Work Text:
“In the end, we all become stories,”
—-Margaret Atwood
Moonlight pooled on the attic floor, turning the worn-out pages of the book into a silvery refuge. Curled up on the little windowsill, Sophie Beckett inhaled the musty smell of old paper, shivering as the chilly December wind snuck through the window’s crack.
With endless washing, cleaning, and mending, Sophie rarely had time to indulge herself in her books and novels as she did in her past. When she did manage to squeeze in some reading, it was always in the dead of night, after completing the mundane tasks burdened by Araminta. With no candle to spare, only the moonlight to guide her into fantasies.
Of little fairies, courageous knights savings their dames, of giants, dwarfs, talking dogs, and deers, it was the beautiful little stories she had read to herself millions of times throughout her lonesome childhood, an intricate collection of fairy tales her father had given to her on her sixth birthday. Most of her past belongings; the wooden doll houses, and miniature tea sets, were either taken or destroyed by Rosamand or Aramita, and the book and the stuffed puppy doll were the only ones she had managed to save, hiding them under the attic flooring.
It was escapism, Sophie knew, of going back to her silly fairy tales and books; no courageous knight was going to save her from her wicked stepmother, and no fairy godmother was going to wave a wand and turn her into a princess for a serendipitous night.
Staring out the crescent moon, its bleak moonlight casting a shadow over the Mansion of Penwood Park, she thought of her father's cold green eyes; that never looked at her, the gaze that seemed to be cast miles and miles away.
Why had he given her such a present? Without the tales of Cendrillon , Sophie wouldn’t have dreamed of a prince charming. Without Shakespeare, she wouldn’t have known the joy of being adored and loved, like Hermina to Lysander, Helena to Demetrius.
What did you want from me, Papa?
Why didn’t you just let me go?
So many questions lingered as Sophie watched her father being buried. So many questions remained unanswered as she laid a bouquet of lilies on the gravestone.
The cold engraving blurred by her tears read, Richard Gunningworth; Loving Husband, Father. Once a month, she visited the cemetery to scrub away the moss. Each time she traced those words with her blistered fingers, she wondered who had chosen them. No words could be further from the truth. How could Richard Gunningworth be described in any words? A month ago he was alive, but Sophie knew his soul had been dead for decades before he took his last breath.
And yet, Sophie knew nothing about him,
The grandfather clock’s lonely chimes echoed through the dusty attic. Before dawn, she would rise again to prepare tea and sheets, living her life as a penniless orphan, not quite a daughter of an earl, not quite a daughter of a ladies' maid, but a nobody, adrift between two worlds.
So, Sophie opened the fairytale books yet again, because only the pages would light up in the darkness, and she would quietly read to herself, in a hushed voice,
“ Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a tiny kingdom; peaceful, prosperous, and rich in romance and tradition. Here in a stately chateau lived a widowed gentleman and a little daughter… ”
“Benedict, are you listening to me?”
Sophie looked up from the pages, not having heard a single sound from her loving husband for the past hour. Only Biscuit the cat had responded to her recitation of Cindrillion, playfully pawing the pages as she read on, purring with satisfaction as the stepsisters were being pecked to blindness by blackbirds. “Benedict?”
His head snapped up, eyes blinking rapidly as if he were shaking up from trance. “Mmm?”
“Did you even hear a word of what I’ve just said?”
“Of course, my dearest.” With a streak of charcoal on the left side of his cheek, he flashed one of his trademark crooked grins. His hands were still working on the paper, as he punctuated his sentence, “Caught. Every. Word,”
“Then, pray tell what I had just read to you,”
Benedict’s grin froze in the exact spot,
“Shakespeare Sonnets?”
“No.”
“Blake?”
“No.”
“Byron?”
“Why would I ever read something that you loathe?”
“Well, even Bloody Byron sounds splendid when I hear him from you,”
“Flattery will take you nowhere, Benedict,”
Sophie narrowed her eyes, fighting a smile. Benedict pouted, tilting his head like his nephew Edmund when he was seeking forgiveness.
“You truly do think that those puppy eyes could let you off the hook, don’t you?” Sophie teased, gently tugging at his cheeks, “Sometimes I forget you are only one and thirty,”
“I apologize for neglecting you, my dear wife,” Benedict took her hand and drew her close, the touch of his charcoal-stained fingers leaving smudges of artistry on her skin,
“Benedict, I was reading!”
“I can always get you a new copy,”
“You do have to stop buying me things, Benedict,”
“But I want to buy them for you, my dearest,”
Just as she opened her mouth to protest, her words were silenced by the soft, warm press of his lips against hers, the faint taste of mint lingering from his tea,
“Will you forgive me for not listening to you?”
“I suppose you are forgiven,”
Benedict placed another kiss on her hands, his lips staying there quite longer than necessary. Sophie rolled her eyes, laughing softly as his lips trailed up to her elbow, tickling the sensitive spot and making her squirm with delight.
“Are you trying to distract me?”
“Is it working?”
“Very much so, but excuse me, I have a story to finish.” Giggling at his dissatisfied pout, Sophie slipped away from Benedict’s reach and returned to her place on the blanket. Biscuit purred with satisfaction as he curled himself next to her belly.
“Sophie?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you going to read to me?”
“Not to a gentleman who doesn’t listen and precedes to tell lies about it,”
“Ah, I do speak the truth, Sophie,”
“Mmm?”
“Everything you say or utter from those sweet lips,” Benedict crawled closer to her, tracing the outline of her lips with the same fingers that teased her wickedly just that morning, “Is pure magic and beauty.”
“And yet you were not listening at all,”
Benedict tilted his head with a guilty smile. “Will this suffice for my lack of chivalry?”
With a flip, Benedict flopped the sketchbook in front of her, and the tiny sketch took her breath away; it was her again, sitting cross-legged under the oak tree, a book placed on her lap, eyelashes cast downwards following the letters. (Apparently, he completely ignored the presence of Biscuit,) Like always, he would capture every bit of her with intricate detail, the little scrunch of an eyebrow, a loose lock of hair just behind her ear, and she could even see the wind in her blond curls. Each line abundant with love and warmth,
“It would suffice,” Sophie smiled softly, and Benedict also broke out in a satisfied smile. The next moment, he was rolling onto the blankets and placed his head on Sophie’s lap, looking up at her as if he were waiting to be pampered for his effort,
“Was it to your liking, Mrs. Bridgerton?”
“Exactly to my liking, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Sophie loved these quiet moments with Benedict. Just the two of them, under the sprawling oak tree by the shimmering lake. With a book in one hand, and Benedict’s gentle warmth on her lap. The soft breeze carried a faint scent of apples, mixed with sandalwood and fallen leaves, the earthy smell of the countryside. With her left hand, she played with Benedict’s rich brown curls, the warm afternoon light lending them a faint reddish cast,
How could it be so perfect?
It was almost like a picture, a perfect fairy tale ending plucked straight out of the pages she used to read under the moonlight. The stories she found solace within the shadows of her lonesome childhood; the ones she well knew were only mere fantasies, even delusions maybe; tangible as smoke, slipping away from her scarred fingers at the break of dawn,
“Sophie?”
“Mmm?”
“What are you thinking of?”
Sophie tried to tug her lips upwards, as Benedict gently traced her cheeks with his fingers. “I was just thinking how blessed I am to be with you. Just the two us.”
“Next year, it’ll be the three,” Benedict said softly, his voice tinged with awe. His hands rested protectively on her bump. “Just imagine, Sophie. Our little girl mingling with the rustle of these leaves. Listening to your fairy tales on your lap. And I would sketch the two of you all afternoon. Someday, I can teach her how to swim in that lake.”
“That’s all very good.” Sophie replied, as warmly as she can, “So, perfect. It would be perfect, wouldn’t it?”
“Is something bothering you, Sophie?”
“No,”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” Sophie smile faltered slightly, her fingers absently tracing the lines of his sketch, “I’m just excited for the little one to come out,”
“It’s going to be alright, Sophie.” Benedict reached out his hands to cup her cheeks, “You have nothing to be worried about.”
“I know,” Sophie whispered, almost to herself, “Because I have you by my side,”
With those words, his expression changed into a relaxed smile, and he closed his eyes, savoring Sophie’s soft touch on his head. Sophie continued to flip through the pages of his sketchbook. Occasionally, there was a small sketch of the lake or the cottages, some portraits of Mrs. and Mr. Crabtree and their grandchildren, but most of the pages were filled with Sophie, Sophie, and also Sophie. Sophie in the kitchen with a spoon in her hand. Sophie in the garden fumbling with the rose bushes. Sophie in the library with a book on her lap. Sophie in the bedroom with nothing at all. The delicate lines of her shoulders, the lush curves of her body in countless white pages,
“Benedict,”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Don’t you get tired of sketching me?”
Benedict opened his eyes, puzzled. “Why would I be tired of sketching you?”
“Well, there is awfully a lot of me in this sketchbook,” Sophie slowly continued, “And there’s awfully a lot of me in your studio as well,”
“Sophie, you are my muse, and my inspiration.” Benedict chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s quite difficult to explain in words, Sophie. When I look at you…” He paused, reaching out his hands to play with her ringlet curls. “There’s a primitive urge. To capture your beauty, to capture you.” His hands moved to her cheeks, “Every time I sketch or paint, I feel like this was the reason I was born, as if I were destined by god to capture you on canvas”
“Oh.”
“So, I would never ever be tired of sketching you”
“Why…”
“Mm?”
“Um”
“What do you want to ask me?”
“No,” Sophie shook her head with a small smile, “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, Sophie.”
A soft kiss of her palm.
“Tell me everything,”
His warm hands on hers.
“Don’t hold back for me, Sophie”
His eyes searching her.
“Why,” Sophie softly caressed his cheeks, looking into her husband’s eyes, the mystical lush beauty that carried all the liveliness and the softness of the world, “Why do you love me so much?”
“WHAT?” Benedict quickly rose from her lap,“Sophie, is something concerning you about our marriage?”
“No, no, no,” Sophie said hastily. “I’m simply curious. Don’t you ever get tired of me?”
“I would never become tired of you, Sophie.”
“But I’m always meddling with your expenses,
“Sophie, I love it when you meddle with my spending.”
“And.” Sophie halted. “I didn’t tell you about the baby.”
There was also a pause from Benedict.
“Aren’t you angry at me?”
“No.” Benedict quickly said, “I would never be angry at you.” Sophie watched as Benedict’s expression slowly shifted into a weak smile. “But…if you had told me earlier, we could have celebrated much sooner. Perhaps even picked up some baby supplies last time we were in Audrey Hall,”
“You’re right.” She sighed softly, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,”
“No, don’t apologize, Sophie. All the changes in your body, you must have been terrified,”
Benedict moved next to Sophie, leaning his back against the oak tree. He nudged a little closer to her, wrapping his arms around her small shoulders. Sophie continued to look down at her feet, nervously playing with her fingers. Benedict knew that she was hiding the tremor in her hand, and he tried to hold her a little tighter. Even though that he could never take her pain or her burden, there must be something he could do, “Everything is going to be alright,”
“Everything is going to be alright.”
Sophie listened to his gentle heartbeat.
A soothing rhythm, grounding her,
“As for your question,”
“My question?”
“You asked me why I love you so much,”
“Oh, yes.” Sophie fidgeted with her hands, “It was a silly question wasn’t it? I should well know that you love me, and without any question, I love you, and–”
“Sophie, have I ever told you that you are like air to me?”
“Air?”
“Yes.” Benedict smiled at her, “Like air, like water. Essential and life-giving. Without you, I simply cease to exist. You are my muse and inspiration, but you are far more than that. Before I met you, I was always lost, drifting like a dead man’s soul. I lived, I breathed, I joked and I partied, but there was no meaning in them. But when you came into my life, it was as if the world had burst into fountains of colors, filling every bit of my life with meaning and purpose. You make me alive, Sophie. And I need you to keep me alive.”
Sophie rested her head on his chest, their fingers intertwining in a familiar dance. There was a little callus on his middle finger, a hard dry skin that matched with the past blisters of Sophie’s fingertips. His hands were changing , Sophie softly thought to herself, just in several months, it was no longer the soft and smooth hands she felt at the masquerade; but were coarse and dry; the hands of an artist. And somehow, it made Sophie love him more. Gentle sunlight streamed through the leaves, dancing blissfully at their feet; the deep scent of oak mixed sweetly with the smell of Sandalwood,
“Would it be too much to ask you the same question?” He peered into her eyes hesitantly.
“Well,” Sophie said softly. “For me, it might not be different from what you just said. I have told you before but… You are the reason I exist.”
“The very reason you were born?”
Sophie smiled, recognizing the words she had whispered to him several months ago, “And my feelings haven’t changed ever since. You are the color of my life, you are the light of my life,”
“We are rather co-dependent, are we?”
“I believe we are,” Sophie laughed at his teasing remark, “How on earth shall I ever live without you?”
“Oh, I would never leave you all alone,” Benedict scrunched his eyebrows, “The vows we made are lifetime contracts if I am not mistaken.”
“So, you would never leave me.”
“Never.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.” Benedict hooked his little finger with hers. Their golden rings clinking together,
“Then, I believe you earned the right to listen to my recitation,” Sophie grinned, taking a book from the side. Benedict, with a contented sigh, rested his head back on her lap, his eyes closing in bliss as he prepared to be enveloped by her voice once more. “Which story would you like me to read?”
“Do you know what?”
“Mm?”
“You always read to me, and though I am deeply grateful for your every word,” Benedict continued, his tone shifting from playful to earnest, “Don’t you think it’s only fair that I return the favor to my dear wife?”
“It is quite gentlemanly,” Sophie smiled as she passed him her book, but he closed the pages, and held it to his chest. “A moment. My dear wife. I must wait for the muse to descend,”
“Whatever do you mean?”
She laughed as Benedict closed his eyes and fluttered his arms to the sky as if he were in a mysterious ritual of some kind. After shouting out Eureka! making Sophie giggle in fits of laughter and receiving an annoyed hiss from Biscuit, Benedict cleared out his throat as if he were preparing for a grand monologue.
“Listen carefully, Sophie.” Benedict smiled teasingly, “You might find this story very familiar.”
“Oh, how so?”
“O nce upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a tiny kingdom; peaceful, prosperous, and rich in romance and tradition. Here in a stately chateau lived a little boy named Ben who loved to paint with his fingers with his Papa. And miles and miles away, there lived a little girl named Sophia who loved to read fairy tales in the attic… ”
“Papa, pretty pretty please, one more story, Papa.”
“Alex, that is not how you ask Father.” Even from two rooms away, Sophie could almost see Charles straightening his back. “Father, could you read another story for us?”
“Yes, Charles. Alex, this is exactly how you should,”
“Papa, papa, papa, please let me choose!”
“No, Alex. You chose the story last night.” Sophie heard Charles say with his usual composed authority, “It’s my turn tonight.”
“You told Mama that you didn’t need a bedtime story anymore because YOU ARE ALREADY A MAN.”
“I DIDN’T SAY THAT!”
“Boys.”
A silent laugh escaped from Sophie’s lips as Benedict’s stern voice silenced the squabble. Whether it was his long experience as an elder brother or his natural demeanor, Benedict was quite good at discipline—something Sophie wasn’t as adept at. Her sweet boys tended to be a bit more unruly with their father, especially on nights when he returned from a week-long stay in London. With his painting exhibited in the National Gallery, Benedict had become one of the prominent names in London’s art society and visits to London had become quite frequent; meeting with the patrons in the city. (Although he tried to keep the visits at a bare minimum,) Sophie knew that their boys often fought for his attention, and their excitement went slightly overboard on nights like these when Benedict was at home.
Seeing William fast asleep in her arms, Sophie carefully laid him in the wooden cradle and tiptoed out of the room. The dimly lit hallways, with their faint smell of wood and whispering echos reminded her of her childhood days in the attic, but this time her lips tugged upwards quite unconsciously as she heard Benedict crack a joke about chickens; the bubbling laughter of Alexander and Charles echoing in the darkness. Just as she slipped into the boys’ bedroom, Alexander jumped up from the covers, shouting excitedly, “Mama!” and flew into her arms. Sophie managed to catch him at the last moment, his wild brown curls tickling her chin as he nuzzled into her bosom. Looking up at her, he gave one of those crooked smiles that looked so breathtakingly like his father’s.
“Did Willy finish his dinner?”
“Indeed he has,” Sophie smiled, balancing her two-year-old in her arms. “And I thought you’d be dreaming by now, my dear.”
“You can’t jump on Mama like that, Alex,” Charles scolded from the bed, his bright green eyes holding a seriousness that set him apart from his father and brothers. “Father said Mother is fragile right now.”
“Oh, am I?” Sophie eyed Benedict jokingly, who sat at the foot of Charles’s bed with a guilty smile. “Mama’s all right and recovered now.”
“So I can hug you in the tummy again, Mama?”
“And you can hug me in the tummy again,” Sophie laughed, planting a kiss on Alexander’s nose before tucking him under the covers. “I heard you two arguing. What did I tell you about volume, Alex?”
“At night, it should be volume two…”
“And Charlie?”
“I shouldn’t raise my voice to Alex.”
“Charles.”
“…That I should count to ten before saying something back to Alex.”
“Do you think you can try that next time?”
Charles crossed his arms with a resigned sigh, his maturity showing even in his reluctance. “…Yes, Mama.”
“That’s my boy.” Benedict reached out to ruffle Charles’s hair, but he quickly hid under the covers, giggling as Benedict playfully attempted to mess up his hair over the blanket.
“So, shall we all listen to Papa’s bedtime story?”
“I like Mama’s stories better than Papa’s,” Alex grumbled into his teddy bear. Charles quickly popped out, shooting him a glare, the green fierce eyes that sometimes reminded her of her father,
“You can’t say that, Alex!”
But this time it was oh so different.
Sophie saw everything in her son’s beautiful eyes ,
Sophie moved to her eldest son’s bedside and perched next to him. “Alexander chose the story last night,”—Alexander pouted—“so I believe it’s Charlie’s turn tonight.” She softly stroked the thick curls the brothers shared, the rich brown that looks reddish in the candlelight. “Which story do you want to hear tonight, my dearest?”
“I want to hear your story, Mama,” Charles said quietly, fidgeting with the hem of the blankets. “With you and Papa.”
“Of course.” Planting a kiss on his forehead, Sophie began the familiar tale she and Benedict had told countless times, in the bed, on picnics, during travels and hikes,
“Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a tiny kingdom; peaceful, prosperous, and rich in romance and tradition. Here in a stately chateau lived a little boy named Ben who loved to paint with his fingers with his Papa,” Sophie always started.
“And miles and miles away, there lived a little girl named Sophia who loved to read fairy tales in the attic,” Benedict would continue. The story of the magical night of the masquerade, the prince saving the princess from the evil devil, and the dramatic reveal of the veil, ending with a beautiful wedding of a happily ever after.
As they recounted the tale, Sophie and Benedict smiled at each other, their boys’ eyelids drooping, nodding off one by one. Sophie learned to cherish the quiet moments of the night; watching her sons sleep peacefully without the care of the world, as her husband quietly sketched the scene from an armchair in the corner. The soft mumbles from Charles, the peaceful snores from Alexander, and the low hums of Benedict, as his hand moved over the sketchbook, filled the room with a serene warmth. A single candlelight creating a gentle orange orb, protecting them from the dark shadows.
“How long do you think we’ll be able to keep telling this story?” Sophie asked softly.
“Mmm?”
“The boys will eventually have to know the truth someday,” Sophie said, tracing Alex’s chubby cheeks. “They can’t live in fairy tales forever.”
“Sophie, the boys are still four and two.”
“I understand,” Sophie said quietly. “But I don’t want to withhold the truth from them.”
Benedict closed his sketchbook and looked up at Sophie. “When do you think we should tell them?”
Sophie sighed softly, moving from Alexander’s bed to the window. The full moon shone radiantly, casting a gentle light on her sons' cheeks, their faces glowing with warmth and bliss.
“I don’t know,” Sophie whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the night, “And I don’t want to hurt them, Benedict. I…I’m scared of breaking this fantasy. I don’t want to withhold the truth, but I also don’t want them to feel any pain”
“Sophie,”
“All these years, we’ve been telling them as a fairytale,” Sophie gave a low laugh, “Of a princess, of a miracle. But the reality is so far away, Benedict. An illegitimate daughter? A daughter of an actress of God knows what provenance? Benedict, I know it would break them,”
“Sophie, who said that to you?”
“What?”
“A daughter of an actress of God knows what provenance?”
His voice was dangerously soft; Sophie sighed, noticing that she had let it slip.
“It was nothing, Benedict,”
“Sophie.”
“....At the Bridgerton Ball last June. I couldn’t recognize who,”
“Sophie, I told you to just ignore them,
“But Benedict, what they said, it’s not far away from the truth,” Sophie’s hands were beginning to shake, “Nothing is going to erase the illegitimacy of my birth; and it’s true I don’t even know my mother’s full name. A bastard is what I am,”
But Sophie was suddenly pulled into Benedict's tight embrace, the soft smell of sandalwood and paint filling her every sense. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”
“Benedict, you are crushing me!”
“You are Sophie Bridgerton,”
“I know.”
“My darling, adoring, loving wife,”
“I know,”
“And nothing is going to change that,”
“I know,”
Benedict softened his embrace, nudging her gaze to their children,
“And the truth about your parentage wouldn’t hurt our boys,” Benedict said, his voice a calming balm to her anxieties as he gently clasped her trembling hands.
“....I know,”
“It might be a shock at first, but you know how protective Charlie is towards you. And how kind-hearted Alex is despite his chaos.” Benedict playfully poked Alexander’s cheeks. “And he is certainly a mummy’s boy.”
Sophie felt his warm hands wrap around her waist and leaned into his embrace. “Most importantly, you are their mother, Sophie. Their loving, adoring mama.” Benedict placed a kiss on her forehead. “And the truth of your parentage isn’t going to change that.”
“Perhaps when Charles leaves for Eton?” Sophie asked, looking to Benedict for reassurance, “Do you think that would be the right time?”
“I think that would be perfect,” Benedict smiled, tightening his embrace. “Let them dream a little more, Sophie.”
“Of course,” Sophie smiled. “After all, they are only four and two.”
Under the moon’s gentle glow, Sophie reached up and kissed him. Benedict’s hands found the back of her neck, a practiced motion filled with tender familiarity. Yet his kisses never ceased to make her knees melt, his lips always sweet. And His lips would move to her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
“I thought I heard Papa say something about Mama being fragile,” Sophie said breathlessly.
“But I also heard Mama say something about everything being alright and recovered.”
“And William has finally agreed to go to sleep,” Sophie smiled, playing with the white ruffles of his shirt.
“So, you finally have time for me to read you a bedtime story? I’d love a nice tale from Grimm.”
“Do you know Benedict? If you keep this up, our dear Papa is going to sleep in his studio tonight.”
“Well, I should find a way to avoid that, shouldn’t I?”
Despite being in his late thirties, Benedict still managed to carry Sophie up in his arms. She suppressed a giggle as he placed her on the bed with a soft thump.
“Don’t you ever get tired of undressing me, Sophie?”
Benedict grinned as Sophie undid the metal trinkets of his vest.
“I could never get tired of undressing you, Benedict.”
“Why so?”
“Why so?” Sophie grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close. Benedict almost stumbled onto the bed, nearly crushing her petite figure.
“Do you need a reason?” Sophie murmured against his lips, his fingers treading through the graying hair at his temples, “Because I could never get enough of you.”
And Sophie truly did not get enough of Benedict. Even after countless years of their lives together, it was never enough. She still wanted him, more desperately than ever before, because if she closed her eyes, she could still hear him, see him, almost smell him. His presence lingered in every sunrise that painted the sky and every gentle breeze that whispered through the fields.
But just like every fairytale had slipped out of her reach, Benedict had left her, their promise in the Lake long forgotten. However, unlike her lonesome childhood, Sophie was not alone. Benedict left her with everything; four loving children; thirteen adoring beautiful grandchildren; and she was already expecting a great-grandchild in the next few months. My cottage was always filled with love and laughter, but Benedict's art studio had become rather silent; with Willam being in Italy as an art professor, the studio was left unused, the paintbrushes and the wooden pallets remained the same on the day that he fell, the green paint cracked and dried for years and years. Layers and layers of dust on the empty canvases.
And there were the paintings. Countless paintings of her children and grandchildren. Countless paintings of her. Countless sketches of her bursting youth, countless sketches in her motherly embrace, countless sketches of her wrinkled smiles. The story of their love, his love, in every painting, every stroke of his brush,
Benedict had left her everything, along with every moment of her life captured in sketches and paintings, but it came with a devastating absence of her loving Benedict. Yes, there were some family portraits in the sitting room and in their master bedroom, but no artist had managed to capture his wild curls, the twinkle in his bright green eyes, and the little wrinkle in his eyes when he scrunched his whole face in a smile.
The memory of Benedict, from his youth to his last moment, was only vibrant in Sophie’s memories. Which was becoming rather foggy and misty these days, despite her struggling efforts. Almost as if she was wandering through the deep ocean blue, drifting alone without her anker,
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,
She would often whisper her own name, like a prayer, like benediction, in futile attempts to hear his voice again,
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,
But even in her memory, his sweet voice would become more muted and muffled over years passed by,
So, Sophie kept repeating their story. The little fairytale between an artist and the maid. The story of the magical night of the masquerade, the artist saving the maid from the evil devil, and the dramatic reveal of the veil, ends with a beautiful wedding of a happily ever after . Now, every child in the Village can recite their story like the back of their hands.
As the seasons changed and new chapters unfolded, Sophie knew their love story would endure, like those she once read under the moonlight. For in the hearts of her descendants, in the warmth of their embraces, and in the pages of their shared history, Benedict lived on — forever her prince, forever her love, in their happily ever after.
And that was what Sophie did on the soft summer day. Sat under the lush branches of the ancient oak tree, Sophie softly caressed the soft brown curls on her lap, Little Benny, Lettie’s youngest, looking up at her with bright curious eyes, the ones that looked exactly like her loving husband,
“Nana?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Can you tell me the story again?”
“Of course, my dearest,”
Sophie cast her gaze at the lake shimmering in the sunshine, the smooth waves reflecting the dancing trees and leaves, the gentle summer breeze in her silver-colored curls, the fresh scent of lush green grass filling up their sweet little halo of joy. Sophie almost lost herself in the stories of the past; the time she spied on Benedict behind the very oak tree, the time Benedict kissed her for the first time since the masquerade, the time she jumped in the lake and into his arms with nothing on, the time when her three sons dozed on her lap, tired from the adventures of the day, while Benedict taught Violet how to swim in that very lake,
But Little Benny’s tiny hands tugging her sleeves slowly brought her back to the present, him pouting adorably with a slight tilt of his head as if Benedict was waiting for her story again.
“Nana, tell me again,”
His eyes wide with anticipation, his voice so innocent yet so eager. “Pretty please?”
With a smile, she cleared her throat, just like the first time Benedict told her the tale on that autumn day,
“O nce upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a tiny kingdom; peaceful, prosperous, and rich in romance and tradition. Here in a stately chateau lived a little boy named Ben who loved to paint with his fingers with his Papa. ”
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, and his sweet gentle voice continued,
“And miles and miles away, there lived a little girl named Sophia who loved to read fairy tales in the attic,”
With a gasp, Sophie turned her head, and there he was, Benedict Bridgerton, tall and broad, leaning against the oak tree with the crooked smile that she loved,
“Don’t you get tired of telling the same story?” The teasing voice that Sophie missed so dearly, and his arms were open wide, just for her, and Sophie simply jumped into his arms, leaped into his light, forgetting the ache in her knees or the cane needed to walk even a step,
Sandalwood and Soap,
Yes, it was him , her Prince Charming of her fairytales,
“You came back,”
“Of course,” Benedict looked at her with a lopsided grin, playing with Sophie’s honey-colored curls “How could I ever leave you all alone?” And Benedict placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, “Because I would never, ever leave you alone,”
“But you did leave me, Benedict. You weren’t listening to me again,”
“I’m sorry Sophie,” Benedict took her hand, his thumb drawing soft circles on her palm. “But there was nothing I could do,”
“Surely there was something you could have done,” Benedict laughed wholeheartedly as Sophie grumbled, tugging on his navy cravat. “Do you know how much I missed you?”
“I missed you too, Sophie.”
“But I missed you more,”
“Will you forgive me for not listening to you?”
“I suppose you are forgiven,” Sophie laughed at his teasing tone, “But it does depend on what you plan to say next,”
“Then I must be very cautious, mustn’t I?” Sophie giggled as Benedict's eyebrows raised mischievously, his soft brown curls ruffling with the breeze, “But it wasn’t just all stories, Sophie.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I didn’t leave you alone, did I?”
“Yes, but,”
“And I came back, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” A single tear ran down her cheeks.“You came back”
“And I promise I’ll never leave you again,”
“And I promise I’ll never let you go ever again.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Little fingers intertwined again, Their golden rings clinking together again, and in his warm embrace, Sophie noticed that she finally reached the happy ending she had always dreamed of,
As the sun set behind the horizon, casting a soft glow over their peaceful scene, Sophie closed her eyes, feeling Benedict's love wrap around her, the anchor of her heart,
“ And happily ever after ,” She softly whispered to herself, and she felt Benedict’s soft sweet lips on hers, and the last words she heard was his gentle voice, closing the final page of her story,
“And happily ever after,”