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1788
Anthony is three.
“Papa! Papa!”
Silence.
“Papa, please, it’s not funny anymore!”
Anthony has never felt quite like this before. He doesn’t know what to call this strange bubble in his tummy, the one that very much feels like fear but it is so much worse. Even though he is only three and a half, he considers himself a very brave boy. He does, after all, protect his mama from the scary dragons hiding in the forest by Aubrey Hall and he is the one in charge of keeping his baby brother Benedict safe, even though mama and papa won’t actually admit it. As fearless as Anthony is, however, he knows that he sometimes it is perfectly alright to feel scared too. Like that time when mama stumbled down the stairs and fell with a loud scream, making him freeze in one spot, much like the big statues in the garden. Or the time when Ben choked on a slice of apple and went all blue until papa saved him. Yes, Anthony was very scared then and he did not mind crying into papa’s arms for a while before gathering his courage again but only after receiving more kisses from his parents that he could even count.
But this? This was more than fear. If only he knew what to call it. He should ask papa for the right word. Yes, papa would know. He always knows. Yet…
“Papa! Where are you?”
Anthony’s voice sounds different even to his own ears. Suddenly, it’s difficult to breathe and everything around him appears so much bigger than it was mere moments ago. Are the Aubrey Hall gardens always this large? How on earth will he find papa now? He runs and runs - all around the tulips, the hyacinths, the rose bushes which are yet to bloom. Panting, screaming, tripping over pebbles, getting scratched, running faster. Farther and farther he goes, choking on the air in his lungs, feeling smaller and more helpless than he has ever felt before.
“PAPA!”
Anthony cannot run anymore. He is so very tired and all of a sudden his legs simply won’t move. His breathing is still funny and the clouds are spinning above him. Collapsing near the herb garden, he lets himself sob and hates this silly game of hide-and-seek more than he has hated anything. Even more than the disgusting orange marmalade cook tried to give him once. Anthony cries and thinks how he’d eat a whole jar of it right this minute if it meant that papa could come back. Please, papa, please, don’t be lost, I can’t look after mama and Ben all by myself…
“Anthony? Anthony, what’s wrong?”
The crunch of gravel under running feet. Strong arms scooping him up and crushing him into the tightest hug. At last, a deep and easy breath into his struggling lungs. And another.
“Papa, where were you? I looked for you for so long!”
“I’m sorry, my boy, I’m so sorry,” his father chokes back and Anthony wonders if papa is also crying. Somehow, that doesn’t seem wrong at all, even though they’re both brave and strong.
“I thought you left me!” Anthony keeps sniffling, clutching his papa as hard as he can, never wanting to let go.
“Oh, my darling boy, I was hiding in the treehouse! I thought you’d know to look for me there but I forgot how far it can be if you’re on this side of the house. I’m so sorry, Anthony, please don’t cry. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere,” papa comforts him, kissing his hair and wiping away his tears.
“Papa, please never leave me. I was so scared.” A whisper. Little fingers grasping papa’s clean shirt. Papa’s watch uncomfortably bumpy against Anthony’s thigh on his lap.
“Never, my darling. I love you so very much. I’ll be with you always, Anthony, do you hear me? Even when I am not physically here, my thoughts are always with you, my heart is with you. You will never be alone, Anthony.”
His father moves back, his fingers gently caressing Anthony’s wet cheeks, studying him. Anthony nods, comforted, looking into papa’s eyes. Mama always says that we have the same eyes, he thinks. And she smiles so wide when she says it. It makes Anthony’s heart feel so big and thunderous in his chest, full with the conviction that he is just like his father in that small way. Perhaps, as he grows, he can be like him in every other way, too – strong, kind, wise, caring. With the same booming laughter and soft hands, a mischievous smile and always knowing all the answers. After all, his papa is the very best of men.
Anthony lets himself smile, feeling safe and happy in his father’s embrace, unaware of the clock ticking, ticking, ticking...
“I love you too, papa.”
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1804
Anthony is 19.
“Papa!” Hyacinth giggles, reaching for him. Anthony suddenly feels dizzy, his heart unravelling in a flash.
No.
Frannie, the best pianist of them all, even at seven, presses the wrong key on the pianoforte before abruptly stopping altogether.
Not this. Not me .
The room goes eerily quiet, except for –
“PAPA!” bubbling laughter, little hands still outstretched, grabbing the air in their effort to get to him.
Anthony’s heart bleeds with how much he loves her, even now as she is unwittingly hurting them all. Especially now. His head spins with a thought which has buzzed in the background behind all others for months, but now moves swiftly to the forefront, triggered by four simple letters. Whatever I do or say, I will never be enough. He does not let the thought go any further. It is not the time. Any sign of discomfort would ruin this moment they’ve all been waiting for. A moment none of them will ever forget now.
Hyacinth’s very first word.
“Papa!” she babbles again, entirely oblivious to the tension in the drawing room, to Violet’s silent tears and the deafening thud of the book that has slipped out of Eloise’s shaking hands before landing on the floor.
At last, he gathers his courage. Took you long enough. Coward.
“Not ‘Papa’, my darling. Anthony. Brother. Anthony. Anthony.” Anthony hears himself say to his baby sister as he finally does her bidding and gathers her in his arms, his voice catching slightly on the cursed word. Hyacinth is so thrilled by his embrace that she snuggles her beaming face right into his neck and he cannot help but pepper her head with kisses. She’s done nothing wrong, after all. He has.
It is not fair, Anthony thinks. We should all be cheering for her, clapping and encouraging her, like she deserves, the way we did for her brothers and sisters when they first spoke.
But no one claps. No one cheers. His entire family, broken by a single word, plunged back into the suffocating despair of Edmund’s loss.
It has been a little over a year since his father’s death and now, mere days before Hyacinth’s first birthday, Anthony feels more lost than ever. The growing list of his mistakes loops over and over around his neck like a rope, weighing him down towards an abyss which is deeper and darker than he could have ever imagined, even blacker than the night spent sitting by his father’s dead body. Since then, the only salvation Anthony has found is the little girl in his arms, the one who cannot stop repeating that damned word while he desperately chants his name into her ears.
The air around Anthony buzzes with the unshed tears his siblings are holding back, each of them remembering the man who was their papa and who Hyacinth will never meet. Anthony wonders if they hate him, the big brother who plays pretend now. He, who is on the precipice between childhood and manhood, treading the line between brother and father. Being neither. Belonging nowhere. A stranger in his own drawing room, among his own flesh and blood. Even his mother won’t look him in the eyes, and for a millionth time he curses the fact that he and Edmund share the exact same eyes colour.
She cannot look at me without suffering further, she cannot stand the sight of me...
He needs to get away, to give them all respite from himself and from the agony of listening to Hyacinth.
“Let’s go exploring, my darling, shall we?” he coos and whisks the baby away before anyone can protest. In the dark corridor of Bridgerton house, miles and years away from Aubrey Hall, Anthony clutches his sister tighter before realising that he has no plan where to go next.
You never do, do you? Failure.
“Papa!” Hyacinth shrieks again, another poisoned arrow into a heart he was sure became numb long ago.
Apparently not.
“No, my darling girl, no, let me show you. Not papa. You’ll see.”
It is not lost on him that he uses the same endearment with Hyacinth that Edmund always used with all his children. Darling.
Perhaps if I were not so intent on copying father, Hyacinth would have known the difference… I must show her.
There is only one place to go, if Hyacinth is to meet their papa. A room which is in equal measure his cage and sanctuary and where he has had no reason to bring her before. Edmund’s portrait stands tall above the fireplace, waiting . Judging.
Anthony moves in front of the cold image, gently bouncing Hyacinth in his arms, his thoughts threatening to suffocate him completely.
How does one introduce a child to her dead father? How does one say, ‘No, my darling, you have no papa”?
Confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, the baby stills, a tiny crease forming on her forehead. He kisses it away, letting her sweet scent anchor him until his arms stop trembling.
“Look, my darling,” Anthony points to Edmund’s portrait, “this is your papa.”
As curious as ever, Hyacinth examines the still face in front of her. They’ve all shown her miniatures of him before, telling her all about papa. And yet, with all these tiny paintings looking so much like Anthony she must have confused the two.…
We failed her. I failed her. And I failed father.
“Papa,” pointing to the portrait.
“Anthony,” pointing to himself.
Again.
“Papa,” pointing to the portrait.
“Anthony,” pointing to himself.
Again. Just bloody stop shaking, will you? Coward.
“PAPA!” Hyacinth startles, after numerous rounds of this dreadful game, pointing with her own chubby finger now. Away from Anthony, towards the portrait. Where she should.
“Well done, my brilliant girl! Well done, Hyacinth, darling!” he cheers, at last, celebrating her cleverness. He is overcome by the oddest sensation – overwhelming pride and vast, stifling emptiness. Once again, Hyacinth saves him.
Without her, there would be only emptiness.
“I love you so much, Hyacinth, and I am so sorry” Anthony whispers, feeling the tears stream down his cheeks. He has learnt long ago not to be ashamed by them and he lets Hyacinth see it all. “I promise to be better. I will be better. For you, for mother, for our brothers and sisters. You deserve it. Father deserves it. I love you.”
Hyacinth, his little wonder, places her pudgy hands on his cheeks, curiously examining him and his tears, her eyes the same deep brown as his own. The thought hurts Anthony in a way that chokes whatever else he plans to say out of his throat, leaving him silent and raw in front of her. When she suddenly crashes her little body right back into his and nestles under his chin, a single thought crosses his mind for one glorious moment of salvation before it vanishes completely...
Perhaps she loves me too, perhaps she will be okay.
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1816
Anthony is 31.
“Papa! More! More!”
Edmund’s loud giggles fill Anthony’s ears as he tickles his squirming son, the two of them rolling on the lush Aubrey Hall fields. Anthony chuckles too, happiness vibrating through his whole body. It is still foreign to him, sometimes, the joy in his heart and on his lips. Is it real? Can it last?
He never dared hope it could be like this. The dream was too painful, too far out of his reach. A fantasy for someone worthy and kind and good. And yet, here he is - half of his wildest dreams living, breathing, wriggling in Anthony’s arms. The other half, in the drawing room, practising her flute. His Edmund. His Kate. It is real. Can it last?
Anthony is getting better about it, he really is. In the two years since marrying Kate and the eleven months since welcoming their son, he surrenders more of himself to hope, love and laughter with every passing day. Still, some fears linger like obsidian crystals in the clear water of his happiness. If he waits long enough, the water will erode the rocks, will it not? Kate’s love washing over him, through him. His son’s love, too, in powerful waves, making dents in those stubborn crystals. Eventually, only the water will remain, pure and true. All Anthony has to do is wait.
Unfortunately, waiting has never been one of his strengths.
“More, papa!” Edmund shrieks again, interrupting the dark thoughts swirling through Anthony’s mind and bringing him back to the moment. He hold his son close, tickles his tummy and covers his face with kisses. As easy as breathing, this joy.
“Papa loves you so much, my darling boy. More than there are stars in the sky,” Anthony croons and clutches Edmund tighter.
Before he knows it, his son pulls away, something shiny in the grass beside them having caught his attention. Edmund toddles to it, determined, and Anthony gasps. While the two were playing his watch must have slipped out of the pocket of his breeches and landed unnoticed on the ground. Now it is in Edmund’s hands, small fingers clasping the newfound treasure.
“Edmund, darling, please give this to papa,” Anthony coaxes, his heart in his throat. It’s not that he is worried about his son damaging or breaking the watch. No. He is drowning in visions of the future, perhaps nearer than any of them imagine, where the watch belongs to Edmund, its current owner gone. Years of responsibility and duty now weighing down on his little boy instead. The pain inside Anthony roars in the very depths of his soul. With trembling hands, he reaches for the watch that continues to hold Edmund’s fascination in a manner that breaks the Viscount in ways he hasn’t allowed himself to feel since the fateful day of Kate’s accident.
Not yet, please. It is mine to bear still. I will bear it as long as I can, I promise. As long as the Gods will let me.
“Please, Edmund, papa needs his watch back.” Desperate now. Lost.
Edmund laughs, carefree, like all children do when they discover something new and captivating that seems entirely theirs to keep. He looks up at his papa with wonder written all over his little face, a miniature of Anthony’s own but with Kate’s complexion. The same eyes as Anthony’s, glinting with mischief. Of course.
As if sensing his papa’s distress, Edmund suddenly shoves his fists towards Anthony, offering the silver prize to him without hesitation. His father takes back the watch and carefully places it in his pocket.
He loves me so, Anthony thinks and the certainty of it makes him braver, stronger. His momentary panic is washed away by the joy in Edmund’s gaze and the pride the little boy feels for having done something that his papa asked for. He truly loves me.
Anthony grabs his baby son and starts walking towards the house, eager to get to Kate and to find comfort in her arms. He is slightly ashamed of the terror that consumed him mere moments ago, but he will tell her all about it nonetheless. Everything is clearer when Kate is with him, lighter.
It is real. It will last.
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1830
Anthony is 45.
“Papaaaaa! Quick, they’ll find us!” Charlotte whispers, pulling him behind the curtains. Only eight and just like her mother – from the thick curls and dark eyes to the stubbornness, the loud laughter and the breath-taking determination in everything she does. Anthony feels his heart grow bigger and bigger, brimming with love.
This is joy.
“We are coming for you, Charlotte! Papa will give you away, he always does!” Miles’s voice is loud in the hall. Charlotte tugs her father further towards the dark corner, ignoring his slight discomfort in the limited space she’s chosen for them.
“My darling, when have Edmund and Miles ever been able to discover your hiding places? You are simply too good at this game!” he laughs, but pride seeps through the humour of his words.
“Shhhh, papa, you are ruining this!” Another eye-roll. He snorts again, a little too loudly this time. Charlotte reaches up to clamp her soft hand on his mouth.
This is fun.
Despite Anthony’s clear failings at playing hide-and-seek, no one finds them. He was right to pick Charlotte’s team. His sons, despite being nearly 15 and 13, indulge their sister to worrying lengths and take the game extremely seriously, competitive like typical Bridgertons. No one could accuse them of not looking properly, but Charlotte always wins. Still, they play and play until the sun has set and the summer rain, which has fallen on the roof of Aubrey Hall for hours, finally stops.
Anthony finds himself in the library, looking out of the window. There is peace here now, in this moment, in this place. When his father had died, he had left no instructions – instead, there had been a legacy to protect, seven children to raise, a grieving widow to comfort. It was Anthony’s family but it was not one of his own making. But this family? It is all his. His and Kate’s.
This is mine.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Kate enters the room quietly, holding a sleeping Mary in her arms. At a few months old, Mary is already different to all of her siblings. Quieter, wiser, calmer – much like the grandmother who gave her a name but never met her.
“My loves,” Anthony sighs and makes space for his wife to sit beside him. In the moonlight, she shimmers with her own radiance and his breath catches, still.
“If you’ve come here to escape from the children, they’re all asleep now,” she smiles at him and her free hand finds his own.
This is comfort.
“So I see,” Anthony sighs and leans down to kiss Mary’s cheeks before tilting his head up to brush his lips against his wife’s. When he moves back, he finds her gaze on him, warm and soothing. “I am so happy, Kate. With you, with our sons and daughters, in this place that has given us so much joy. I am happy.”
“Oh, Anthony. I am happy too.”
Another kiss, deeper and sweeter. The elation between them lingers in the air, making it light with promise for more. More days with their children, more nights for them alone, more laughter, more life. More, more, more. Anthony wants it all.
This is hope.
It has taken Anthony years to realise that it doesn’t matter how long he is given. There is no fear in him now, no guilt or panic for a future that might be cut short. He knows how much every moment matters and he lives as fully as he can. And somehow, the moments still come, each richer and fuller than the last. His heart, which had lain dormant for over a decade, paralysed with fear and shame, now safe in the hands of the love of his life and their four children.
This is belonging.
Anthony whispers the only thing worth saying.
“I love you, Kate, always…”
She knows the words too, better than her own heart, and finishes them for him.
“…and forever. I love you too, Anthony.”
This is home.