Chapter Text
Lord Anthony Bridgerton had fulfilled his duty. Against all odds, many of them of his own making, he married the Diamond of the Season in the spring of 1814. Edwina had been a dutiful wife, a devoted mother to their children, and a loyal companion during the six years of their marriage.
She was gone too young. Too soon.
The physicians claimed there was little to be done. Consumption was the leading cause of death among young adults, and hers had been a particularly unforgiving case.
Their sons, five and three at the time, did not fully understand that their mother would not be returning. When they asked after her, Anthony would tell them she was in a place of beauty and rest. For a time, that answer had been enough.
Anthony’s bedchamber was no colder or lonelier than it had been before her death. They never shared a room during their marriage. She preferred that he come to her, though after the birth of their second son, she rarely asked him to. She seemed content in having already fulfilled her duty in providing him with two sons. That had been their arrangement from the outset.
At times, he felt a quiet guilt—an awareness that he ought to have offered her more than stability, standing, and children. But Edwina never complained. She was grateful, rather. She understood the nature of their marriage when he proposed, and nothing her sister said to dissuade her made any difference. Anthony often suspected there was more beneath Edwina’s composure, but he chose not to question it. He offered her the same respect she extended to him.
Now that the boys were older, their questions came more frequently. When Anthony looked at Edmund and Miles, he was reminded of Gregory and Hyacinth at that age—equal parts companionship and rivalry, always together even when they insisted on keeping their distance. Yet he found himself stricter with his sons. With his siblings, he constantly sought laughter; with his children, he demanded propriety.
It was a point on which he and his mother would regularly disagree.
As was the case now.
“Anthony, why must you be so hard on Edmund? He is only a boy,” Violet sighed, crossing her arms.
“He knows better.”
“Perhaps,” she replied gently, “but children act out. It is what they do.”
“Did you not say you had something to ask me?” Anthony buried his face briefly in his hands, then leaned forward over his desk, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Violet sighed, weighing whether the matter was worth pursuing further. “I am taking Hyacinth to the modiste. I wished to confirm that the account has been replenished.”
Anthony leaned back in his chair, a dry smile tugging at his lips as he folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me, Mother—in the past twenty years that I have been Viscount, have you ever gone to the modiste and found the account lacking?”
She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. But she knew exactly how to press his nerves, should he insist on that tone. She was his mother after all.
“You have been rather occupied with the boys,” she replied evenly, “and you are not as young as you once were. If you find my management of the household wanting, perhaps it is time you secured a new Viscountess to oversee it.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”
“It has been two years since your wife’s passing, Anthony.” Her voice softened, though her gaze remained steady. “It would not be unreasonable to allow yourself to consider it.”
“I have married for duty once,” he said firmly. “I have no desire to do so again. I already have my sons.”
“All the more reason to marry for love this time,” Violet replied gently. “Without the pressures that guided you before.”
Anthony leaned forward, resting his elbows against the desk. “My wife is dead. My greatest fear regarding love and marriage has come to pass.” His tone sharpened. “I do not wish to be discourteous, but I will be, if you persist.”
“If not for yourself, then for your children,” Violet countered. “They need a mother, Anthony. I will not be here forever.”
“They have Eloise,” he said shortly. “And she is not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Violet scoffed. “I am quite serious. Hyacinth delayed her debut for your sake, to give you time before reentering society. You will already be present for her season. You might as well—”
“I have already asked you not to insist upon it,” he snapped, rising abruptly and planting his hands against the desk.
Violet did not flinch. She had long grown accustomed to his temper—one that had only sharpened after Edwina’s death. Violet knew they were not in love, but they still helped bring the best of each other out. She knew, too, that building walls around himself was his first line of defense against anything he did not wish to confront. And just as reliably, it was often followed by reflection.
If she pressed carefully, he would arrive at the conclusion himself—and believe it had been his all along.
“Very well,” she said lightly, a faint smile on her lips. “Though I hardly think a couple of mentions constitute insistence.”
She turned toward the door. “I shall leave you to it. I do not wish to be late.”
—
“Did you speak with Anthony, then?” Hyacinth asked eagerly, looping her arm through Violet’s as they made their way down the cobblestone street toward the modiste.
“I did,” Violet replied simply, releasing a soft sigh.
“And what did he say?” Hyacinth pressed, her brow furrowing with concern.
Violet patted her hand lightly. “Do not worry, my dear. He is not delaying your debut any further.”
“That is excellent news. Why do you not seem more pleased?”
“I may have suggested that it is time he consider marrying again.” Violet offered a faint, faltering smile. “He did not receive the idea warmly.”
“I cannot say I am surprised,” Hyacinth shrugged. “He did not relish the notion the first time. A second must sound even more dreadful.”
“Oh, I understand that well enough,” Violet said gently. “But he is still young—and he has two small children to raise.”
“Were you not his age when Father died?” Hyacinth pointed out. “And with far more children to care for.”
Violet let out a soft laugh. “That is true. But I also had a great deal of help. And your father was the great love of my life.” Her expression softened. “Your brother… as lovely as Edwina was—Lord rest her soul—their marriage was not a love match. There is so much more joy, more fulfillment, still within his reach. If only he would allow himself to want it.”
Hyacinth nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I do not disagree, Mother. I hope for that same joy myself. But Anthony…” She hesitated. “Perhaps he truly is content as he is. Like Eloise.”
“Dear child,” Violet said quietly, “I wish I could believe that. But when I look at them, I do not see contentment. I see two people, stubborn as bulls, who have convinced themselves not to feel more than they do—nor to become more than they are.”
They stepped into the shop, the bell above the door chiming softly as it announced their arrival. With the early hour, Violet had expected quiet. But instead, loud laughter drifted from the back room.
She exchanged a curious glance with Hyacinth and inclined her head toward the sound. Together, they followed it.
“Madame Delacroix, are you in there?”
“Lady Bridgerton,” came Genevieve’s voice, warm and bright, “Come in. Do join us for a toast.”
“A toast? At ten in the morning?” Violet asked confused, stepping into the room.
“I hear it is five in the afternoon in the Dutch East Indies,” a young woman replied with a soft, amused laugh.
Violet turned at once and stopped. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
Penelope Featherington had returned to London.