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The silence of his studio, usually a sacred refuge, seemed to have developed an unusual sharpness that afternoon. Each time his brush caressed the canvas with a decisive stroke, the faint rustle of the bristles resonated in Benedict’s head like the scratch of a claw upon parchment. Benedict shook his head, attempting to dispel the strange sensation of dullness. "Too much wine last night" he murmured to himself, rubbing his right temple. But he knew it was not true. He had barely partaken of two glasses.
He focused on the detail of a shadow falling across a drapery, but when he tilted his head to the right to evaluate the perspective, the world suddenly decided not to follow him. The floor gave an invisible lurch. Benedict had to seize the edge of his easel to keep from staggering, as an acute pang, like a white-hot needle, pierced through his ear down to his jaw. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. ’Tis only fatigue, he told himself, closing his eyes tightly. Too many hours under this artificial light. My equilibrium is suffering, that is all.
He reopened his eyes, but the sensation of cotton wool in his right ear had worsened. It was as if half of his world had been submerged in cotton, isolating him from the natural sounds of the room. He could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ear canal, a dull, insistent rhythm that seemed to deride his attempts at concentration.
He tried to take up his palette once more, but the tip of his brush trembled just millimetres from the canvas. The distance between his hand and the painting seemed to intermittently dilate and contract, rendering every calculation of depth an exercise in pure agony.
"Mr Benedict?"
The voice of a servant behind the door made him start. The sound, though muffled, caused a painful vibration that prompted him to instinctively bring a hand to his ear, covering it as if he could shield himself from the intrusion.
"Tea is served in the drawing room, sir. Lady Bridgerton and Miss Eloise are awaiting you."
Benedict straightened his back, ignoring the way the room seemed to perform a slow waltz around him. He wiped the paint from his fingers, forcing a deep breath.
"I shall be there presently" he replied, his own voice sounding strange and metallic in his head.
He carefully arranged the cloth over the canvas, trying to ignore the fact that the heat he felt on his right cheek had nothing to do with the glow of the hearth. He was an artist, after all; he was accustomed to suffering for his craft. But that throbbing pain, so alien and deep, began to whisper to him that exhaustion was not the only culprit.
~
The corridor leading to the drawing room seemed longer than usual to Benedict, and every footfall echoed in his head like the tolling of a bell. When he crossed the threshold, the afternoon light filtering through the large windows struck him with unexpected violence, causing him to instinctively squeeze his eyelids shut.
"At last, Benedict! We were beginning to fear you had decided to dine with your pigments" Violet exclaimed, lifting the silver teapot.
He offered a lopsided smile, the one that usually dissolved any tension, and sank into an armchair. The abrupt movement caused his stomach to perform a dizzying waltz, and for a moment, he had to plant his feet firmly on the floor to avoid the impression of sliding away.
"The light was... particularly stimulating today, Mother" he replied. His own voice reached him filtered, as if he were speaking from beneath the surface of a pond.
Violet leaned forward to hand him his cup but froze halfway. Her blue eyes, usually so soft, narrowed in an expression of stern disappointment. She had immediately spotted the scarlet flush creeping up Benedict’s jaw, disappearing beneath his starched shirt collar and inflaming the base of his neck.
"Benedict Bridgerton" she said in a tone that brokered no argument, setting the cup down with a sharp clatter on the tray. "It is still but late afternoon."
Benedict blinked, confused by the shift in tone. "I beg your pardon?"
"Do not deny it. That flush upon your cheek is unmistakable" Violet continued, crossing her arms. "I had hoped that after the last revelry with Lord Fife, you had learned the value of moderation. To present yourself at family tea in such a state..."
Benedict felt a lancinating pain shoot from his earlobe down toward his throat just as he attempted to swallow. If only it were the alcohol, he thought bitterly. The heat his mother mistook for the aftermath of a drinking bout was, in truth, a fire he felt blazing beneath his skin.
"I assure you, I have not touched a drop of anything but water, Mother" he lied, but his voice was cracked with a note of exhaustion that did little to aid his cause.
"Quite so, and I am Queen Charlotte" Violet retorted with an impatient sigh, pouring the tea with brisk gestures. "A modicum of decorum, if you please. At least before your sisters."
Across the small table, Eloise had not uttered a word. She remained hidden behind her book, yet Benedict felt her gaze upon him. It was not Violet’s look of reproach; it was something more analytical, more piercing.
Eloise slowly lowered her volume, observing how her brother involuntarily pressed the palm of his hand against his jaw, and how his head remained tilted at an unnatural angle toward his left shoulder, as if trying to shield the right side of his face from the slightest movement of air. She noted that he was not touching his favourite biscuits, the mere sound of mastication would have been a torment Benedict was not prepared to face, and that his eyes were not glassy from wine, but from a suffering he was desperately trying to mask.
She said nothing. She merely raised an eyebrow, staring at him with an intensity that made Benedict break into a cold sweat.
"Would you like some sugar, Benedict?" Eloise asked, her voice unusually calm. "Or would you perhaps prefer a bit of... silence?"
Benedict looked at her, caught off guard, and the slightest movement of his neck stole his breath away. "Sugar will be quite fine, Eloise. Thank you."
~
The relief had been deceptive, one of those malicious truces the body grants before the final assault. As he adjusted his cravat before the looking glass, Benedict had noted that the flush had faded into a gaunt pallor, and the pain had dwindled to a distant hum, nearly negligible.
Merely a chill, he had told himself, convinced that the hours spent in his freezing studio were the sole cause of that fleeting malaise.
But Lady Danbury’s ball was no place for a man with a precarious sense of balance. The light from thousands of candles pricked his eyes, and the orchestra’s music, usually so joyous, ricocheted against the ballroom walls, reaching his right ear like electric shocks.
"Benedict, if you persist in holding your head at such an angle, people will think you are attempting to overhear conversations from the floorboards" Eloise murmured, appearing at his side with the habitual grace of a suspicious cat.
Benedict winced, and the movement triggered a sharp pang that shot from his eardrum to lodge itself deep within his skull. "I am merely... studying the perspective, Eloise" he lied, forcing a smile that did not reach his eyes. "The light in this salon falls quite fascinatingly upon the mouldings. I am seeking the perfect angle for a sketch."
"Perspective" she repeated, skeptical. "Quite. And I am an enthusiastic debutante. You have not touched a morsel of food, you look as though you are about to be executed, and you have not danced so much as a single quadrille."
"I am an artist, not an acrobat" he shot back, though his voice sounded thin.
At that precise moment, the orchestra struck up a particularly spirited waltz. The sudden shift in rhythm and the rapid whirl of couples around him were the final straw. The floor beneath Benedict’s feet seemed to tilt abruptly, transforming into the deck of a ship amidst a storm. Nausea surged through him, violent and sudden.
He staggered backward, losing all sense of space. The world spun dizzily to the right.
"Steady on, there!" A firm hand gripped his arm, stabilising him before he could hit the floor. Anthony was looking at him with a mixture of irritation and embarrassment, supporting half his weight. "Benedict, for heaven’s sake! I told you not to overindulge in the punch. You are making a spectacle of yourself."
"Anthony, I..." Benedict tried to explain, but the words died in his throat. The mere effort of keeping his eyes open caused such a lancinating pain in his ear that he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.
"That is enough. We are leaving before you manage to slide under a table and ruin Hyacinth’s reputation before she has even debuted" the Viscount cut him short, deciding it was time to call for the carriage.
The journey home was a nightmare of velvet and jolts. Benedict was slumped in the corner of the carriage, his head pressed against the cold wood of the panelling which, however rigid, was the only thing that seemed to remain stationary. His eyes were clamped shut, his breath shallow, and he felt himself slipping into a dense fog where the only fixed point was the throbbing pain that now occupied half his face.
"Look at him, he is completely far gone" Anthony huffed, crossing his arms as he observed his younger brother. "I have never seen him hold his liquor so poorly. Tomorrow morning he shall have a lecture on honour that he won't soon forget."
"Anthony, hush" Eloise intervened. Her tone was sharp, devoid of its usual irony.
The Viscount arched an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
"He has not been drinking" she said, leaning forward to better observe Benedict’s profile in the shadows of the carriage. "I have kept my eye on him all evening. He has not touched a glass. Something is wrong, Anthony. Look at his breathing... and that flush from this afternoon has not vanished; it has only grown darker."
Anthony stopped huffing. He leaned in, scrutinising his brother with clinical attention. He noticed the small grimace of agony that contorted Benedict’s face with every jolt of the wheels upon the cobblestones, and the way his right hand was clenched into a fist, as if trying to physically hold back the pain.
"Benedict?" Anthony called him, this time without a trace of mockery.
No answer. Only a heavy, labored breathing.
The Viscount exchanged a worried look with Eloise. His anger over the presumed drunkenness gave way to a tense vigilance, typical of the head of the family.
"Very well" Anthony said in a low voice, as if not to disturb that fragile equilibrium. "We shall get him to his room the moment we arrive. We will send for the doctor if a fever should take hold. I shall keep watch over him tonight."
~
The arrival at Bridgerton House was a silent and strained procession. Anthony, possessing a strength he rarely had to exert upon his grown brothers, supported Benedict up the grand staircase, ignoring the whispered inquiries of the servants.
Once the door to Benedict’s bedchamber was closed, the silence of the room felt almost solid, broken only by the shallow breath of the second Bridgerton son.
"Sit, Benedict. Before you decide to use the rug as a bed," Anthony commanded, no longer irritated, but permeated by a restless vigilance.
Benedict let himself fall onto the edge of the mattress, his head bowed. The world continued to sway slightly, as if the room were submerged in deep waters. With trembling fingers, he attempted to undo the knot of his cravat, but coordination seemed to have abandoned him.
"Leave it. You shall only make a worse knot of it" Anthony said, firmly brushing his hands aside. He began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt with swift, precise movements. "Now, tell me the truth. And do not attempt to sell me that tale of 'artistic perspective' you gave Eloise. What is untoward?"
Benedict shook his head, regretting it an instant later as a sharp pang pierced his right ear, radiating up to his temple. "Nothing, Anthony. Merely... a long day. I spent too much time before the canvas; the scent of oil and turpentine has gone to my head. I simply need sleep. A full night, and tomorrow I shall be as good as new."
Anthony did not reply at once. He observed him as he eased the shirt off his shoulders. Benedict was pale, almost diaphanous under the light of the few remaining candles, yet he did not seem ill in the traditional sense.
The Viscount extended a hand, brushing the back of it against his brother’s forehead and then his cheek, searching for the tell-tale heat of a fever. Benedict’s skin was cool, almost cold due to the light sweat beading at his hairline. No fever, Anthony thought, slightly relieved but still unconvinced.
"No fever" Anthony murmured, narrowing his eyes. "But you do not look well."
He moved his hand lower, feeling for the lymph nodes beneath the jaw, an instinctive gesture he often performed with Gregory when the lad seemed to be harbouring an ailment. No sooner had his fingers brushed the base of the neck, just below the right earlobe, than Benedict gave a violent flinch. It was not a conscious movement. It was an involuntary reflex, a jolt of pure agony that made him start upon the mattress, pulling away from his brother’s touch as if he had been scalded.
"Benedict?" Anthony remained with his hand suspended in mid-air, his heart quickening its beat. "Did I hurt you?"
"No" Benedict replied too quickly, his voice cracking. He brought a hand to his face, pressing hard against his temple, trying to mask the fact that that simple touch had sent electric shocks coursing through the entire right side of his skull. "I am merely... tense. The muscles of my neck are knotted. Please, Anthony. Go to sleep. I am quite fine."
Anthony remained motionless for a long moment, studying the rigid line of his brother’s back. He knew Benedict was lying. He knew that flinch was not due to exhaustion. But he also knew how stubborn a Bridgerton could be when he decided he did not wish to be a burden.
"Very well" he said at last, tucking the blankets around him with a briskness that concealed his worry. "Sleep. But know this: if I do not see you at breakfast tomorrow looking decent, I shall send for the doctor before you can even say 'palette'. Have I made myself clear?"
"Crystal" Benedict murmured against the pillow, finally closing his eyes and allowing the fog to envelop him, hoping that the darkness would carry away that dull, cruel throbbing that showed no sign of ceasing.
~
Morning brought with it an illusion of recovery, one of those cruel truces that infections grant before the final assault. Benedict awoke feeling strangely light; the lancinating pain of the night had dwindled to a dull ache, like a distant echo, and the vertigo seemed to have vanished.
At breakfast, his appetite was the greatest reassurance for the family. He devoured eggs, bacon, and even a second portion of toast under Anthony’s watchful eye.
"I see the 'excess of turpentine' has been flushed out" the Viscount remarked, looking up from his papers with an expression that remained slightly guarded. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a log" Benedict replied, offering a smile that, for once, seemed almost authentic. "You were right, Anthony. Merely exhaustion."
Anthony studied him for a long moment, searching for any trace of the previous night’s flinch, but seeing Benedict eat with such vigour, he allowed himself to relax. "Very well. I have arrears to attend to with the land agent, and then I must see Simon. Try not to faint over any more canvases today."
Left "free" from his elder brother’s surveillance, Benedict made the mistake of overestimating himself. When Violet proposed a promenade in Hyde Park with Eloise and Hyacinth, he accepted with an enthusiastic nod. The fresh air would do him good, he thought.
But no sooner had they stepped outside than the world began to shift once more.
The biting morning chill seemed to slide straight into his right ear like a blade of ice. With every step upon the gravel path, the crunch of stones beneath his boots echoed in his skull with the force of an explosion.
"Benedict, look! That swan seems almost to be posing for you" Hyacinth exclaimed, gesturing toward the Serpentine.
He turned sharply to look, and disaster struck. The vertigo returned with such violence that it stole his very breath; the path seemed to tilt vertically.
"Yes... 'tis... a fine... f-fowl" Benedict slurred. The words came out thick, as if his tongue had suddenly grown too large for his mouth. The pain in his ear had erupted anew, so fierce it blurred his vision.
Violet stopped dead, her heart leaping into her throat. "Benedict? What did you say?"
He tried to reply, but managed only an indistinct sound, a sort of muddled murmur. His cheek, previously pale, was now a bright, fiery red, and his eyes failed to focus on his mother’s face. He began to sway dangerously on the spot.
"Benedict!" Violet seized his arm, panic colouring her voice. "Good heavens, you are burning up even through your coat! Eloise, help me, he is about to swoon!"
Eloise, who had never truly taken her eyes off him, was at his side in an instant, grasping his other arm. "We must get him away from here, at once. Mother, if he falls here in front of half the Ton, we shall never hear the end of it."
"Hyacinth, run and call for the carriage! Quickly!" Violet ordered, struggling to support the weight of her son, who seemed to be slipping away.
Benedict tried to protest, to say he was fine, but only clipped, nonsensical syllables passed his lips. The fog he had tried to dispel had returned, black and dense, and this time there was no escaping it. With Eloise’s help and Violet’s desperate support, they hauled him toward the carriage just as a group of ladies approached.
"Smile, Benedict, for mercy’s sake, pretend to laugh!" Eloise hissed through her teeth, as they practically hoisted him up the steps of the vehicle.
The moment the carriage doors latched shut, Benedict collapsed against the seat, his breath heavy and broken. The charade was over.
~
In the gloom of the carriage, the silence was broken only by Benedict’s ragged breathing and the frantic clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones. Violet did not waste a second. She stripped off a glove and pressed her bare hand against her son’s cheek, recoiling at the heat radiating from him.
"It is a fire" she whispered, her voice trembling with terror. With maternal tenderness, she brushed back his unruly hair, her fingers glancing over the area behind his right ear. Benedict let out a strangled groan, an animal sound he would never have wished his mother to hear, and tried to pull his head away with an uncoordinated jerk.
"It is swollen, Eloise. It is all swollen and taut behind the jaw" Violet cried, tears beginning to cloud her eyes. "It was not the wine... oh, my poor boy, how could I have been so blind?"
"Now is not the time for guilt, Mother" Eloise replied, though her voice was unusually high-pitched. She gripped Benedict’s hand tightly, though he seemed not to notice, lost as he was in a delirium of pain and vertigo. "We must simply get him home."
When the carriage drew to a halt before Bridgerton House, Anthony was already upon the steps, alerted by their sudden return. His expression shifted from irritation to sheer panic the moment he saw the door swing open.
"What has happened? Why have you retur..." The words died in his throat when he saw Benedict. His brother could not even descend on his own; he hung from the shoulders of Eloise and their mother, his head lolling and his eyes half-closed.
"Anthony, help him! Quickly!" Violet shrieked.
Anthony leapt forward, taking his brother’s weight almost entirely. "Benedict? Look at me!"
But Benedict could only manage to flutter his eyelids for an instant. "An-thony... too much... noise..." he slurred, before pressing his face against the Viscount’s shoulder, seeking refuge from a light and from sounds that were now torturing him.
"Take him upstairs, to his room!" Violet commanded her eldest son.
"Yes, I have him. Run and fetch Dr. Fullbright. Tell him it is urgent. Now!" Anthony barked at the servants.
As Anthony ascended the stairs with Benedict’s heavy frame in his arms, he could feel the heat of the infection radiating through his coat. Every step was a torment for Benedict, who flinched at the slightest jolt.
Once in the bedchamber, they laid him upon the bed. Violet immediately began to unbutton his collar, while Anthony finally observed the right side of his brother’s face up close: the skin was glossy, taut, and a frightening purplish-red that started from the ear and cascaded down the neck.
"Stubborn fool" Anthony cursed under his breath, yet his hand, as he wiped the sweat from Benedict’s brow, was incredibly gentle. "You could have told me. Why did you not tell me?"
Benedict did not answer. He had slipped into that limbo where pain becomes the sole inhabitant of the world, and the only thing he could do was clutch the sheets, waiting for someone to extinguish the fire ravaging his head.
The wait for the physician seemed to stretch into eternity, turning every minute into an hour of agony. The room was bathed in a thick twilight, broken only by the flickering glow of candles that Anthony had insisted on keeping low, noticing how Benedict winced at the smallest ray of light.
Benedict lay on his side, the right side of his face buried in the pillow, but the pain had become too great to be contained by his legendary pride. A muffled sob escaped his lips, followed by a trail of hot tears that lined his pale cheekbone.
"Benedict" Anthony whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. He placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling his brother’s muscles as rigid as a violin string. "Look at me. I cannot help you if you do not speak to me."
Benedict let out a sharp wail, pressing the palm of his hand against his ear in a desperate gesture, as if he wanted to crush the pain or stop his head from exploding. "Anthony... please... it hurts too much" he finally confessed, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper broken by gasps for air.
Anthony felt a tug at his heart he hadn't felt in years. To see Benedict, the brother always ready with a jest, the one who seemed to float above life’s troubles with an artist’s grace, reduced to this state of total vulnerability shook him to his core.
"I know, I know it hurts" Anthony replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite his concern. With extreme caution, he brushed away a lock of hair soaked with sweat. "But you must be precise. Tell me exactly what ails you. Is it your head? Your throat? Where do you feel the pain most fiercely?"
Benedict clenched his teeth so hard his jaw seemed to snap. "The ear" he wheezed, as another wave of throbbing pain made him flinch. "Inside... It beats, Anthony... like a drum. Every breath... every sound... is a knife."
He curled up even more, bringing his knees to his chest. "I feel... I feel as if... my head wants to split in two. Please, make it stop."
Anthony realised with horror that the noise Benedict spoke of was not external; it was the beat of his own heart thundering in the inflamed ear. The Viscount shot a glance at the door, wishing with all his might to see the doctor appear.
"Hold on, Ben" he murmured, beginning to soak a cloth in cool water to try and bring some small relief to that burning neck. "Hold on. The doctor is coming. I am not leaving you, I promise."
~
Dr. Fullbright entered the room with the haste of one who knew well the urgency of an infection that had reached its critical phase. The stale scent of fever in the chamber was broken by the pungent aroma of antiseptic and the leather of his medical bag.
"Do not move him more than is strictly necessary" the physician ordered, approaching the bed. Anthony did not budge, remaining seated beside Benedict, holding fast to his brother’s hand, which continued to clutch the sheets until his knuckles turned white.
The doctor raised a candle to examine the ear canal. The moment the light touched Benedict’s face, he let out a strangled sound, attempting to bury his countenance in the crook of Anthony’s arm.
"The inflammation is severe. The canal is almost entirely occluded by the swelling" Fullbright pronounced in a grave voice. He withdrew a small bottle of dark glass and a pipette. "We must administer laudanum and medicated oils directly within. They shall dull the pain, but the contact will be... unpleasant."
"Do what you must" Anthony replied, tightening his grip on his brother’s hand. "Ben, listen to me. You must remain still. Only for an instant."
"No... Ant, no..." Benedict pleaded, his voice reduced to a wheeze. He felt terror mounting as the doctor decisively tilted his head onto the healthy side, exposing the right ear, red and throbbing under the pitiless light.
Fullbright raised the pipette. A single, heavy drop of amber liquid hung suspended for an infinite second before falling.
When the liquid touched the taut, inflamed eardrum, the effect was devastating. For Benedict, it was not like receiving a drop of medicine; it was as if someone had poured molten lead directly onto his brain.
"ARGH!" The cry died in his throat in a gasp of pure agony. Benedict’s body arched violently, a nervous reaction that Anthony only just managed to contain by pressing his own weight upon his brother’s shoulders. "Enough! Stop! It is killing me!"
The pain was so acute and sudden that it triggered a visceral reflex. Benedict turned ashen in an instant, his pupils dilating from the shock. The room began to spin dizzily once more, this time with a nauseating velocity.
"Anthony... I am going to..." He could not finish the sentence. Nausea overwhelmed him in an acidic wave.
"Quickly, the basin!" Anthony snapped, acting with a swiftness born of adrenaline. He supported Benedict’s forehead as his brother was racked by heaves, weakened by the pain and the vertigo that the medicine, touching the very pivot of his equilibrium, had unleashed.
Benedict fell back against the pillows moments later, trembling, with tears wetting his face and a bitter taste in his mouth. But the laudanum, despite the initial agony, was slowly beginning to numb the nerves.
"It is over, it is over" Anthony whispered, wiping his face with a cool cloth, heedless of the disarray or his own dignity as a Viscount. "You did well, Ben. Now sleep. Let it take effect."
~
The grey light of dawn filtered lazily through the heavy drapes, casting long shadows across Benedict’s rug. An ethereal silence reigned in the room, broken only by the man’s finally steady breathing and the rustle of a turned page.
Anthony was still there. He had spent the night upon an excessively rigid chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, with a basin of now-lukewarm water beside him. Hour after hour, he had battled Benedict’s fever, replacing damp cloths and murmuring soothing words whenever his brother grew restless in his laudanum-induced slumber.
Benedict parted his eyelids. The world no longer spun like a maddened top, yet he felt heavy, as though he had been pummelled. He attempted to move his head upon the pillow and winced; the pain was no longer an indomabile wildfire, but a dull, constant throb that reminded him how close he had come to the brink.
"Ben?"
Anthony’s voice arrived from the left, but to Benedict, it felt as though it had been uttered from another room. He heard the sound, but perceived it as unbalanced, devoid of depth.
He tried to respond, but his throat was parched. "An-thony?"
"I am here. Do not even think of rising, or I vow I shall lash you to the bedpost" the Viscount said, approaching the bed. His face was etched with exhaustion, marked by deep, dark circles beneath his eyes, yet they shone with a relief he immediately sought to mask.
Benedict looked at him, then blinked, confused. "What did you say? You sound... distant."
Without realising it, he did the only thing his instinct suggested to fill that muffled void: he tilted his head sharply to the left, proffering his good ear toward his brother and fixing his gaze upon him with an almost comical intensity.
Anthony paused, observing the pose. "I said you look like a particularly bewildered barn owl, Benedict."
"A barn owl?" Benedict repeated, his voice still thick. He continued to keep his head canted, as if trying to catch the words in the air before they fell. "I feel as though my head is stuffed with wool, Anthony. On this side... there is only silence."
Anthony sighed, but a corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. He leaned forward and, with a tenderness he reserved for few, tucked in the bedclothes. "The physician says it is to be expected. The swelling has yet to subside entirely. But to see you so, all askew... it appears as though you are trying to discern if the floor is level or if I am speaking in cypher."
Benedict tried to laugh, but the movement made him crinkle his nose in discomfort. "Vastly amusing. Just wait until I can stand straight again, and we shall see who is the barn owl."
"Oh, I doubt that" Anthony retorted, pouring a glass of water and handing it to him with care. "For now, you are officially the most lopsided Bridgerton in history. Eloise wished to bring you books, but I turned her away. She said that if you cannot hear, then it is the perfect moment to read you her essays on women's rights, given that you could not argue back."
Benedict took a sip, feeling the cool water soothe the heat that still smouldered within him. He looked at Anthony, who despite the jests showed no sign of departing, and felt a lump in his throat that had naught to do with the infection.
"Thank you, Anthony" he murmured, tilting his head a fraction more toward him, as if to capture that moment of rare brotherly closeness. "For the night. And for not letting me swoon before Lady Danbury."
Anthony gave him a light pat on his healthy shoulder. "See that you mend quickly. I cannot do the work of two brothers and attend to your peculiar artistic perspectives as well. And straighten your neck, Ben. I am beginning to develop a crick in my own just by looking at you."
Benedict smiled, finally closing his eyes. The silence in his right ear was strange, but with Anthony beside him, it no longer felt quite so frightening.
~
The ensuing days were a slow torture of medical routine. Every few hours, Anthony would enter the room bearing the dark vial and that dropper which Benedict had learned to loathe more than anything else in the world.
"Again?" Benedict huffed one morning, feebly attempting to burrow beneath the bedclothes as he saw his brother advancing toward the bed. "Anthony, I implore you. I can perfectly hear the sound of your disapproval now, which surely means the ear is mended."
"Do not argue" Anthony replied with his customary authoritative efficiency, seating himself on the edge of the mattress. "The physician said five days, and five days it shall be. Tilt your head."
Benedict obeyed with a dramatic sigh, resting his healthy ear upon the pillow. He felt Anthony’s firm hand lift his earlobe to straighten the canal, followed by the cold, viscous sensation of the drop sliding in. It was no longer the agony of those first days, yet it remained a visceral discomfort that forced him to grit his teeth and stare at an indeterminate point on the wall until the liquid settled.
"There. No one has died" Anthony remarked, using a handkerchief to dapple away the excess oil trickling down Benedict’s cheek.
Two more days passed before Benedict was finally pronounced out of danger and permitted to come down for dinner. When he at last appeared in the drawing room, upright and clear-eyed, Violet nearly wept with relief and his sisters smothered him with inquiries. But it was only after dinner, when they remained alone in the study for a glass of brandy, that Anthony allowed the mask of the silent protector to slip.
Anthony stood before the hearth, observing the fire, his glass clutched in his hand. Benedict was sunk into the armchair beside him, savouring the warmth and the peace.
"I hope you realise" Anthony began, his voice low and dangerously calm, "precisely what an idiot you have been."
Benedict looked up, caught off guard. "Anthony..."
"No, be silent and listen" the Viscount interrupted, turning around. The firelight accentuated the hard lines of his face. "I saw you staggering at the ball. I saw you slurring nonsensical words in that carriage while our mother trembled with fear. You risked a common infection reaching your brain simply because you did not wish to intrude, or because you wanted to finish a cursed painting."
Benedict lowered his eyes to his brandy, feeling the weight of the reproach. "I thought I could manage it. I did not wish to be a burden, Anthony. You already have so much to oversee..."
"I oversee all of you because it is my duty, Benedict! But I cannot protect you if you lie to my face!" Anthony took a step toward him, pointing a finger. "If you ever attempt to hide such a thing again... if I see you suffering in silence while pretending all is well out of pride or sheer stupidity..."
Anthony paused, his breath short from a rage that was, in truth, pure residual terror.
"If you do it again, Benedict, I vow upon all that is dear to the Bridgertons that I shall kill you myself before the malady has the chance. Do I make myself understood?"
Benedict looked at his elder brother. He saw the imperceptible tremor in Anthony's hand and understood that his rage was the only way he knew how to manage an affection he could not always put into words. He stood up, set down his glass, and looked Anthony in the eye with a rare gravity.
"I understand, Anthony. No more secrets. You have my word."
Anthony stared at him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. "Good. For I have no intention of spending another night perched on that wretched chair watching you rave. It was an ordeal for me as well."
Benedict smiled, a sly expression brightening his features. "Oh, I know. But admit it, Anthony... you missed tending to me. You were positively affectionate when you were applying those damp cloths to my brow."
"Do not ever dare to say that aloud" Anthony growled, but as he did, he took a long draught of brandy to conceal the smile that was, despite himself, attempting to betray him.