Work Text:
Francesca rolled over in the bed with a sigh, the linen sheets rustling softly as she shifted for what felt like the hundredth time. The large clock in the corridor had chimed midnight long ago - she had counted each familiar toll in the darkness - and yet she still lay awake, staring at the faint outline of the canopy above her.
Since returning from Bath, her mind refused to quiet. It spun endlessly with thoughts of dress fittings, calling cards, posture corrections, rehearsed curtsies and carefully measured smiles; all in preparation for her debut before the Queen. Every moment of the day seemed choreographed, every hour spoken for.
And every time she tried to steal a moment alone, her mother appeared with another instruction or comment about Daphne and Eloise’s debuts, or Hyacinth burst in with another question, another curiosity, another reason to chatter.
She missed Bath.
She missed Aunt Georgie and Uncle Nicholas - the calm steadiness of their household, the way life was slower, quieter. In their home she had not been one of eight Bridgertons.
Perhaps one of six now, she thought.
Daphne was married. Anthony was still away on his rather extended honeymoon.
Though he would be back in two days’ time.
Back to observe. Back to see her presented.
Francesca rolled over again before finally pushing herself upright. It was no use. Sleep was not coming tonight.
She climbed out of bed, letting out a small gasp as her bare feet met the cold floorboards. The chill travelled up through her ankles and into her bones. She quickly gathered her robe, pulling it close about her before slipping into stockings and soft slippers.
The house was deep in slumber when she stepped into the corridor.
The lamps had long since been extinguished; only a few candles burned low in their sconces, their flames thin and trembling, casting long shadows that stretched across the walls.
She knew no one could hear the piano from the bedrooms.
The thought settled her.
Perhaps just a few minutes would calm her mind.
But as she passed Anthony’s study, she stopped.
A sliver of light cut across the floor.
The door stood slightly ajar.
Francesca hesitated before gently nudging it wider and peering inside.
Benedict sat before an easel. Staring. The canvas was entirely blank.
The lamplight cast a golden glow across his face, though the rest of the room remained in shadow. His sleeves were rolled, his hair slightly disordered as though he had run a hand through it more than once. There were charcoal sticks scattered nearby — untouched.
She had not seen him lift one since she returned home.
Hyacinth had declared he had simply “lost interest.”
Eloise, more perceptive, suspected it had something to do with Anthony.
“Benedict?”
Her voice was soft as she pushed the door open further and stepped inside.
He looked up immediately, smiling at the sight of her — but the smile faded into concern.
“Fran. What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, his tone gentle but alert. “Are you not well?”
She shook her head, pulling her robe tighter around herself as she felt the dying fire’s chill.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “But why are you here?”
“The same affliction,” he said lightly.
“Are you worried about Anthony returning?”
If she were him, she would be. Anthony would return with his sharp eye and sharper expectations; ready to inspect every ledger, every decision, every responsibility left in Benedict’s care.
“Perhaps a little,” he conceded. “Though I confess I will be glad to not look upon another ledger for the rest of my life.”
She smiled at that.
“What are you drawing?”
She moved to stand behind him.
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “I believe my artistry has dried up, Frannie.”
He reached back absently and took her hand.
She startled at first - the suddenness of the contact - but then squeezed his fingers in return.
“Never,” she said firmly.
His art was as essential to him as the piano was to her. It was not a pastime. It was a language.
“Draw me.”
He let out a breath of quiet amusement.
“It is far too late. Mother would have me hanged if she found us both awake at this hour.”
“I was going to the piano,” Francesca told him.
He glanced at her.
“It is the middle of the night.”
“I cannot sleep,” she replied simply. “So why should I not play?”
He hesitated — but she was right.
With a soft exhale, Benedict stood.
“Very well then, Miss Mozart. Let us go.”
They walked together in silence to the drawing room. The house felt even quieter here, as though the walls themselves were resting.
Francesca lit a small lamp before sitting at the piano stool. Benedict settled into an armchair nearby, the leather creaking softly beneath him.
“Play the Haydn one that I like,” he requested.
She nodded.
As always, she placed both thumbs upon middle C before beginning — a habit so instinctive she no longer noticed it.
Benedict did.
He always did.
Just as she noticed the way he pressed his nail too deeply into charcoal when sketching — leaving small dents along its edge.
She began to play.
The music filled the room in soft ripples, and Benedict watched as she slipped into herself; into that place where the rest of the world fell away.
He had not seen her look so at peace since she had come home.
“Play four hands with me?”
Her voice broke gently through his thoughts.
He shook his head.
“I prefer to listen.”
She turned slightly.
“Please?”
“No. I would only ruin your playing.”
“No you would not,” she insisted. “You are nearly as good as I am.”
A slight exaggeration, but not entirely false.
“Very modest, Frannie,” he teased.
“Please? If you will not draw, then you must show your art in some way.”
He hesitated.
“Play with me, Bendy?”
He sighed at the childhood name — the one only she was permitted.
“Oh… very well then.”
Benedict sat on the stool beside her, adjusting awkwardly to make space. The bench had never been designed for two grown siblings, and their shoulders brushed as he positioned his hands above the lower register.
“For heaven’s sake do not look so grave,” Francesca murmured. “It is only Haydn.”
“That is precisely why I look grave,” he muttered, flexing his fingers.
She began again, softer this time, leaving him room to enter. Benedict followed a beat later, his chords slightly heavier, less precise. Where Francesca’s fingers skimmed the keys like water over glass, his pressed more firmly, sometimes half a breath behind.
“You see?” she whispered without looking at him. “You remember.”
He did and his playing grew surer. Imperfect, yes. A touch uneven. But threaded with something warm and unspoken.
When the final chord settled into silence Francesca let her hands rest in her lap.
“Can you tell Anthony I do not wish to debut?”
The question came so calmly it almost sounded rehearsed.
Benedict glanced at her profile. The lamplight softened her features, but her shoulders were rigid.
“I am not certain he — or Mother — would receive that kindly,” he said carefully.
“But I do not wish to attend parties filled with strangers,” she continued, her fingers worrying at the ribbon on her sleeve. “I am quite content in my own company.”
“I know,” Benedict replied softly.
He did know. Francesca did not crave admiration or attention. She did not sparkle for rooms the way Daphne had or command your ears like Eloise. She preferred quiet corners, small conversations, music over chatter.
“I ought to tell you that you shall enjoy it,” he added after a moment. “That it will be thrilling. That you will shine.”
She looked at him then — and he could not lie.
“But?” she prompted.
“But,” he sighed, “you may not.”
Her lips curved faintly at his honesty.
“He could arrange a marriage for me,” she suggested, almost thoughtfully. “If I were already promised, there would be no need for so many assemblies.”
Benedict studied her more closely now.
“Is that what you want?”
She hesitated. She wanted… quiet. A household that did was not constantly noisy. A space that belonged to her.
“I had not considered the particulars,” she admitted.
“I am afraid,” Benedict said gently, “that the parties and balls and concerts are the usual means of discovering a suitable gentleman.”
She tilted her head.
“Or a suitable young lady?”
Benedict barked a soft laugh.
“For you? Now Fran, that would cause Mother to faint entirely.”
A curious smile flickered across her face — fleeting, almost secret. For a heartbeat her thoughts were not in London at all but in Bath — in a sunlit sitting room, in laughter over sheet music, in hands brushing as pages were turned.
She blinked and the image vanished.
“No,” she said quickly. “I meant you.”
“Me?”
“Is it not time you married as well?” she pressed.
He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
“Not any time soon.”
“You cannot drift forever.”
The words were gentle — not accusation, merely observation.
“I do not believe I am built for settling,” he said quietly. “Some men are meant for estates and heirs and predictable evenings. I…” He trailed off.
“You what?”
“I am not certain what I am meant for,” he finished.
The admission hung between them.
Francesca reached for his hand again — deliberate this time.
“You are meant to make things,” she said. “Even if you pretend you are not.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“And you?”
She looked back toward the keys.
“I am meant to be left alone long enough to hear myself think.”
Benedict smiled faintly.
“Then perhaps we are both rather inconvenient Bridgertons.”
“Artistic outliers,” she corrected softly.
He considered that.
“Yes,” he agreed at last. “Artistic outliers.”
From somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked — a reminder that dawn would not be far off.
“Come,” he said gently. “If Anthony returns to find us bleary-eyed at breakfast he shall suspect rebellion.”
“Are we rebelling?”
“Only quietly to an extent,” he replied.
And that, they both knew, was the most dangerous sort.