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Sophie was dozing off on the armchair, listening to the pelt of rain on the windowpane as it rattled from the storm’s winds. Benedict Bridgerton was out cold on the bed before her. This should’ve been a sufficient shock to keep her awake— a young lady, unchaperoned in the bedroom of a gentleman. But she found her eyes growing painfully heavy regardless of her current predicament.
“Mr. Bridgerton!”
A voice launched Sophie out of the chair. Somehow, it had become day, and yet she felt as unrested as she had when she’d fallen asleep hours ago. Sophie scrubbed at her face helplessly at the two elderly strangers in the room, knowing this needed an explanation. A particularly good explanation.
Benedict, thankfully, came to her rescue. Mrs. Crabtree and her husband were deescalated after hearing about their harrowing evening and Sophie’s attempts to heal Benedict’s wounds. They immediately shifted from scandalized to concerned.
“Well, you have had yourselves quite the night. Let me prepare breakfast for you now. And Mr. Bridgerton, you will certainly be staying in bed until further notice. You must be healed before you can return to London.”
As Benedict voiced his protests, Sophie felt herself grow wearier, if it were even possible to be more tired than she’d been last night. She pressed a wrist to her head briefly. This did not escape Benedict’s eyes, unfortunately.
“Sophie, are you unwell?”
“No, no,” she protested. “You are the one who is injured, sir. I’m perfectly alright.”
“We rode for hours in the rain. You may have caught a chill.” Concern tinged his tone. Benedict began to rise to examine her more closely.
“No, no, none of that now,” Mrs. Crabtree scolded, stopping him from getting up. “I’ll be tending to the young lady AND to you. Sophie, off to bed with you as well. I’ll bring in your breakfast. Shoo, child. Go on.” She waved Sophie out of the room towards her own.
Sophie caught a flash of Benedict’s anxious expression as she was herded away. Perhaps this was for the best. They’d convalesce separately for a few days and then return to London unharmed. The last thing she needed was to spend more time with Benedict Bridgerton. Every moment alone with him felt dangerous, as if her secrets would come pouring out of her. She needed to keep to her place, and to do that, she needed to stay away from Mr. Bridgerton.
Sophie slipped back into the rumpled sheets she’d fled from in the middle of the night. Recalling Benedict’s moans of pain, she clutched a hand to her chest. For a moment, she’d been truly frightened that he’d been dying. Seeing the flash of blood on his shirt as he cried out in a delirium… Knowing that with the storm and foreign area, there was no way to fetch help… Once again, Sophie pressed a hand to her temple to ease her growing headache. All was well now, she reassured herself. Everything had worked out just fine, and now she could rest before her return to London. London, where her stepmother may indeed make good on her threats. Ugh. She pulled the sheets over her and shook them as if that would make the thoughts disappear. She could not worry over what would happen in London now.
The cool and soft silk pillow felt heavenly under her cheek. It had been some time since she’d been in such a luxurious bed. Her eyes were closed before she could help it and she drifted off well before Mrs. Crabtree returned with breakfast.
“Rest, certainly, and fresh air…” a strange voice was saying. Sophie wished to ignore it and continue to rest. It may be of importance, though, so she wrenched her eyes open. An older man with a shock of bushy brown hair was standing above her. He was speaking across her body to someone else. Sophie knew she should be concerned that a strange man was in her room, especially since she was in an unfamiliar place, but oddly, the feeling did not come to her.
“Mm?” she questioned, her eyes fluttering closed once more. Her body felt utterly drained.
“Miss Sophie? Miss?” She was gently jostled by the stranger which roused a groan of protest.
“Sophie?” This time, her eyes popped open. That voice was…
“Benedict? Why are you… What is going on?”
“You’re ill, Sophie. You’ve been resting for a day, but you have a fever now. It was all that rain, I’m certain of it… Mr. Crabtree fetched Doctor Ephraim from town. He’s checked on both of us now.”
Sophie let Benedict’s words wash over her as he analyzed her face. He looked quite pale himself, and he seemed very disconcerted. One of his arms was clamped across his middle, while the other perched on it. His free hand was curled in front of his lips. It was a pose that made him seem deep in thought. Troubled, even.
“Sophie?”
Oops, she’d forgotten to respond. “Oh. Yes, I do think I am feeling ill.”
Her response seemed to fail to reassure Benedict, whose eyes glew with even more concern. His eyes were so lovely, she thought to herself. So expressive. Very kind eyes, indeed, she mused. The doctor continued speaking, saying something about rest, and Sophie nodded drowsily until he finally left.
Once more, she was alone. She felt time slipping away as she closed her eyes, but couldn’t manage to rouse herself. When she was lucid again, she knew it had been many hours since the previous encounter. She awoke to Mrs. Crabtree at her bedside, mending clothing.
“Ah, you’re awake dear. Here, do drink some tea now. How do you feel?”
Sophie’s head pounded something vicious. Her hands trembled as she accepted the tea. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, poor dear,” Mrs. Crabtree commiserated with a click of her tongue. “You just rest and recover now. No need to worry at all about a thing. You’ll be right as rain with some rest, so says the doctor. Now, let me fetch you some barley porridge. You must get some food into yourself.”
Mrs. Crabtree refused Sophie’s attempts to reject the meal and left to return with something to eat. As much as she knew it was important to eat something, her stomach roiled against the idea.
“Sophie?” Benedict appeared at her door as if on cue. “How are you feeling?”
Sophie grimaced. She was sure she looked awful. And even worse, exposed. Her hair was loose, her temple sweaty from fever. Certainly not a state for Mr. Bridgerton to see her in. “Not my best, I’m afraid.” She hoped that she was already flushed from her temperature because if not, she would certainly be turning red now.
“Is there anyone you should like me to write to, to inform them of your condition?”
Sophie sunk back into the pillows ever so slightly. “No, there is no need.”
Benedict seemed irked by her admission. “No? But surely your family will worry. Even if they are far away, they must expect letters from you. And if they hear of your dismissal from the Cavenders, they will be—”
“No, I mean– I have no one.” Sophie cut in with a neutral, if cold, tone. “There is no one to write.”
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Benedict spoke. “Oh. I see. I apologize.”
She heaved a sigh. “It was a kind offer. I’d take you up on it, if I had… other circumstances.”
Mrs. Crabtree blessedly returned with the bowl of porridge. “Back to bed this instance, Mr. Bridgerton! I swear to you, I will write to your mother if you refuse to stay in bed—” She chased him out, chastising him all the way.
Sophie managed a smile at the exchange and scraped her food around in its bowl. Mrs. Crabtree swiftly returned to ensure that she forced down a few bites before exhaustion overcame her again.
Once more, time came and went. Sophie felt cool cloths on her head, heard voices speaking above her, and recalled being spoon-fed broth. Things happened in flashes. She had vague impressions of the days, but the specificities were nebulous. She felt drained and exhausted from the fever. Her body ached constantly and she shivered no matter how well tended the fireplace was.
Now, Araminta was standing over her, her hand poised to slap. Sophie felt very small, like a child again, as she cowered. “Please… don’t,” she begged. “I’ll be good, I promise!”
Her stepmother gritted her teeth in rage. “Worthless thing! I should’ve thrown you out as I moved in!”
“Father wouldn’t have allowed it,” Sophie sobbed. “He loved me!”
Araminta grabbed Sophie’s wrist and dragged her up. “He was not your father! And he certainly did not love an illegitimate girl with a whore servant for a mother!”
The harsh words made Sophie quiver. “No,” she babbled helplessly, “that isn’t true— please, stop saying these things… Please… Let me go…”
Benedict, now mostly recovered himself, had been drawn to Sophie’s bedside by the noise of her sleep-talk. She’d been whimpering at first, which was frightening enough, but it had escalated to feverish ramblings.
“Everything is fine, Sophie. You’re in the country. No one will hurt you,” he soothed in a gentle tone. Inside, his heart was breaking. Sophie’s illness was not only causing her to suffer physically, but these damned nightmares were tormenting her as well. Although he couldn't make out everything she said, he could tell that she was begging someone to stop hurting her and was calling for her father.
He couldn’t imagine how hard it was to be alone in the world. Despite losing his father, Benedict had no shortage of protectors throughout his life. He’d never wondered who would tend his bedside if he were ill, or would come to him if he called out for help. Sophie had no one. It hurt his heart to think of it.
“I’m here, Sophie,” he reassured. Even if she did not know who he was in her current state, he seemed to calm her. Perhaps a male presence reminded her of her father. Regardless, he’d been at her bedside since the ramblings had begun. He wouldn’t depart until they’d eased.
He dabbed a wet cloth across her forehead. It had been two full days since she was lucid. Her fever had intensified rather than lessened as the doctor had hoped. Mr. Crabtree had sought Dr. Ephraim again, who would return this evening for a second examination. Benedict did not know what he would do if the doctor’s news was poor.
Sophie’s eyes opened blearily, unfocused and red-rimmed. “Please, don’t…”
Benedict hushed her softly. “Shhh, shhh, you’re okay. Sophie, can you hear me? Are you with me now?” He couldn’t restrain himself from grabbing her hand. He gently stroked it as he spoke.
“Benedict! Help,” she cried out in fear and confusion. Benedict grasped her hand more tightly, leaning over her prone body. The all-encompassing urgent fear in her tone made his heart and pulse race. His heart ached something fierce at knowing that she was so haunted by something.
“I’m here, my dear. I’m right here. You need not worry,” he avowed. Her quavering body finally began to still at his words. “You’re ill, darling. You’re alright, but need to rest. You keep having nightmares.”
“Oh. Are you better?”
Benedict huffed out a laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fit as an ox. You just worry about yourself.”
“She keeps yelling at me,” Sophie pouted.
“No one is here but us. It was just a dream.” Benedict barely restrained himself from asking who she referred to. As much as he wanted to find and ruin this mysterious adversary, he couldn’t take advantage of Sophie in this state. He knew that she’d never tell him such a thing if she had control over her faculties.
“Oh, that’s good. I thought she was here.” Sophie yawned again.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep now? The doctor will be here soon.”
“I don’t want more bad dreams,” she muttered into the pillow. “Will you…” she trailed off.
“Will I what, dear Sophie?”
“Stay?” she requested, echoing his own request on the night they’d arrived.
Benedict chucked. “Of course.” As Sophie’s breathing evened out once more, he looked down at his lap. His sketch pad was open to his current work-in-progress. Sketching Sophie was a natural thing for an artist to do in such a circumstance, he reasoned. There was nothing else to do as he waited at her bedside. And she was so very captivating, even in sleep.
Perhaps 10 sketches of her sleeping form was a bit much, though. He flipped through each one slowly, analyzing the differences. One caught her face as it had been turned toward him. Her face was perfectly relaxed and at rest. Another sketch caught the form of her body under the sheets, her curves on display. His current sketch showed her in a fit of nightmares. He couldn’t get the image of her in distress out of his mind, so onto the page it went.
He drew sketch after sketch until the doctor appeared. He examined Sophie again, taking care to listen to her chest and breathing. They withdrew from the room to speak once he finished.
“Well,” the doctor began, “she does not show signs of pneumonia, which is excellent news. The fever, however, is cause for obvious concern. This medicine must be administered twice per day until the fever improves. She is in a fragile state, Mr. Bridgerton. I’m afraid there is not much more to be done other than to medicate her and to continue caring for her per my previous instructions. She is young and strong, if a bit underweight. There is every hope that she will regain her health.”
“Not much more to be done? In a fragile state?” Benedict scoffed, taking the medicine bottle from the doctor’s hands with shaking fingers. “Are you not a doctor? Is this the only reassurance you can grant?”
“I apologize, Mr. Bridgerton, but the field medicine has only come so far. As I said, her odds are good. You must continue cooling the fever with water, keeping her warm, and feeding her broth as often as she will take it. This medicine will aid her body in reducing the fever. It may take time for her to recover, but she seems like a stubborn young lady. She is fighting through the worst of it now.”
Benedict gazed out of a window as he contemplated the doctor’s words. “Did you say she was underweight?”
“Mm, yes, most certainly. It has certainly worsened now, after several days of illness, but she must have been underweight when she arrived here. Once the fever goes down, that should be a simple fix, though.”
“I see,” Benedict replied in deep thought.
After paying the physician and seeing him off, Benedict returned to his office. He’d been putting off writing his mother, but it was past time for him to explain his whereabouts. She’d expected him back in town days ago already.
Dear Mother, he began. I apologize for the delay in my correspondence. I assure you that I am well, but… He slowly recounted the story, adjusting a few details to ensure that his mother would not worry over his injury. As soon as the letter was sealed, he had nothing to do but return to the matter of Sophie. Sophie, who’d been working for the Cavenders, who should’ve been fed decently well in her position. Why would she be underweight? The thought bothered Benedict more than he cared to admit. Sophie gave the impression that she was running from something, and he desperately wanted to know what it was from. Her nightmares alone were endlessly frustrating to him. He knew he was no one to her, but damn it all, he wanted to protect her. To keep her safe from harm. He’d done a piss poor job of that, though, driving her off into a storm that caused a serious illness.
Raking a hand through his hair, Benedict forced himself to get outside for a walk and possibly a swim. He’d go mad if he stayed inside any longer, sketching even more photos of a maid that he was growing overly attached to.
Two more days passed with no change in Sophie’s condition. Just when Benedict was beginning to consider calling in a different physician from London, the fever finally broke. Mrs. Crabtree reported that Sophie had finally awoken, eaten a full meal, and had felt well enough to bathe before she fell asleep once more.
The news washed over Benedict like a wave. He hadn’t realized how terrified he’d been until he heard that Sophie was doing better. Mrs. Crabtree had seen the intense, naked relief on his face immediately. She’d looked disapproving in response, but Benedict couldn’t find it within himself to care. He knew that he was getting inappropriately obsessive. He knew that he shouldn’t care about Sophie in such a way. And yet, he couldn’t help it. He’d already broken plenty of society’s rules– what was one more?
That night, when she’d awoken once more, he was already at her bedside reading letters.
“Ah,” he said, folding the parchment back up. “I hear someone is feeling better.”
Sophie blinked several times at him. “Benedict… I mean, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Benedict,” he corrected softly. “Tell me, do you feel much improved?”
She seemed to take stock of herself for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do. I am still very tired, and sore, but I feel much more like myself.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it.”
The two paused and stared at one another. Benedict gazed at Sophie’s pale face, her deep and dark eyes, her loose and wild hair. In turn, she watched him back, cataloguing his disheveled dress and the bags underneath his sleepless eyes.
“I hope I have not caused you much trouble, sir.”
Benedict couldn’t help it. He snickered derisively and shook his head.
“Sir?”
“Much trouble. Much trouble, she says.” Without thinking, he launched forward, grabbing her hands in his. “I thought you may not recover. You were fraught with nightmares, of someone hurting you. The fever would not lessen, and I could not do anything to stop it.” His words began to choke him. To his horror, his eyes grew wet. He released her and sat back on his chair. “I apologize. I do not know what is wrong with me. We’ve just met, and yet I feel as if I have known you much longer.”
Sophie looked guilty. Her gaze shifted down and away. Benedict followed her gaze to the trunk in the corner of the room, the same one that she’s brought with her, full of her belongings.
Benedict did not know what possessed him, but in a flash, he was across the room and ripping off the lid of the trunk. There, laying across the top, was a single silken glove. A silver glove. He picked it up and instantly recalled the fabric. This was the match to the glove of the Lady in Silver from the masquerade. He spun around to face Sophie, completely flabbergasted.
Sophie stared back in horror. She swallowed hard, clearly attempting to gather herself enough to speak.
“You,” he breathed, “it was you. You were the one from the masquerade. How? How is this possible?” He crossed the room, back to her bedside, kneeling on the floor next to her. “Sophie, how is it possible?”
Her eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she wrenched out, as if in physical pain from the words. “I lied to you. Yes, we met at the masquerade. I never thought we’d meet again. My sisters were invited, and snuck in.” She couldn’t take it anymore. She covered her face with her hands, scrunching up in a seated position, unable to bear the explanation.
“Your sisters? I don’t understand. How were your sisters invited? And I thought you claimed you had no family?”
Sophie sobbed into her hands. “I— I don’t— I’m sorry, I just can’t—”
Before he knew what he was doing, he slid into the space next to her. Benedict wrapped his arms around her and allowed her to cry for a moment.
She took a fortifying breath before attempting to explain once more. “I was born to a gentleman, but my mother was not a lady. She was his maid. She died, and my father married. His new wife did not care for me, only for her own daughters. When my father died, I was forced to become my stepmother’s servant. But we had a disagreement, and she threw me out. She spread rumors to destroy my reputation. I had to flee to the countryside to find work. Before we fought, I snuck into the ball to see what life could’ve been like. If my father had lived, if my mother had not been low-born. I’m sorry. I lied to you, I pretended to be someone I was not.”
Benedict cradled her in his arms. “Do not apologize. Do not. I am so happy to have found you, my Lady in Silver. I was searching for you unceasingly. You’ve occupied my every thought since I met you. Even before I knew you were the one I was looking for, I have been captivated by you, drawn to you. You, Sophie. You are the one I want.” He took his face into his hands and wiped away her stray tears. “Please, let me take care of you.”
At those words, Sophie melted into his embrace. He held her tightly until the tears stopped, until her body finally untensed and she fell asleep in his arms. When her breathing was slow and even, he tucked her back into the sheets and left her to rest.
In his studio, he feverishly finished his portrait of the Lady in Silver. He painted Sophie’s face into it, holding her visage in his mind. He nursed a glass of scotch as he painted. His thoughts were racing. He’d found his lady, and she was on the mend. But there was more to be done. If Sophie was born to a nobleman, there was a chance for them to be together. He didn’t know how exactly, but he knew it was possible, and if it was possible, it was as good as done. Sophie was his. He’d known that from the moment he’d laid eyes on her in the garden. She would never be alone in the world again. Not if he had any air left in his body. He would fix this, bring her home, and make her his wife. There was simply no other option.
As he placed the finishing touches on the portrait, Benedict stepped back to admire it. Sophie’s bright eyes stared back at him from the canvas. Her rosy lips, two perfect rosebuds, were painted onto her soft face. The mask dangled from her hand, no longer needed. He finished his drink in one long swallow and made a vow to himself: Sophie would never be hidden away, never feel the need to conceal herself, never to be made to feel less than due to the circumstances of her birth. In due time, she would be a Bridgerton, and he would protect her with everything he had. With that, he departed the room to write to his mother, who would surely devise an elegant solution and ensure that he married the love of his life without delay.