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Margaret died last week. A fever, say the servants, with the corners of their mouths turned towards the floors, a shame. She had good hips, and a sunny disposition, and her gentleman was so, so sweet to her, the season they were wed. He helped her off carriages, held his arm out for her to promenade, gifted her jewels and dresses and flowers, still wet with the morning dew. His hands never strayed from their proper place, not a minute of the lady’s time was unaccounted for.
There was always a chaperone, with sharp fingers and a sharper mouth, with the ever suspicious eyes of a mama on the prowl. Margaret never minded. It is necessary, she told me, between lemonade and cakes. So why bother minding it?
She was not wed a year, yet, and leaves a babe to her sweet, mild man.
“At least”, says Colin, and drops the newest Whistledown on the table between us, “it is a boy. He will not have to remarry.”
Mama hums as she fusses with Hy’s sleeves. “Colin.”
He shrugs. “What? It is true.”
Mama turns to him. The sleeves must be fluffed enough. “Not all truth must be spoken aloud.”
I turn a page. I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. Wonder, for a moment-
Mama, I remember the screaming. I remember being held, and sang to. I remember the way the floorboards shook, I remember Anthony’s wax-white face.
I remember the blood. I remember the linens and the rain. The hands on my back, the chest I was pressed into. You did not stop to breathe. You did not stop to cry. You screamed and you screamed and then you wailed.
I could not tell you, today, how long it took. It might have been hours, it might have been days. The hands on me were cold, by the end, and the song had gone flat and hoarse.
You left a babe to your sweet, mild man, who, by then, was rotting.
Francesca is never alone, these days, and we have not seen Daphne since winter first fell. Kate was a storm when she was wed, and I cannot remember the last time I heard her thunder. When I was a girl, you clung to the walls as your cheeks hollowed and your skin tracked the path of the linens you rarely left.
Do not take me for a fool, mama.
I say nothing.
The damned dance card is full, tonight. The gentlemen are sweet and dismissive in turn. Some dare not lead, others pull me before the beat demands it. I can see the lists in each of their heads. Good hips, and an agreeable disposition. Accomplishment, to be passed along. Good teeth, clear skin. A decent gait.
Margaret died last week. I wonder if she held her son.
The conversation does not change. Yes, my lord. No, my lord. I had thought you would know yourself, my lord, that a woman’s face is the last place her feelings show. Oh, yes, my lord, my sister is most content. It is her second. They are both healthy, strong, and sweet. My lord, my dance card is full. I do hope your evening continues pleasantly.
They smile the same. Their eyes settle in the same places. Their hands do not.
Margaret died last week. Fever.
Polly died last winter. Infection.
Maria died on Christmas Eve. Influenza.
I curtsy. The gentleman bows. The next takes his place.
“Miss Bridgerton”, he says, and smiles. His hands settle just underneath my shoulder blades. What is it about the hands of men?
“My lord.”
“Tell me”, he pulls me against his chest. “Do you enjoy the opera?”
Margaret died last week. The chandelier above us sparkles.
Another soiree. Another tea. Another ball. Another gentleman. Hands on my back, my waist, the turning of my wrist. The tips of my fingers. No bath is enough to scrub the feeling of it off my skin, no water hot enough, no maid patient enough.
Some days, I think of Theo’s shining eyes. Of that spit-wet mouth, and the great smears of ink on his apron. I think of the marks on his face, the spots and the dotted scars. His face would twist when I said something he did not like, and his shoulders would drop. When he worked the press, his skin shone with sweat, and his hands left echoes wherever he touched.
I liked watching him work, through the windows and tucked into the filthy alley. Sometimes, on a hot day, he took off his vest and draped it over the back of a chair, careful not to touch it more than he needed. Those days, the fabric of his shirt stuck to his back, soaked and translucent. Underneath it all, his shoulders worked.
He will never again speak another word to me nor hand me another pamphlet. I will never read his hand again.
Sometimes, the thought makes me so ill that I bring whatever mama has ordered for dinner back up again, barely chewed. It burns the entire way.
And Cressida-
Cressida has wed.
Margaret died last week.
Your grace, sister mine, how long does it take for a husband to kill you? Is it the hands that do it, or the smiling mouth? The eyes, or the stalking, or the gifts, the flowers? Does he plant the babe inside of you, blood-wet bone and clay, as God once did in the Garden? Is touch alone enough? The servants keep their hands cupped around their mouths and the linens boiling, and Francesca is getting quieter by the day. Benedict is looking for someone.
Daphne, any man I take might kill me. Mama will not let me run.