Chapter Text
The morning of her debut to society, Sophia Gun, a daughter of Penwood House and a noblewoman with one of the heftiest dowries in London, broke her morning fast in the kitchens of Penwood House, like she did every morning.
“There’s no need to worry, Sophie. I bet the Queen is going to take one look at you and declare you the shiniest diamond to ever grace her court!” Alfie’s Lancashire accent made “Sophie” sound like So-fey and “you” like yew. She smiled in spite of her nerves. Irma nodded in agreement as she handed Sophie another plate to dry.
Despite being the daughter of an Earl, she tried to help out around the house when she could. Araminta refused to hire more servants after she discovered she could force the existing staff to do twice their allotted work without having to actually pay them more. Sophie wondered why Alfie and Irma had never sought better positions, but had never dared to ask, afraid they might cite her as an answer. The thought of her presence keeping them in this dreadful place made her feel both guilty and grateful. I don’t know what I’d do without them, she thought wistfully as Alfie’s speech got more ridiculous.
“–more sparkly than the Duchess of Hastings was during her debut last year! A diamond so brilliant you’ll have men lining up outside to call on you!”
Sophie couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, Alfie, but I think you overestimate my beauty. And my wardrobe,” she added with some annoyance. Araminta had spent almost nothing on her clothing or jewelry for the season. Though imported silk and fine necklaces were of little interest to her, she knew her dresses– all out of date, having been refashioned from Posy and Rosamund’s old things– would make it difficult for her to find a husband.
“It’s unfortunate Lady Penwood won’t take you to the modiste’s, but are you certain you want to get married this year, dear?” Irma asked hesitantly. Sophie looked at the plate in her hand to avoid meeting their eyes. No. No, of course I don’t. But she had to.
“What other option do I have, given the circumstances?” They all stood quietly for a moment in solemn silence. “My only hope is finding a kind man to marry. I do not need riches or romances. Just…safety.”
“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” Araminta’s threat rung in her ears–
If you can’t find a suitable match this season I’ll find one for you.
God knows whom her stepmother had in mind. Probably someone horrible and wealthy. Or horrible and well-connected. Really, the only certainty was that if Araminta forced her into a marriage, it would not be with someone kind. She’d marry me off to the devil himself if she could find a way to benefit from it.
Sophie had already had so much taken from her by that odious woman. She would not let her take this choice away from her, too. Her resolve was firm– she would find a husband this season and finally, after a decade under her stepmother’s cruel thumb, escape.
…
Benedict Bridgerton was determined to remain unwed this season. To their mothers utter delight, his older brother, Anthony, had declared the exact opposite intention.
“I can’t believe it. I’m proud of you, brother,” Colin said jovially from where he lounged on the settee, one hand holding the latest Whistledown and the other a chocolate macaroon. He waved the pamphlet around with a giddy smile. “Whistledown’s written about it already, you know. I swear, it’s like she was in the room when you told us yesterday.”
“How on earth could she possibly have heard of it?” Eloise cried. Benedict found it odd himself– Anthony hadn’t told anyone but them.
Okay, well, Anthony had mentioned it to Mother, who, then, in her excitement, told Eloise and Francesa, the former of whom told Benedict, who then told Colin, and of course Hyacinth was listening at the door and whispered it to Gregory, and by the time Daphne and Simon visited for tea that afternoon they had also, inexplicably, known of it, but really, it was odd that Whisteldown woman had figured it out. If Whistledown turns out to be Eloise, I’ve got a few choice words to exchange with her over how she described me in last month's issue– what the hell did she mean fashion disaster? God forbid a man try something new with his wardrobe…and yet he’d never worn that vest again. Well, no matter. The identity of the Ton’s favorite writer didn’t interest him much.
Penelope watched Colin from the corner of her eye as he munched on his snacks. Ah, poor Pen. My brother can be so stupid sometimes. Colin threw a macaron in the air and tried to catch it in his mouth like an Eton boy goofing off during lunchbreak. His younger brother let out an oof! as it landed on his forehead instead before tumbling onto the carpet. Okay, make that all the time. Penelope seemed to find this endearing somehow and sighed fondly.
..women are fascinating creatures.
Whatever. Anthony paced the room like a madman while Violet scribbled something across the room and Eloise pretended to read. He could tell his sister was paying more attention to the Whistledown mystery than her book by the way she kept glancing at the sheet in Colin’s hand as if she were considering stealing it.
“Nevermind about Whistledown,” Anthony said with a beleaguered sigh. Violet looked up from her writing with a satisfied smile.
“There! A list of every suitable woman I can think of– here, sit down, Anthony– I said sit– yes, how about Imogen Buckland–? No? Elena Falkland, now she’s the daughter of an Earl–”
“Too young,” he dismissed. Their mother crossed the lady off the list with a frown. Another lady was named.
“Too old.”
And another.
“Lady Hartwell is an only child. I can’t trust a woman who didn’t grow up with siblings.”
And another.
“Too frail. I need someone who can give me a strong heir.”
As lady after lady got crossed out and his older brother’s demands more laughable, Benedict began to feel faintly annoyed.
Eventually it got to be too much to bear.
“Brother! You are searching for a wife, not a breeding mare!” He snapped with an amount of passion that surprised even him. Several eyes turned to him as he stood up from his chair and marched over to where his mother and brother sat. He snatched up the list of eligible ladies.
“I know that,” Anthony replied a bit defensively. Benedict snorted.
“Do you? Love is not this– this clinical. Try speaking to these women before deciding they’re not good enough.”
“And what of you, brother? Have you taken an interest in any of the young women of the Ton?” Colin called from the settee. Three macaroons of varying shades of pink now balanced on his chest like a small, poorly built tower.
“Like I told you all earlier, I have no plans to marry anytime soon. I am…enjoying my youth.”
A faint snicker came from the other side of the room, but he figured he must’ve imagined it, as only Penelope sat there.
“Believe me, I know. I’ve read all about your various enjoyments in Whistledown,” his younger brother said with a mischievous grin.
“Oh, shush, she called you a rake too!”
The conversation devolved from there and ended with a macaroon being thrown at his head.
Benedict remained firm in his resolve– he would not wed.
…
Dearest gentle readers, it has come to this author’s attention that a Miss Sophia Gun, daughter to the late Earl of Penwood, has a dowry of enviable proportions.
Perhaps the late Earl bestowed this gift upon his only child to make up for her less than desirable origins– Miss Gun’s mother was originally a maid at Penwood House! If you, reader, are too young to recall the scandal that occurred over twenty years ago, let me refresh your memory.
Richard Gun fell madly in love with a servant and had the wild notion of marrying her! The wedding was a private one, but this author has it on good authority that none of the Earl’s family attended. The shame of it stained the Penwood name quite thoroughly, and if the bride had not died a year into the union, the Guns might never have returned to society.
It remains to be seen if this unfortunate circumstance of birth can be overlooked by an eligible suitor or if there are some things even a fortune cannot fix.