Chapter Text
Lockwood opens the door to the kitchen with a spring in his step, grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with,” he pauses and picks up a biscuit, chewing it slowly for dramatic effect. Lucy looks over the lip of her mug and meets George’s eyes across; both sets roll simultaneously as Lockwood chews on, oblivious.
“—with a viscountess, of all people!” Lockwood continues gleefully. “There’s a ghost haunting the grounds of the family’s country home, most likely just a Type One, and the viscountess,” Lockwood very specifically draws out the title the second time, “found Lockwood and Co. very highly recommended for the job.”
George rolls his eyes again in response. “She’s just a person, Lockwood. And it’s just another job. When do we--,”
“It’s not just another job!” Lockwood protests, slumping in his chair with a hand to his heart. “It’s not just another job at all! This is the big leagues, George! Do well here and who knows what’s next? Buckingham Palace, perhaps? Tower of London? The possibilities are endless in this country, honestly.”
“Where exactly are we going? Which family?” Lucy interrupts. A rock settled itself in the bottom of her stomach the moment Lockwood mentioned a viscountess, but surely….no, it can’t be—
“Aubrey Hall in Kent,” Lockwood answers, confirming all her worst fears. “I was speaking with Lady Bridgerton. Did you know she used to—Luce?”
Lucy knows her face must be a particularly troubling shade of green. “Excuse me,” she pleads, before running from the table, blasting through the kitchen doors and sprinting to the toilet.
“Luce,” Lucy hears Lockwood quietly knocking on the door what seems to be hours later but can hardly have been more than half of one. “Lucy, are you alright? George made some ginger tea; I have some here. It could help settle your stomach. Are you ill? Can I come in? I--,”
With a deep breath, Lucy stands and opens the door before Lockwood has a chance to knock again.
“Hi,” Lockwood says quietly when he sees her. He looks her up and down, as though checking for damage after a job. The promised cup of tea is in his hands, still steaming. “Are you alright?” She nods jaggedly, and he leads her to the library and watches her settle in the armchair before offering her the tea.
“I’m not sure I should go on this job,” Lucy says after two sips of the scalding tea.
Lockwood bites his lip for a moment, before grinning ruefully. “It’s up to you. I’d never make you come if you don’t want to be there, especially if you’re ill.” Lockwood pauses, looks to his feet.
“What is it?”
Lockwood bites his lip. “Lady Bridgerton asked for you specifically. Said she wanted that ‘talented listener, the Carlyle girl’ on the job.”
Kate fucking Sharma.
Fuck.
She knows.
***
***
***
Fran was sent north to live with their aunt after Dad died.
In hindsight, the reasoning for the move had been sound. Dad was dead, Mum was learning how to live with widowhood, a newborn baby, and severe post-partum depression. Ben and Colin were away at school, Daphne did her best to help with the little ones, Anthony was losing his Talent, officially retiring from Fittes, and trying to understand how to manage the Bridgerton estate responsibly.
And Eloise was nine. Grieving, certainly, but mostly self-sufficient.
Fran was seven, and not doing very well. She needed more attention and support than her family were able to give at the time. So, one fine summer day, she and Anthony took the train north to Aunt Frannie’s house.
“Is she nice?” Fran had asked her older brother softly, staring out the window with butterflies in her throat. Anthony had taken her hand.
“This is for the best right now, Fran,” he’d answered her quietly. “It won’t be too long. Mum will—it will all,” His eyes had been so bright, reflecting the sunlight through the window. “You’ll be home soon, love. This is for the best.”
In hindsight, the reasoning for the move was sound.
The results, however, were unideal.
***
***
***
“Thanks for coming, Luce,” Lockwood repeats as they step off the train. Lucy shrugs and puts on the overlarge sunglasses. George stops for a moment and stares at her, brow furrowing.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
Lucy shrugs again. It’s her normal clothes, for the most part. Today she’s just accessorized additionally with the largest, gaudiest sunglasses she could find at the shop’s checkout counter and a sheer, patterned scarf covering her hair and tied beneath her neck that she’d found tucked away in the basement yesterday.
Lockwood waves him off immediately. “I like it. Very old-world Hollywood. Very chic.”
He’s lying, she can tell, because he wants her in a good mood. But he’s smiling so sweetly, and his face looks rejuvenated by the fresh country air and the sunshine making his eyes sparkle. So, Lucy decides to let it be.
“Lockwood and Co.?” an older gentleman asks as they reach the nearly deserted parking lot. They nod and make introductions as they load up the town car.
“May I ask how long you’ve worked for the Bridgerton family?” Lockwood asks politely from the front seat.
“Thirty-five years,” the man states proudly. Lucy remembers their driver, Mr. Rathers, from a life long ago. He used to sneak her sweets when Mum and Dad weren’t watching.
“Then you must know everything there is to know about the family and the grounds.” Lockwood has perfected the art of flattery. He knows the line, and he toes it every single time. It drives Lucy mad sometimes, but she has yet to see him fail in situations like this. “Would you mind answering some of our questions?”
Mr. Rathers puffs up proudly at the words. “Of course, I do, I’d be honored Mr. Lockwood.”
They chat idly about the layout of the grounds and the house, with George chiming in a few times from the backseat with her. Lucy remains silent. Until—
“So, the viscount and viscountess live at Aubrey Hall with their young son, Ned, who first noticed the ghost. He’s four. Lord and Lady Bridgerton are former agents, Lord with Fittes, Lady with a small independent in India before she moved to London.” Lockwood looks up from his notes. “Lord Bridgerton grew up with his siblings at Aubrey Hall as well, did he not? Eight children if our research is correct. Did any of the others have Talent?”
Mr. Rathers grimaces as he turns onto the long drive. “Little Fran did. She was adopted by their aunt up north after the last viscount died. Ghost touch.” Rathers explains. Lockwood nods along sadly.
“Tragic. And this Fran, she’s still alive and well? No terrible accidents? Nothing that would make her--,”
Lucy whites out Lockwood’s voice after that. He thinks that she…That she could be….
“—Doing well as far as I know. I think she worked for an agency up there for a bit, and the viscount recently helped her get a job at Fittes in London. Not an agent, though. She’s a sensitive.”
“Posh,” George grumbles with a shake of his head, writing something down in his pad.
Lucy wants to melt through the car door straight into the road.
“And how long has she--,”
“Look at that, we’re here. Thanks ever so much, Mr. Rathers,” Lucy says quickly, practically jumping out of the running car and circling to get her bags.
She’s emptying the boot quickly, unwilling to wait for the elderly man to assist, when her attention is drawn away by a low whistle.
“It’s beautiful,” Lockwood says quietly. His dark eyes are wide as he takes in the façade of Aubrey Hall, as he breathes in the wisteria and hyacinths. He meets Lucy’s eyes and smiles like a child. “Like something out of a fairy story. Luce?”
And Lockwood reaches out and lightly grips her fingers because Lucy’s throat is tight and her eyes beneath the sunglasses are suspiciously wet and—
“Lockwood, there’s something I--,”
“Lockwood and Company?” A familiar voice asks as a very pregnant Kathani Sharma Bridgerton descends the front stairs. She’s wearing a white linen dress, her face dewy and glowing with happy light. A vision from above, if one believed in that sort of thing.
If Lucy didn’t know Kate, she’d find her entirely insufferable.
“You sure it’s not a fairy story, mate?” George mumbles, as he and Lockwood step forward to shake Kate’s outstretched hand.
“My lady, it is an honor,” Lockwood says with an honest to God bow, and Lucy cannot keep from snorting. Behind him, George knocks her shoulder in warning. “I am Anthony Lockwood, and these are my associates. George Karim,” and George bows his head, too, because apparently that’s just the aura Kate immediately gives off, “And, of course--,”
“Lucy Carlyle, hmm?” Kate asks, a small smirk lifting the corner of her lips. “Pleasure to meet you, then.” Kate steps forward and lifts the scarf from her head. She removes the glasses from Lucy’s eyes and her grin widens. “There you are.” She leans forward and kisses Lucy’s cheek.
“Hi, Kate. How did you find us?”
Kate steps back and puts her hands on Lucy’s shoulders. “You came very highly recommended from my network.”
Lucy stares. Kate sighs. “I know everything, love. Must you always question it?”
“Does he know?” Lucy asks.
“Course not. That’s what he married me for,” Kate replies cheekily. Beyond Kate, George is staring at her, mouth dropped open in shock. Lockwood is the opposite, mouth a thin line as he studies them both.
“Katie, I just put Ned down, have the agents--,” the ghost of Lucy’s childhood says as he descends the stoop. “Ah, excellent. You must be Anthony Lockwood—great name by the way,” the ghost smiles charmingly. “I’m partial to it myself.” He shakes Lockwood’s uncharacteristically limp hand before moving on to George. “Mr. Karim, I presume. It’s a pleasure. And you’ll be--,”
Anthony Bridgerton turns to Lucy and stops short.
He looks just like Dad.
“Is this a joke?” His gaze flits from Lucy to Kate and back, his face slowly turning white. “Tell me this is a joke.”
“Anthony,” Kate begins calmly. Anthony covers his face with his hand.
“You little shit,” Anthony turns on Lucy furiously, stalking toward her. From behind him, Lockwood steps forward, prepared to grab the man back, but Lucy shakes her head at him quickly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Fran?”
“I’m doing my job, Anthony.” Lucy watches Lockwood stiffen at the way she spits his given name with such derision.
“I got you a job. This is not your job, Francesca--,”
“I told you I didn’t want that fucking job, I didn’t want to sit on the sideline, I didn’t want to work at Fittes--,”
“What the hell is wrong with Fittes, it’s the best there is--,”
“Oh, of course it’s the best, if it was good enough for you it must be--,”
“Don’t use that tone with me, young lady--,”
“Young lady? Young lady! Stop trying to act like Dad, you’re not my father, you’re barely my brother you piece of shit--,”
“I did my best, Fran. I did what I thought was best for--,”
“For yourself. You did what was best for you, Anthony. Don’t pretend you were even thinking about me. Stop pretending you care and let me live my life, you haven’t given a thought to me since I was seven years old.”
Anthony looks down at Lucy’s index finger pointed roughly into his chest and suddenly deflates. “That’s not true.”
“That’s certainly how it feels.”
“Is it so hard to believe I want to keep you safe?” She watches Anthony’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. “That I want you to live and be happy?”
“Being an agent makes me happy. I may not have wanted it when the witch first enrolled me at Jacobs’, but I do now. I’m good at this, Anthony.”
Anthony closes his eyes. “I know you are. I’ve read the papers.”
“Is it Dad? Is the ghost Dad?” Lucy asks, voice barely more than a whisper. Anthony takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.
“I don’t know, Fran. It’s close to his grave. Ned’s the one who has seen it. Fran--,”
“Is my bedroom still mine?” Lucy asks, staring pointedly at Kate.
Kate nods slowly. “Yes. Yes, of course it is, we haven’t changed anything up there--,”
“Great,” Lucy bites out, hiking her duffle up her shoulder and nodding her head to the two statues at her side. “And the guest rooms in the East Wing, by the library, they’re good to go?”
“Of course, I can--,”
“I’ll show them up. We’ll meet you in the garden at half past for high tea, yeah? Yeah.” Lucy answers herself, and marches purposefully to the door, gravel crunching in her wake. She marches up the stairs, through the grand foyer of the home. Past the ballrooms and dining rooms and sitting rooms, the playground of her happy youth.
She marches and marches and marches without looking back until she arrives at a familiar door in the family wing. She pauses just a moment, takes a deep breath and heaves the door open. She slumps the duffle to the floor and lands face-first on the big bed and screams into her pillows.
“Lucy--,” George’s hesitant voice comes from the doorway. “Unless, I suppose…should I call you that, what should we--,”
“Lucy,” Lockwood demands, arms crossed at the end of the bed. “What the fuck?”