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The first thought in Anthony’s head after Hyacinth was born had been just how small she was. Although born slightly prematurely, the small bundle in his arms had already proven she was as much a Bridgerton as any of them. The cries that had come from her tiny form were so piercing they nearly cleaved Anthony’s heart in half.
Now they were back at Bridgerton House, everything was still. The other siblings had all gone to bed, and Anthony, tired as he was, had been unable to resist taking his newest sister in his arms, just once more before he drifted off to a fitful sleep.
As the days grew into weeks, Anthony took to having Hyacinth with him most of the time. It was rare that she settled with anyone else, and with Violet being indisposed , Hyacinth, along with everything else, had become his responsibility.
The mere thought that Hyacinth would have to bear Edmund’s memory without truly knowing him gnawed at Anthony constantly. Spurred on by wanting her to have a shred of her father, he’d taken to telling Hyacinth stories about him, about the way his voice rumbled, the way he would always stop and pick flowers for Violet, the jokes he made. Everything tumbled out of him all at once, and it wouldn’t stop. He wanted desperately for the newest Bridgerton to have what the rest of them had all had. A father, one who would dote on her to no end, and hold her tight when the world seemed to crash down around her.
Six months later, Hyacinth was still as loud as ever. It had come as no surprise, given the other Bridgerton children had been rather vocal as babies, but the wails coming from her small body still sent shivers down Anthony’s spine every single time. As he picked her up, she grew quieter, the cries came in small whimpers as she nuzzled into him.
“Oh she’s beautiful!” A woman with long dark curls stood nearby, surveying the park, probably on the lookout for one of the small children climbing trees.
“Ah, thank you, she’s six months old,” Anthony said ruefully.
“They grow up so fast don’t they. She looks just like you, you know,” said the woman, as her gaze stopped on Hyacinth, her eyes wide, and alert, but quiet.
“Oh, well she’s—,” he cut himself off abruptly. After all, he would probably never see this woman again, so there was little point in telling her his sob story. “Most people say she looks like her mother,” he said, and silently congratulated himself on not falling apart in public.
The woman looked concerned, but it quickly vanished from her face as she composed herself.
“Well I think she looks like you, it’s in the ears,” she turned to face them more, and rested her gaze on Hyacinth.
Now that it had been pointed out, it was true, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to deny it. Hyacinth had ears that stuck out ever so slightly, and the dark crop of curls on her head was as much a feature she shared with her mother as it was something Anthony had had as a baby.
The idea that she didn’t take after her father gnawed at him, and carved a hole in his broken heart.
All Anthony had ever wanted for her was for Hyacinth to feel connected to her father, if not in memory then in her appearance. It would have all been worth it, the late nights, the dark circles under his eyes, as he tried in vain to get Hyacinth to settle in her bed and not in his arms. To think that she would never truly know her father, or know that parts of her were like him. The only comforting thought was that perhaps her laugh would sound like Edmund’s, bright and loud. Hyacinth had giggled once, but it had been so short that Anthony found he couldn’t place what it resembled.
Some days, it was all he could do to just hold her in his arms and think of all the things her father would have done with her.
Everything reminded him that Edmund was gone. Every account he had to manage, every meeting with old men in stuffy boardrooms that his father would have handled with ease and grace. Every bruise, or cut, or tantrum that his siblings had, constantly reminded him their father was gone.
And now all they had was him, a mere shadow of their father, a man who had been so unprepared for everything it was ridiculous. Of course, his father had shown him the ropes, and there had been discussions about when Anthony would take over things, but he was supposed to have more time. Anthony’s shoulders felt too narrow, he was not strong enough to carry all the grief and heartache his father had left in his wake.
Holding Hyacinth helped, and the knowledge that she might one day take after her father with her laughter or her spirit dulled the ache the knife of grief left in his chest. For now, before she grew up in front of him, Anthony held her close, and made sure to tell her all about her father and how wonderful he was.