s feelings. A decade ago, they might have made her cry. Now? - Rosamund could only regard the woman with cold indifference.
The only way she could win against her mother was to pretend she did not exist. And that is exactly what Rosamund did.
Mercifully, she was spared an escalation of the scene by the arrival of the promised maid and housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs Crabtree, which Rosamund thought was an absolutely ridiculous name. She kept any scathing remarks to herself though, as not twenty minutes later she was sitting in front of a roaring fire, sipping adequate tea, in dry clothes.
Once she would have filled the silence between herself and her mother, now, she was glad for it.
The door behind them opened and Rosamund heard a vaguely familiar male voice call to them.
“Ladies, we are happy to have you stay - “ the voice halted mid sentence, as did his approaching footsteps.
Rosamund and her mother both stood and turned around to greet their host and make introductions.
Except none were necessary. In all the places in bloody Wiltshire, they had to end up here. Just her damned luck. She hated the country.
In front of her stood none other than Benedict Bridgerton whose smile and amiable greeting were instantly replaced at the sight of them. Or rather at the sight of her mother, if his scathing glare was any indication.
Rosamund had never seen him so displeased. It was a very odd sight to witness.
“You!” he spat towards her Mother with more venom Rosamund had thought him capable of.
“You dare show your face in my home after everything that you have done!” His voice thundered and reverberated around the room.
Rosamund briefly glanced at her mother to see she had turned puce with rage, but miraculously had kept her vicious mouth shut.
“Simmons!” Benedict called loudly, turning his neck to look into the corridor.
The butler that had greeted them showed up within seconds of being summoned.
“Sir?” not even he could mask the obvious confusion in his voice.
“That… woman ,” Benedict pointed towards Araminta, “is to be shown out immediately.”
Bu-but Sir,- ” The butler splutter.
“I said at once,” Benedict turned his ire on Simmons now, cutting him off.
“Mr Bridgerton, your wife gave permission,” Simmons tried to explain,
“My wife is entirely too good a woman for the likes of this...This…” Benedict paused looking for the right word. “Witch!”
“I forbid you to speak of me this way!” Araminta’s temper flared before her as she lurched forward.
“You are in no position to forbid me anything, Madam , and rest assured I use that term very lightly,” Benedict spat at her. “Let alone in my own home.”
The sound of footsteps racing down stairs interrupted whatever response her Mother had prepared, as next thing they knew, a slightly winded Sophia Beckett showed up next to her husband.
“Benedict, what in the world is the matter?!” she demanded, crossing her arms as she glared at her husband. “It is not like you to speak so!”
Rosamund was aghast at her insolence. No decent wife spoke like that to her husband.
“Sophie,” Benedict said with an edge of steel to his voice, though there was no anger in it anymore. “Go back upstairs,”
Sophia bristled and shook her head in defiance, much to Rosamund’s shock.
“I will do no such thing!” she stated, “You have scared the children half to death with your shouting!”
Whatever wind was in Benedict’s body seemed to ooze out and his shoulders sagged as a sorrowful expression immediately replaced the angry scowl. Rosamund couldn’t help but gasp at the oath that tore from his lips. Sophia, on the other hand, seemed unphased.
Rosamund watched as Sophia reached towards her husband and cupped his face, it seemed too intimate a gesture for polite company, though Rosamund could not avert her eyes.
“Dearest, what is the matter?” Sophia asked.
Benedict placed a hand under his wife’s chin and turned it towards the fireplace.
In any other circumstances she would have delighted in the terror on Sophia’s face. Currently, she could not bring herself to feel anything but numbness.
Sophia’s eyes fell on Araminta first and any warmth evaporated in a blink. She had never seen Sophia regard her mother so boldly. She had heard, of course, her muttering back in the day, and would make sure she was punished for her insolence, but Sophia, in all of Rosamund’s memories, always regarded Araminta and herself with a demure meekness.
Within seconds, Sophie’s eyes flew to her own and for the first time in years they looked at each other properly.
“Rosamund,” Sophia said quietly, taken aback at the sight of her.
That seemed to also alert her husband’s attention as his gaze snapped towards Rosamund as well. The coldness was back in his eyes as he no doubt realized exactly who she was. Between Sophia and Posy god knows what slander he’s heard about Rosamund. He looked at her like every other man Rosamund has ever known.
“Simmons,” Benedict said flatly, though in a normal speaking tone, “See to it that those two are on their way at once, I refuse to have them in my home for another moment.”
In a most surprising turn of events that Rosamund could not have predicted if she had had the gift of Sight and a thousand crystal balls, Sophia stepped forward to block the men’s way into the room, squaring her shoulders.
Foolish woman, Rosamund thought, thinking she could stop a man from executing his own will.
“Simmons, you said there was a man with them, see to it he is given dry clothes and something warm to drink, and have Michael help him see to the horses.” Sophia said resolutely.
Rosamund would have laughed at the airs Sophia was putting about, except she remembered at the very last moment that she indeed was the mistress of this house.
“Benedict, please see to the children and assure them all is well, I’m afraid my comfort only goes so far in this matter,” Sophia turned to her husband.
Truly, if that woman lived in polite society she would be whipped for the tongue on her!
“Sophie - “ Benedict said, grabbing his wife’s hand.
“We are not turning them onto the road in this weather,” Sophia said,
“They do not deserve a shred of kindness,” Benedict protested.
“It is not about what they deserve, my love, but about our own integrity.”
Benedict opened his mouth, but Sophia squeezed his hand.
“See to the children, please,”
What a preposterous idea, Rosamund thought, child rearing was the job of a nurse, not the head of the house!
“I will handle the two of them, you need not worry,” Sophia assured him.
He looked very worried indeed.
“Violet was near tears due to your outburst,” Sophia said gently.
Whatever she meant by that seemed to have the desired effect as any and all will to fight seemed to leave that man. His expression turned from stubborn to stricken in a matter of seconds.
“Bloody hell,” he swore, and then leaned to press a quick kiss to his wife’s head “You are an angel among women,” and tore out the room and up the stairs as if someone had lit a fire under his feet.
With the men gone, Sophia turned to the both of them.
“Posy said she wrote to you,” she said flatly, “I did not believe you would actually visit.”
“My family is of no concern to you,” Araminta spat at Sophia.
“Posy will always be more my family than she is yours,” Sophia said calmly, much to her mother’s annoyance she was sure,”
A moment’s pause and then Sophia continued, with the same calm air around her.
“You will do well to remember that I am currently the only thing standing between you and my husband’s desire to see you thrown to the streets,” Sophie paused, craning her neck towards the window, “in what is the absolute rainstorm we’ve had this summer,”
“It is the least you can do since I raised, clothed, and fed you out of my own pocket, you ungrateful bastard ,”
Rosamund froze at the malice in her mother’s voice and the use of the word ‘bastard’ at Sophia. She was not stupid of course, she had always suspected that is the case. But no one, from the servants, to the governess, to her mother, to the Earl himself, had ever said so out loud before.
“You did no such thing,” Sophia interjected with just the barest hints of anger, “You will do well to keep to yourselves and stay out of my husband’s way if you value your life,”
Sophia approached them both until she was standing almost toe to toe with them both.
“And you absolutely will not, under any circumstances, come near my children!” She downright growled at Araminta.
She turned her head to Rosamund then, her expression mellowing out.
“I will see to it that you have refreshments and perhaps a book or two to pass the time. If the rain continues into the evening, you may spend the night and be on your way tomorrow. I would advise against wandering.”
With that Sophia turned on her heel and walked away.
Rosamund was confused as she sat in that Bridgerton, wondering why Sophia would allow them to stay when it was not a courtesy they would ever think to extend to her in return.
That girl had always been ever so odd.
Unfortunately for all parties involved the rain continued well into the night. They were brought a tea tray with food that seemed downright rustic, but Rosamund was exhausted and hungry so she ate without complaint. Her mother seemed to stare defiantly at the fire, her food untouched.
For once, Rosamund couldn’t bring herself to care.
She could hear a gaggle of children’s voices coming from the room next door. There was excited conversation, laughter, and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. Rosamund could see the scene in her head though it looked wholly foreign to her. That one would not only have supper with his own wife, but also with the children around.
It was most improper and went against everything she had been taught. Everything she had seen. And yet, she could not deny how joyous everything sounded.
She looked briefly at her mother, who had dozed off in the armchair and quietly stepped to open the door of the sitting room ever so slightly.
“Papa!” A high-pitched girly voice exclaimed, “Will you tell me the story again? About the handsome prince and the princess in Silver?”
“Violet, you have heard that story a million times already, at this point you can tell it to your Papa and put him to sleep,” She heard Sophia answer, her voice much softer than she had ever heard it.
There was a third voice now, an indignant gasp if she ever heard one.
“Perish the thought, my most lovely Violet,” it was the voice of Benedict, there was no doubt about it. “I will listen to all your stories with rapt attention,”
“Because she is clearly your favourite,” A fourth younger voice interjected with a snort.
“I do not have a favourite child, William,” Benedict protested, “You and your brother are past the age for stories, so I will indulge your sister while I still can,”
“It is alright to admit it, Papa,” yet another son joined the conversation, not William though, “Violet is everyone’s favourite, I think,”
“Good man, Charlie,” Benedict said and judging by the noise, he must have clapped his son’s back.
“Off you go, Boys,” Sophia said again, “Good night,”
A chorus of affectionate goodnight wishes and the whole gaggle of Bridgertons shuffled upstairs.
Rosamund jumped and moved backwards as quietly as she could once she heard the approaching footsteps.
It was Sophia.
“You should both come with me, I will show you to your rooms,” she said.
Rosamund felt relieved, for a moment she feared she would be expected to sleep on the futon.
She took a moment to wake her mother and expertly, with years of practice, dodged her sleeping hand waving about.
“Araminta, you will take my bedroom,” Sophia said curtly, “The chamberpot is under the bed.”
And she turned on her heel and motioned for Rosamund to follow her. She led Rosamund down the corridor.
“Why would you give her your rooms? Where would you sleep?” Rosamund couldn’t help but wonder.
“I have no use for these rooms, they are merely for show,” Sophia shrugged casually.
They stopped outside a dark cherry wooden door and Sophia twisted the knob and let Rosamund inside.
“This is the guest bedroom we keep for Benedict’s sisters. You should have everything you need here.” Sophia told her. “I thought you might not appreciate rooming with Lady Penwooed.
This whole night had been so bizarre and Rosamund could help it no longer, the words burst out of her without her permission, just as her host had reached the doorway.
“How do you do it?”
Sophia stilled. For a moment Rosamund thought she might ignore her and leave for the night.
“Do what, Rosamund?” Sophia said, turning slowly to face her.
“You do not let my mother win. You do not let her break you. You never have,” Rosamund’s words seemed to be coming out unbidden from her. Like a dam that broke. “Even when she treated you like dirt. Like a slave. You did not give in.”
Sophia took a deep breath and the silence between them stretched for a moment.
“She has no power over me. I have a good life. A loving family. She cannot take those away with her vitriol,” A pause, “Though you speak as if she was the only one to treat me so. I would remind you that she was not,”
Rosamund had the decency to look abashed, though she wasn’t sure if Sophia could see it in the half darkened room.
“I-I..”
“You,” Sophia interrupted her, and there was no anger in her voice, “are your mother’s creature, Rosamund.”
She was right. She was absolutely right about that, and deep inside Rosamund knew it well.
“Neither you, nor her, can torment me any more. I haven’t thought of you for a long time. The only times I even spare you a thought is when Posy, with her kindness, mentions you in passing. I have outgrown Lady Penwood’s shadow.”
Rosamund had no idea what to say, she could only stare at the woman she had spent thirty years despising in silence.
“I heard you had to wed Cavender,” Sophia said gently, “I would not wish him on my worst enemies. Not even you, whom I once thought a sister.”
Something inside Rosamund clenched at the acknowledgement that her husband was indeed the monster she knew him to be. For the first time in her married life, Rosamund felt like she was seen. Like her experiences were real.
“I think it is high time to leave your own shadows behind,” Sophia gave her a rueful smile, though to her credit there was no pity in her voice.
Rosamund was at a complete loss for a few moments.
“Good night, Rosamund.” Sophie said and turned to leave.
“Good night,” Rosamund replied, and for the first time in her life, “Sophie”.
Rosamund did not catch a wink of sleep that night and she made sure to be out of the house first thing in the morning.
But apparently not early enough to hear Sophia’s excited exclamation of
“Ben! Eloise and Philip had the baby last night, it is a boy!”
Rosamund had kept her regrets close to her chest her entire life. Yet as she bore witness to the happiness of the girl who had had the whole world set against her, Rosamund allowed herself, to finally, finally , grieve her own wasted life.