Chapter Text
Each morning on his way to work, Theo passed through Mayfair and took a moment to admire the houses that to some were homes. He paused on his walk outside the gates of the Bridgerton House, the lone elegant mansion locked behind closed gates covered in a garland of wilting purple flowers.
He waited another moment, as he always did, hoping to spot the gardener or any member of the household who was lucky to remain beneath its roof. As always, there was little to no movement. The chirping of a bird across the street. People walking by. The usual sounds of the city. All of it blurred and muddled together, filling the silence of Bridgerton House.
In the second story, at the window third from the right, he thought he saw something moving, though it was likely nothing more than a reflection of the passing clouds.
"Excuse me, mate," a man said, bumping into his shoulder.
Theo blinked. He was standing in front of the gate, in the middle of the pavement and very much so in the way. Adjusting the weight of the bag on his shoulder, Theo hurried along with the crowds floating upstream like leaves slowly sinking below.
The crowds of London continued to churn like the wheels turning above and below. He walked for another ten minutes then, past an older man in a clean soldier's uniform, hat and gloves outside the station handing out pamphlets. He took one from her hands, curious despite his hurry.
'Watch the Battle of Waterloo!'
He stuffed the paper in the bottom of his bag and continued own, until he reached the Heritage office and settled into his desk. Few people, even the boss Mr Thomas, had yet to arrive at the office—it was only 8 am—but he enjoyed the quiet. There, alone at his desk with a stack of books and work to do, Theo felt he was swimming along with the flow of time rather than struggling upstream against it.
Mr Thomas patted him on the shoulder. "Come to my office when you're done, lad."
Done?
Theo looked at the shelves of books, worn and torn, and the work before him. How could one ever be done with it?
"No negotiating," Mr Thomas sighed. "It can't be helped."
Time was up then, was it? That was a pity. He'd enjoyed being able to afford rent.
The antique clock on Mr Thomas's office mantelpiece chimed six times as the sky outside darkened and Mr Sharpe took the old seat opposite his employer. And, dare he say it, one of the few friends he had.
On the old, dark wood desk between them was a single sheet of paper. On it, the bleak form spelled out his name in bold black ink "Theodore Sharpe."
"The truth is, Theo, I'd rather keep you here to continue your work. I really don't know how this place will function without you," he said, softly shaking his head.
"You don't have to flatter me," he said, but the words did ease his disappointment. Obviously Fate wanted to remind him some things were too good to last. "Where am I being transferred too?"
"You're not going to read the form?" he asked, raising an amused eyebrow.
"I trust you'll tell me the truth of it."
And he did. "There's a house in Mayfair and it's fallen into the hands of the Heritage Society—"
"Wait… The Bridgerton House?"
"Oh. You know it? Odd. Most people don't notice it so much. Well, then. Maybe it's meant to be… All you need do is make a record of all items in the house. Time consuming, but not difficult."
"And when the work is done? What's my deadline?"
Mr Thomas hesitated. "That's the strangest thing. I don't believe there is one. Well, I've been told there's a fair amount in there. Perhaps a month or two… Theo, I… The higher ups haven't mentioned what would happen after. I shouldn't say but I—"
"I'll start looking for another, then. Thank you for the heads up."
"That might be a good idea. It's…" Mr Thomas sighed once more, then stood and poured two drinks. "Here. You'll need it."
Theo took the glass of whisky and stared at it. "Sir, I don't drink."
"You may want to start," Mr Thomas quipped, then knocked back the entire glass. "You're not the only person the Society has sent. Apparently, the last few didn't complete the work and ran off. The Society hasn't tried to bring them back, that's for sure."
"So, Bridgerton House is their attempt to make me quit. Is that it?" Theo picked up the transfer form and signed his name, then dropped it back on the desk. "I'll be in tomorrow to leave instructions behind for whoever replaces me. Then, I'll start on the House on Monday."
Mr Thomas took Theo's whisky glass and took a swig. "I'll write you a good reference."
"You won't need to," Theo told him.
He was going to complete the House.
Theo arrived at Bridgerton House on a misty Monday in the middle of November, dragging a worn out suitcase with a busted wheel behind him and the keys to the house in his front pocket.
He patted the gate, fingers lingering on the wilting wisteria and rust hidden beneath. He turned the key in the lock and moved forward, grunting as he dragged the suitcase behind him with tired arms.
"It's only seven in the morning," he muttered to himself, glaring at the bumpy path ahead. "It's already gone wrong."
The path beyond the gate was a bumpy mess of tree roots growing in gnarled patterns, fallen and forgotten tree branches and made of stone slabs for pavement that had been upended by all the above and below the soil.
It hadn't looked so bad when he'd been behind the gate but, to be fair, his attention had usually been on the wisteria or the door itself. The path on its own had never occurred to him before.
Theo did what any stubborn young man would do and continued to drag the suitcase as far as he could, then lifted it with all his might to stumble across the pathway with little regard to his safety. He stomped across the path, apologising when he stepped on a root, then dropped the suitcase on the porch with a groan.
"Maybe should've done multiple trips," he said, shrugging.
It didn't matter. He was at the door now.
Theo turned the key in the lock.
It didn't move.
He wiggled it.
Nothing.
He fiddled with the handle, twisting and turning the doorknob in the hope the mechanism just needing a little something before it came to life once more, yet the door remained barred.
"Right, hang on," he said, unzipping his suitcase there on the porch. In a pocket near his spare shirts, stuffed under a well-worn belt and roll up cigarette packet, was his trusted old lock picking kit. "Aha. There we are."
It took him twenty minutes to unlock the damn thing while knelt on the cold porch—he was out of practice—but he did get it open.
The door to Bridgerton House opened with a deep creak in a slow swing on its hinges, almost like a sigh. He placed his hands on his knees and rose from the floor, holding on the doorknob as he peered inside.
What once must have been an opulent entrance hall had decayed and faded into a shadow of its former self. The paint of the white walls had cracked and crumbled, revealing plain brick behind it. The few paintings in the hall had been covered by long, dusty curtains with golden tassel faded to brown with time, and it all smelled strongly of must. The floor itself was a dark wood, though covered in dust and other bits and pieces he couldn't quite make out in the early morning light from the door—the windows were boarded up—but he could see the grand staircase to the next floor, covered in a worn blue carpet.
He reached for the handle of his suitcase and wheeled it inside, gazing at every detail remaining of the intricate walls, uncaring for the breeze blowing the door on its hinges.
Theo stood in the centre of the entrance hall, facing the staircase. While the wear and tear had faded the house's beauty, he could still see where the servants had greeted visitors at the door, where the lady of the house welcomed in guests in a long blue dress, where a little dog had ran across the floorboards, where a charming young lady had sat on the staircase, reading a book—
"Hello. You're more beautiful than I thought," he said to the house.
It was easy to imagine the house as a home to a family, he thought. But he wasn't there to imagine a pretty picture or spend his days searching through the dust for traces of a story. He had a job to do.
Clearly, everyone else had given up or gotten distracted. Maybe the old grouches on telly were right and no one wanted to work anymore.
He was equipped with a fully packed suitcase, endless desperate optimism, and a dangerously stubborn work ethic. He could do it, he believed.
It was 7:45 am—and his journey to completing Bridgerton House began with the door slamming shut behind him from the wind. He had a packed suitcase yes, but in it was a torch that wouldn't turn on, a phone without signal, and a box of 200 long matches with no candles in immediate sight.
"Good morning to you too, Bridgerton House," he grumbled, holding a lit match in his hand as he tried to pry one of the boards from the window. Luckily, the rusted nails gave way with ease.
As Theo opened the windows and curtains, light began to leak back into the house but many of its shadows remained as they had for more than 200 years.