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Sophie Baek adapted to her own silence relatively quick after she was relinquished to Penwood Park as an estate ward. Her late father - the Lord Penwood himself, Richard Gun - never produced another child of his own, or claimed one.
Well, Lord Penwood never housed another child until he married that witch Araminta, who came with her own wards and who claimed the Penwood title and all its privileges for a decade after his passing. At this point, Sophie has known Araminta longer - and more intimately - than her father, if he could be called that. But the honorific system her equally late, maternal grandmother burned into her memory persists, and Sophie can only call Lord Penwood by his title, his full name, or, in moments of pure seclusion like now as she rinses plates while Benedict buries an onggi, abeoji.
Benedict. Her husband. Sophie supposes, as she pulls another plate into her baby blue dishtowel, he would have called Lord Penwood by the same title, only adding one more syllable: nim. Altogether abeojinim is a term used by son-in-laws. Yet, Sophie remains unsure how Benedict would have gotten along with Lord Penwood. She thinks about it sometimes.
Sophie imagines a hundred scenarios in her own silence about Lord Penwood meeting Mister Bridgerton - a class division still present, if not a language barrier. And most of her fantasies retain Benedict's lady in silver as Sophie presumes her father would permit her to wear his mother's gown, but Sophie always ends up rewriting her own fantasies to affirm the life Araminta forced upon her.
The latest daydream came about during lunch, just earlier, after Benedict showed her, in French, his latest interpretation of Enion and Tharmas's reunion (Sophie suspects he used their likeness for Blake's mythical couple) and after she taught him some intermediate Korean conjugation. Sophie has yet to teach Benedict the other speech tiers - informal and formal, still retaining a casually polite tone, even though they have been married for months now and Araminta has long left London. And this carried into her daydream where Benedict, as a suitor, met Lord Penwood as her father. There, they had a very minimal communication gap - verbally and physically. Sophie almost reached the part where they shook hands, solidifying Benedict's intention to court Sophie loudly and in public ... until Araminta showed up to have her arrested for those damn shoe clips and she ended up in this reality all over again.
Although, Sophie would choose Benedict again and again and again and again. There is no other reality in which she could fathom not falling in love every morning, noon, and night with her husband. He ... He dreams with her and draws the world she's interpreted but told no one. And Sophie would not trade this life for a fantasy.
Sophie picks up the last plate, a small saucer gifted from her new sister-in-law, the Viscountess Bridgerton, Kathani, and dries the shallowest part first, where the family crest was engraved in gold, before moving onto the silverware.
The Bridgerton name envelopes Sophie now as she suspects it did to Kate years ago, written on every surface at My Cottage. Even the title of her now-home signifies this new status belonging to her - Mrs. Sophie Bridgerton, something to which she will need to acclimate. Maybe she can lean on the Viscountess when she and Benedict meet the family at Promenade next weekend; Kate, ever perceptive, has already offered much welcome advice navigating two cultures in marriage since she returned from a very short trip to India.
For now, Sophie supposes she should teach Benedict, eventually, the casual conjugation rules - banmal - since it is a language she speaks in her head. Lord knows she's used it often enough in her one-sided conversations to rival Lady Whistledown's word count, or Penelope, seeing as they are also sisters-in-law now too. But, for Sophie, her mind is the only place where she feels comfortable to speak so informally.
But again, they are married. Sophie is officially a lady of the Ton in name, titled Mistress Bridgerton.
Sophie shakes her head and folds the damp towel back on the cabinet. Even in her mind, she remains so confined to honorifics. And if she is to have that marriage Benedict describes in his art, she must open up to her husband more.
Sophie leans onto the very tips of her toes and looks out the overbearing window behind the sink, into the garden where Benedict is burying the onggi he fired for her as a late wedding present. She doesn't see him. The recently unplanted flower beds clear a path toward the lake, along where Sophie decided would be a perfect place to ferment the cabbage this upcoming winter. And she doesn't see him. So, she inhales quickly, preparing her lungs to say something, then she says it:
"Saranghae," she tests her voice, whispering, and it fractures at the last syllable, pulling her eyes into her hands. Sophie clears her throat deeper and tries again, "Saranghae." The three little syllables barely pass her lips, but they do pass her lips and she revels in the achievement, smiling to herself.
Of course, she's said the English equivalent - I love you; they live in England. And of course, Benedict says the French equivalents, although somewhat more romantically - je suis fou de toi, mon cœur bat la chamade, ma moitié. But less equivalently has she taught Benedict the Korean translation. Saranghada is the infinitive form, and saranghaeyo with the yo conjugation is the polite version - the version she taught Benedict. The saranghae she practiced is informal, spoken between equals ... which she supposes she and Benedict are.
So Sophie practices again:
"My love, my life, naekko, seobang, Benedict, saranghae."
"Yo," Benedict's voice interrupts from the doorway.
Sophie jumps, and she spins around quickly.
Her husband - Benedict - uncrosses his arms and widens his smile toward her.
"Ma moitié," he says richly, wrapping his arms around her when he reaches her. Benedict presses a kiss just above her temple.
His French accent has greatly improved and their house has become more multilingual since they've married, even more than when she cared for him during that horrid illness, mumbling some old Chinese poetry that she learned from the last governess Lord Penwood personally employed. Benedict asked her, then, to translate those beautiful words, and she complied, mystified by his sincerity. Normally, men of the Ton, like the Viscount according to Lady Whistledown before he married Kate, are concerned with the eligible women additionally knowing Latin, but Benedict so sincerely listened to her Chinese recitation then the English translation, hanging on every syllable as if he understood the Asiatic language and references himself.
"You forgot to conjugate, my love," Benedict jests.
The way he talks, Sophie hears that she forgot to conjugate love - which is true from his point of view, from what she's taught him. And as a moment lingers, letting her properly understand his words, Sophie gains the courage to tell him that she has been holding back on his lessons.
Sophie turns around, and Benedict's arms shift down her shoulders. She finds his charming smile comforting, and just his presence makes her realise how foolish this guard around her heart is.
"Benedict," she says his name slowly.
"Sophie," he nods attentively.
"I have something to tell you."
"I'm all ears."
Sophie almost settles into his chest instead, burying herself like the cabbage in the garden, to delay yet another confession. Although, this one is less severe than the revelation about her secret identity in the spring. But it all feels the same, eliciting a nausea in her throat that should raise enough cause to delay her confession.
Sophie perseveres anyways.
"I've lied," she says simply.
Benedict grows more serious, replacing his bright smile with a light frown, concerned, and cups her face in both hands. "About what?"
Sophie watches him search her eyes, feeling her own pupils follow his, just like the day he discovered that she was the lady in silver. And she knows, or rather suspects, that he searches her eyes during these moments when he wants to convey sincerity because their eyes connect them. Their eyes connected them during the masquerade. Then, Sophie tried to find recognition in his eyes at the Cavender House but he never met her eyes there. Then, when Benedict did recognize her, in the nursery at Bridgerton House, he found her eyes first, superimposing his memory of the lady in silver over the woman in his arms, as he does now. Except, Sophie is not physically wearing a mask again right now. She is only reinforcing an emotional distance with her husband through language.
"Our Korean lessons," Sophie answers his question. She inhales a bit shakily, trying to calm herself. "We've ... we've been speaking like strangers."
Benedict raises a brow. "Oh?"
"Not exactly like strangers," Sophie retracts. "But I've not been entirely honest about how the Korean language works." She takes another breath. "There are levels: formal, polite, and casual. We ... have been speaking politely."
"Ah."
Sophie looks up at him again. Her husband is so tall and makes her feel a couple inches shorter than she probably is, as she divulges herself to him.
"Is that all?" Benedict asks.
Sophie should have suspected that he would not be incensed by this confession; every revelation pales to her secret identity, and Benedict is quite even tempered, only escalating to elation or melancholy, rarely aggravation. But she is still nervous to be so vulnerable, after a lifetime guarding herself.
So, she nods and buries herself in his chest.
"Are you going to teach me the casual level then?"
"Oh." Sophie perks up again. "I forgot about that."
Benedict pulls away slightly and bends his knees to reach his wife's height. "You forgot that you'd need to teach me how to speak casually in Korean?" Sophie nods again. "I could always get a tutor, you know. We'd have to look into one anyways to teach our children later."
As if sensing her apprehension, Benedict hugs his wife again and presses another kiss to her hair. "What was that you were saying then, to yourself? Saranghae? Is that casual?"
Sophie nods once more and circles her arms around his waist.
"Well, I suppose I'll need another way to say 'I love you' -" Benedict squeezes her tightly. "- because the way I love you is anything but casual."
Sophie pokes her head through his arm, resting her chin on his bicep. "Johda is another way to say it. I think it's more intimate."
"Johda?"
Sophie nods.
Benedict hums and smiles at his wife. "Well, Sophie, my love, ma moitié, johda."
"Na-do, johda, Benedict."