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Morning came bright and certain to My Cottage.
The light streamed through the tall windows without hesitation, filling the great bedchamber with a soft golden glow that reached the high ceiling and traced the carved lines of the furniture before settling gently across the bed.
Sophie woke slowly.
For a few quiet moments she did not move, only lay still beneath the covers, listening. The house held that particular early-morning hush she remembered from her earlier visit when the corridors were empty, the great rooms silent, and the estate seemed to be holding its breath before the day began.
She had slept in this room before but not in the bed. Just the chair, when she had looked after her now husband when he was recovering from his injury.
But her room had been one of the smaller guest rooms down the corridor. She remembered rising carefully then, determined not to inconvenience anyone, uncertain of where she might safely go or what she might touch.
Now she blinked up at the ceiling again.
This room was hers. What she shared with her husband who refused to even entertain her having her own room.
The realisation came quietly, not with excitement but with a slow, steady weight that settled somewhere deep in her chest.
I live here.
She pushed herself upright, her husband missing, evidently having risen before her as she looked around her new room, the linen falling around her, and looked about the room properly. Yesterday it had seemed grand, almost overwhelming in its elegance. This morning it felt… waiting. Not grand for display, but spacious enough to hold a life.
Her life.
Sophie slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. Outside, the grounds stretched wide and green, the lawns still silvered with dew. Mr Crabtree moved in the distance, and she watched him for a moment before the second realisation followed the first.
They were not fully staffed yet.
Only Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree were here. Mrs. Crabtree to manage the household, Mr. Crabtree to oversee what could be managed until the rest came, Alfie, Irma, John, Hazel expected within the week as she’d promised and begged them all to come.
Which meant, for now, the great house was quiet. Lightly occupied. Almost intimate despite its size.
Sophie’s fingers tightened slightly on the window frame.
She was not the uncertain guest who must keep to her room, nor the young woman careful not to give offence. The running of the house would soon fall to her. Meals, rooms prepared, fires laid, linens ordered, a household brought properly to life.
The thought might once have terrified her.
Instead, something steadier rose in its place.
Purpose.
She dressed carefully but without haste, smoothing her gown and pinning her hair with more care than strictly necessary. When she opened the bedchamber door, the wide corridor stretched away in both directions, quiet but no longer unfamiliar.
She walked it without hesitation.
Down the main staircase, the morning sounds began to reach her, the distant clatter of crockery, the faint murmur of Mrs. Crabtree’s voice from somewhere toward the servants’ wing, the smell of food drifting from the breakfast room.
And beneath it all, another sound.
Benedict’s voice.
Sophie paused in the doorway.
He stood near the long windows, coat discarded, shirtsleeves rolled, examining a sheet of paper with an expression of great seriousness. The breakfast table had been laid simply but neatly, and Mrs. Crabtree hovered nearby with the calm competence of a woman already assessing the rhythms of her new household.
At the sight of Sophie, Benedict looked up.
His face changed at once, the concentration giving way to warmth.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
The name still startled her, though she hoped he could not see it.
“Good morning my love”
Mrs. Crabtree dipped a respectful curtsey. “Good morning, ma’am. I trust you slept well?”
“Yes, very well, thank you, but please you can still me Sophie and you don’t need to curtsey”
The housekeeper gave a small, approving nod and withdrew discreetly with both women knowing Mrs Crabtree would never acquiesce, leaving them alone.
Benedict crossed to her, his gaze searching her face. “And what do you think of My Cottage this morning?”
Sophie glanced around the large room, the tall windows, the quiet that belonged to them now.
“It seems even larger than I remember,” she admitted.
He laughed softly. “The name was meant to be ironic. I fear the joke may have gone too far.”
“It does not feel too large,” she said after a moment. “Only… unfinished.”
His expression sharpened slightly. “Unfinished?”
“I think before since it was only a short stay I never really thought about it but now… with so few staff yet. It feels as though the house is waiting. Like a stage before the players arrive, like it’s waiting to become a home.”
Benedict studied her for a moment, something like pride warming his eyes.
“Will you mind it?” he asked quietly. “Seeing it brought into order? There is no expectation that you must manage everything yourself. Make it our home?”
Sophie looked toward the corridor, already imagining the rooms opened, the fires lit, voices and footsteps filling the spaces.
“I would like that very much” she said softly. “I think I should like it very much. I shall need something to keep me busy”
Then she met his gaze.
“I was only ever a guest here before.”
Benedict stepped closer.
“And now?”
She let out a small breath.
“Now it feels like home, like it’s My Cottage now too.”
His hand found hers, warm and certain.
And this time, the house did not feel vast at all, it was the start of a new beginning.