Chapter Text
Late summer 1819
Bulma Briefs, beautiful, intelligent and rich, with a comfortable home and a happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her. Indeed, she was so content and privileged in her life, she had no desire to marry. Her father’s estate wasn’t entailed, so she and her older sister, Tights, could inherit his wealth and property upon his death, which would hopefully not be for some time yet, because Bulma loved her father dearly.
So, what should a young lady with such status in society do if she held no interest in having her own suitors? This was the question that plagued her, not only in her own mind, but also voiced in kind ways by Tights, who played a motherly role as much as she did older sister until she married Tarble Prince and left to begin a life of her own.
There was no lack of bittersweetness and tears when Bulma watched Tights leave for London nearly three years ago. Not retaining but a few vague memories of their mother, Bulma missed her sister that much more keenly, but the triumph of the successful match gave the younger Miss Briefs a sense of pride in her instincts. Because Bulma had known Tarble and Tights were perfect for each other, and had subtly encouraged them.
Since the Prince estate of Sadala and the Briefs’ home of Westfield were neighboring properties, Tarble, Tights and little Bulma had grown up playing together on the grounds when the weather permitted. Once Tarble’s father decided his younger son was too old to role-play battles, shipwrecks or pirate fights, the boy never played with them again. But there was no erasing the chemistry. Bulma saw it as soon as she was old enough to be out in society. Where Tights was sharp, Tarble was soft. Where Tights would argue, Tarble would exercise diplomacy. Where Tights was idealistic, Tarble was practical.
Seeing how well the two peers complemented each other, young Bulma would design reasons for her sister to be around young Mr. Prince. At private balls, she’d send her sister to fetch drinks when Tarble was near the punch. Claiming their pew at church was too crowded by the growing Mousse family and their six (soon to be seven) children, Bulma suggested they start sitting near Tarble, who was alone at the time, his father being too sick to attend anymore and his older brother being off at war fighting Napoleon.
As Tarble’s father’s condition never improved, Bulma would ask Tights to help her prepare little cakes, then insist on delivering them to Sadala. Inside the basket of treats would be a short, but carefully scripted note of well-wishes for the ailing Mr. Prince that Bulma signed with her sister’s name. If Bulma spoke to Tarble herself, she would manipulate the conversation so she could gain a clearer understanding of where the eligible bachelor’s affections stood. She would also praise her older sister above all others, a task easily done since it seemed Tights could hardly do any wrong in her eyes.
For Bulma, the marriage of Tights and Tarble was her own accomplishment, a product of her own cleverness. About two years later, she began the hunt for a new match to engineer, particularly for her childhood friend, Janet.
The unlikely suitor was Mr. Piccolo, who visited their part of the country regularly to stay in his sizable winter cottage and take his nephew fox hunting. Mr. Piccolo preferred to remain out of the public eye because his arm was disfigured. He was rumored to be stoic, cold, unsociable, and impossible to romance. But he treated his orphaned nephew, Dende, with surprising gentleness.
On the other hand, Janet had always been patient and caring, the perfect temperament for children, and hardly spoke of anything other than babies. Human or animal, she loved them all. She loved it when her sheepdogs had litters. She cared for the lambs that were sick or lame, despite her aunt’s arguments that the hired shepherds should be the ones to do it. Janet’s favorite gossip was discussing pregnancies and births and her favorite act of charity was bringing new mothers knit blankets, blankets she had made herself from quality wool produced by the sheep raised on her uncle’s estate. Would a soft-hearted woman like Janet match well with Mr. Piccolo? Bulma knew it might be a challenge, but if both of them had a soft spot for children, then she thought the two would pair naturally if given the right nudge.
The opportunity presented itself last fall at Ford’s store when Bulma was shopping for fabric. Miss Launch was there, the sweet poor spinster in her forties that innocently gossiped about everyone, not out of malicious intent but because she had a habit of relaying everything she ever did or heard or thought.
“Would you believe this very morning I overhead the farrier talking to the druggist when I was fetching something to treat my hay fever,” Miss Launch relayed news to the shop owner loudly enough for everyone in the store to hear, “Apparently, Dende’s favorite prize hunting dog fell injured, with a severe laceration and fractured leg during Mr. Piccolo’s first hunt of the season. He’s gone lame, the poor creature. They sought advice from the farrier, and he was so cold as to recommend they put the animal down. Of course, no one wants an animal to suffer, personally I cannot stand the thought, but the sweet boy Dende is desperate for it heal, and he is begging his uncle to let him try to care for it.”
“You know, Janet is the best at dealing with lameness. She’s healed many of her lambs with similar injuries,” Bulma had spoken to Miss Launch directly, knowing anything said to her would be repeated to the entire small community of Highbury within a week.
“Is that so? Oh, there’s no question you’re right. Of course, you’re correct, Miss Briefs,” Miss Launch had nodded in agreement, making her dark curls bounce and the accumulating streaks of silver in her hair shimmer in the window light.
The word got back to Mr. Piccolo, who visited Janet’s home and requested the eligible lady to nurse the animal back to full health. Of course, the caring woman accepted and refused to take payment. Janet was an angel in Dende’s eyes, and Mr. Piccolo was not only grateful for the dog’s care, but smitten with the dark-skinned, curly-haired beauty. He proposed before the hunting season was over.
Having just attended the Piccolo wedding last week, Bulma was convinced she had found her purpose in life. If she wasn’t planning her own matrimony, she could certainly assist others in connecting with the correct romantic partners for themselves.
At this moment, Bulma sat on the large windowsill in the library of her family mansion, half reading, half watching the green landscape outside, bright in the late summer sun. She was waiting. Expecting. He was due to come two days ago, since he had been absent for an entire week, but the weather had been too poor. The day after, the ground too muddy. But she was convinced it was dry enough today.
Sure enough, a short man came into view as he crested the grassy hill that marked the edge of Sadala’s property line near Westfield. His tall black top hat gave him a gentile appearance and added to his stature. Vegeta Prince approached as he regularly did these days, ever since his younger brother married Tights. His navy coat tails flapped behind him as he walked with marching strides. His gait was forced as if his days in the army hadn’t quite left him.
Since she hadn’t been reading anyway, Bulma snapped her book on astronomy shut, and the gust of air that it caused tussled the aqua blue curls that framed her cheeks. Gliding down the halls of her family mansion, she found her father in the sitting room by the hearth, smoking his pipe as he often did, a blanket draped over his lap as though the home were chilly. With the crumbled remains of the logs dying, but still warm, Bulma felt comfortable in her flowing white muslin dress, with her short, puffed sleeves. After she gracefully settled herself in a chaise across from her father and rested her legs on the padded length, she picked up Robinson Crusoe from the end table nearby, and opened it to page 127, wanting to appear as though she had been comfortably relaxing in this location for some time.
“Captain Prince is here,” one of the footmen announced at the sitting room entrance, then stepped out of the way. Vegeta’s fluffed black hair was already bereft of his hat, and he entered without even bowing, feeling all too familiar in the home. Bulma closed her book and set it back on the table.
“Come in, my boy!” Mr. Briefs brightened, setting his pipe on a gold trimmed porcelain ash tray on the end table. “What news do you bring today?”
“You know I’m not a herald of gossip,” Vegeta answered gruffly, and he pulled out his watch from his gray waistcoat pocket and handed it to Bulma. “It’s five minutes slow.”
“Did you drop it again? Men are so lucky to carry such fine pieces and yet you take it for granted.” Bulma shifted her legs, lowering her feet to the ground to provide Vegeta ample space to sit next to her on the chaise, but he remained standing. She huffed, “If I carried a pocket watch, I’d take better care of it. You’re fortunate Papa taught me how to fix these.”
Mr. Briefs smiled fondly at his daughter, “If I had to choose a profession, I would have studied to be an engineer. I would have liked to invent something the world has never seen. I miss the days I used to tinker around. If only my eyesight wasn’t so strained and my hands were steadier. But I daresay she’s better at fiddling with contraptions than I ever was. Just last week Bulma fixed Miss Launch’s spectacles when she noticed the frame was held together by string.”
While it was helpful for Bulma to fix Miss Launch’s spectacles, she had mostly offered because she found the broken frame more interesting than the spinster’s conversation.
“Come sit, Vegeta.” Mr. Briefs gestured to the chair next to himself.
Vegeta chose neither the chaise nor the comfortable chair near the old gentleman, instead stepping toward the sofa which was furthest away from the glowing embers in the fireplace. Bulma sighed but decided this was for the best anyway. She could read his face better if he wasn’t sitting next to her.
Vegeta adjusted his coat tails and sat, his posture rigid and almost regal, reminding Bulma of Tights’ speculation that Tarble’s family had ties to the real royal family centuries ago and that was why their surname was Prince. Bulma had found it a fascinating theory, but there was no truth to the claim. Vegeta’s posture didn’t reflect true nobility as much as it did his training and discipline from the military and from his upbringing. The now deceased patriarch, Vegeta Prince III, was a proud man with a reputation of being harsh in his business and family dealings. Vegeta IV still held the severity of his father’s expectations in the very way he carried himself. But spending time with the Briefs father and daughter had softened him a little, even if he wasn’t fully aware of it.
“If I didn’t appreciate the workmanship of timepieces, I would tell you to take it to London and have it fixed. You’re lucky I’m at your disposal,” Bulma teased.
“I am lucky, since I just arrived from London and have no desire return anytime soon,” Vegeta admitted.
“Oh, I’m so jealous!” Bulma cried, “You didn’t tell us you were going!”
“I needed to run an errand there anyway. Might as well pay Tarble and Tights a visit.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“The baby! How is she?”
“Surely I can’t share anything more interesting than what your sister has already told you in her letters.”
“Is it true that little Eschalot is jealous of her new sister?”
“I did notice she cried more often than I remembered,” Vegeta inclined his head.
“Young children crave attention from their mothers,” Bulma explained, “Crying is the easiest method.”
“How is the baby’s health?” Mr. Briefs prodded, wanting reassurance on the topic that concerned him the most.
“Baby Bulma is as feisty and loud as the aunt for whom she is named,” Vegeta gave a satisfactory grin in the lady’s direction.
Bulma beamed. When Tight’s first child was born two years ago with black hair, naming her Eschalot after Tarble and Vegeta’s mother was the perfect choice. But Bulma would have never thought a child would be named after her. “Is her hair really blonde, like my sister and mother’s?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t notice.”
“Vegeta!”
“I didn’t go there to play nursemaid!” the captain scowled. His features were already angular, with dark sloping brows, a sharp jawline and a noticeable widow’s peak, but with his current expression they all became more severe. “It was a short visit.”
“I can’t wait until they come to Highbury again,” Bulma folded her hands on her lap. She wished she could travel to London herself, but she couldn’t leave her father. She felt he was too fragile for her to stay away overnight, and Mr. Briefs fretted enormously when she was gone from the house too long. Having lost Tights through matrimony and his wife through death made Mr. Briefs particularly attached to his youngest daughter.
“They always come in December,” Vegeta reminded her.
“Yes, but that is months away,” Bulma complained.
Mr. Briefs didn’t like seeing his daughter unhappy, so he tried to change the subject, “Do you have any other news?”
“Nothing worth sharing. Anything happen in Highbury while I was gone?”
“You missed the wedding,” Bulma placed Vegeta’s pocket watch on her book, intending to fix it tomorrow so she could give it back to him when he returned next week.
“What wedding?” Vegeta frowned, feigning ignorance.
“The Piccolos!” she practically scolded him. Vegeta crossed his legs comfortably, used to Bulma’s little bursts of fake outrage.
“Now Bulma, Vegeta wasn’t as close to Janet as you were,” Mr. Briefs defended their guest.
“But a town event such as a marriage should warrant everyone’s attention,” Bulma complained.
“Janet was her walking partner,” Mr. Briefs reminded the man.
“I remember,” Vegeta assured him.
“So naturally, I’m concerned about Bulma’s safety,” Mr. Briefs continued, “What about the gypsies?”
“My steward, Nappa, assures me they aren’t bad sorts of people,” Vegeta assured him, “He’s passed them many times along the path to town when he runs errands for me. He knows some of them by name. They are the same families who travel here every year.”
“That’s what I said!” Bulma motioned toward Vegeta emphatically.
“Still, a woman alone on an empty road…” Mr. Briefs gave his neighbor a pointed look, as if he expected Vegeta to solve this problem.
The captain raised his brow in surprise. Surely Mr. Briefs wasn’t trying to insist that he take over the role of her walking partner. Vegeta scratched one of the long dark sideburns that stretched down to his jawline, as if he were thinking, “You want my advice?”
“Bulma does listen to you.”
“Papa,” Bulma shook her head, her cheeks flushing the faintest pink, “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen how much I quarrel with him.”
Mr. Briefs chuckled, “After you two debated about the capture of Constantinople during your last visit, she started reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”
“Did she?” Vegeta gave her a smirk.
Bulma grumbled, “Only to find proof of his errors, Papa.”
“Did you find what you were searching for?” Vegeta leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, showing how confident he was. Baiting her.
“I found your conclusions on the siege methods and artillery to be unsupported.”
“Which means you could not disprove them. Your own opinion that the city fell due to the Byzantine’s lack of political unity and economic decline was likely unsupported as well.”
“It’s easy to fell a tree that is already diseased.”
“Empires may rot from within, but a city only falls when the walls are breached.”
“I thought you were both correct in your assertions.” Amusement made Mr. Briefs’ eyes wrinkle even more. “I don’t suppose you could consider that as a possibility?”
“I could’ve delved deeper if I was unsatisfied with my findings, but I grew bored of the subject,” Bulma crossed her ankles and fluffed her skirt a little, “Besides, when it comes to any military excursions, Vegeta cannot help but find fault in civilian insight.”
Vegeta clenched his jaw. Bulma’s lips curled up at the edges. She was pleased that she had irritated him.
The captain considered pushing her further but decided against it. The only reason they had argued about the fall of the famous city was because Bulma wanted to prove she was educated on the subject. Debate was her favorite way to prove her intellect to him. He didn’t need reminders. He was aware she was the most intelligent female he had ever met and definitely sharper than most men, but Vegeta was not going to let her believe she knew more than himself on matters of battle, especially since he had fought in a war against Napoleon for years. Besides, Constantinople was a lesson officers genuinely studied. When she questioned his expertise, it felt like a personal attack.
It was better if he kept to other topics.
“Well, coming back to the current issue of walking alone, perhaps Bulma should consider making a new friend. Surely, there are plenty of ladies eager to make her acquaintance.” His sarcasm was just subtle enough, Mr. Briefs didn’t catch it, but Bulma did.
She furrowed her brow at him, “I do find great interest in meeting new people. Unlike a certain gentleman I know.”
With a shrug, Vegeta shifted his black eyes toward the glowing embers, “I can’t imagine who you mean.” Obvious sarcasm now.
“Perhaps you should take your own advice and make a new friend, so you’re not so dependent on us for conversation.”
“Oh, don’t listen to her, Vegeta,” Mr. Briefs waved his hand at her dismissively, “You know you can come as often as you desire! We quite enjoy your company.”
“Indeed, I don’t mean you should visit us less often,” Bulma explained, realizing she didn’t truly want to chase him away, but she couldn’t help but antagonize him, “However, you should try to socialize more. Attend weddings, for example.”
“As I mentioned before, I didn’t come because I had business in London,” Vegeta reminded her.
“You would have made an effort to attend if it was of any importance to you,” Bulma pointed out, lifting her chin.
“There you have it. It was of no importance to me,” Vegeta nonchalantly admitted.
Indignantly, Bulma huffed. Vegeta did his best to hide the pleasure he felt at her aggravation. He knew as a thirty-year-old man he shouldn’t stoop to such behavior, but her immaturity often invited his own when they were in these private settings, with just him and her and her father.
“It was a lovely wedding. So I heard,” Mr. Briefs coughed a little.
“You weren’t able to attend either?” Vegeta turned his head curiously. The main reason he frequently visited Westfield was to check on Mr. Briefs. The old man’s health was questionable, and Tarble had felt guilty for pulling Tights away from her father to live in London. Tarble had asked his older brother to visit Westfield often enough to keep an eye on Mr. Briefs and Bulma, and while Vegeta didn’t initially agree, Tarble had convinced him it was best to maintain good relations with his neighbors anyway. The Briefs were not only one of the richest families in town, but they were well respected, and anyone’s reputation would benefit from being connected with them. And so, with initial reluctance, a routine was formed that had slowly become a welcome part of Vegeta’s life. After all, Mr. Briefs was a much warmer version of a father than his own had been. And the old man treated Vegeta less and less as a guest and more as his own son.
“They chose to do the ceremony and reception outdoors. The weather was too sunny that day,” Mr. Briefs complained, “Made my eyes hurt.”
“Perhaps if you ventured outside more often, you could get accustomed to the brightness,” Vegeta suggested. “Some fresh air and exercise would surely do you some good.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mr. Briefs made no attempt to defend himself.
Bulma narrowed her eyes at the men. She had made the very same recommendation many times before, and it was only now when it came from Vegeta that her father was willing to listen. The corner of Vegeta’s mouth curved up, knowing exactly why Bulma appeared irritated.
“Today is a good day to start,” Bulma stood and crossed the room to her father, holding out her hand to help him stand, “The sun is mostly hiding behind the clouds and the weather is pleasant. Shall we move this visit to the back gardens?”
“I’d prefer to walk to the hothouse,” Mr. Briefs moved his blanket aside and took his daughter’s hand as he stood to his feet, “I should check on Panchy’s roses anyway.”
“I’ll check on Tarble’s lemon tree,” Vegeta added as he stood with the older man, “He had asked about it.”
“It’s still not producing,” Mr. Briefs informed him, “But regardless, he was trying to be thoughtful when he gave it to us.”
“Trees won’t produce fruit for years, Papa. You know this,” Bulma reminded him.
“The climate here is all wrong, though,” Mr. Briefs argued.
“That’s why we keep it in the hothouse.”
As they walked outside together, Bulma updated Vegeta on the details of the wedding, Janet’s dress, the flowers, the sermon, the attendees, who cried the most, etc. until the three entered the hothouse where humid warmth and a throng of floral scents greeted them.
“It doesn’t sound like I missed much after all,” Vegeta commented as he gazed at the plants that surrounded them, “This wedding was the same as any other.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” Bulma lovingly stroked the petals of a nearby pink camellia, “Every wedding is as unique as the couples that are united in them.”
Mr. Briefs bent and sniffed a yellow rose that blossomed on the nearest bush. The color reminded him of his late wife’s hair. He stood up, his face softened with nostalgic warmth. “Bulma was particularly proud of this marriage because she takes credit for their union.”
The captain eyed the woman next to him. “She does?”
“What can I say? I have a gift,” Bulma shrugged.
“A gift?” Vegeta’s response was edged with skepticism.
“You do know I had a hand in getting your brother to marry my sister.”
Vegeta laughed in a scoff and sauntered off to the six-foot-tall potted lemon tree in the middle of the hothouse, “You cannot take credit for Tarble and Tights.”
“I can!” Bulma followed after him, her flat shoes pattering on the stone floor, “I planted seeds and watered them until their affections blossomed into fully matured love.”
“It was unplanned circumstances that led to their marriage,” Vegeta fingered the small branches. There was no sign of budding. “Tarble and Tights grew up knowing each other. And my father’s death was the real reason my brother started taking her more seriously, because when I sold my commission in the army and came home to handle the estate, Tarble had more time to pursue her.”
Vegeta stripped off his jacket and shoved it in Bulma’s arms.
“Are you claiming credit?” Bulma cocked her head in annoyance, taking his jacket without a thought.
“No!” he gave her his signature scowl, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, “And you shouldn’t be either.”
“I have every right to claim it because I know how much effort I put into supporting them. Not every man and woman are aware of their own feelings. Sometimes they must be teased out.”
“How would you know about such things?” Vegeta tossed the question over his shoulder as he stepped over to the selection of tools that hung on pegs along the wall. He grabbed clippers, “You’ve never fallen in love.”
“And I have no intention to. A husband would only tell me what to do, and I wouldn’t like that in the least. Besides, I don’t have to experience love for myself to see it in others. I’m not blind.”
Vegeta sighed and shook his head as he started clipping away a few of the twigs along the lemon tree’s trunk so the branches wouldn’t be so crowded.
“With two successful matches in my repertoire now,” Bulma grinned arrogantly, “I think I’ve found a purpose worth my attention.”
“Meddling in the lives of others?” Vegeta kept clipping away.
“Assisting in their happiness. What other cause is more worthy?”
“Two of anything does not make a pattern, Bulma. Your next attempt could be disastrous,” Vegeta clipped a few more twigs until he felt satisfied with his work, “It’s best to let such things play out for themselves. Let nature take its course.”
“I disagree. You aren’t letting nature take its course by pruning this tree. You want the larger branches to produce fruit, so you are taking steps to support them. It’s not so different in love. Some processes in romance require outside interference for best results.”
“But if I damage this tree in my own ignorance, it will not shed tears or accuse me of ruining its life.” The captain placed a fist on his hip.
She swallowed, and Vegeta thought for a moment she was actually pondering his words, but Bulma had only just noticed how thick his exposed forearms were.
“I have no… intention,” she drug her eyes off his vascular arms to look him in the eye, “of ruining anyone’s life.”
Vegeta leaned closer to whisper, “Then tread carefully.” Suddenly, he snatched his coat back from her arms. She jumped, startled.
“Vegeta, can you bring the clippers?” Mr. Briefs called out, “I want some fresh flowers for the house.”
“He’s not a servant, Papa,” Bulma reminded her father.
“Coming,” Vegeta shoved his coat in her arms again.
“I’m not a servant either!” she objected. Vegeta grinned as he waltzed away.