Work Text:
Mr. Bridgerton,
While your submission displays sufficient vision and understanding of technique, we are unable to accept it to the gallery of the Royal Academy. Please -
He stopped reading there. Weeks of waiting for a response and this is all they give him? He crumpled the paper and tossed it across his study with a groan. Of course they had rejected it. He should have known it would be bad news after such a long delay. Sophie had told him to be patient, but every day with no word only created a deeper and deeper pit in his stomach and now he had finally reached the bottom. He buried his face in his hands and sat down, ready to lament his misfortune.
Just then, the door creaked open and his wife entered the room. “Are you well?” she asked in obvious concern upon seeing his state.
Physically, of course. Benedict had never been healthier. Mentally, he had certainly been better. “It’s a rejection,” he said.
Sophie had heard all about his submission to the gallery and had even accompanied him to London to give it to the trustees so he should not need to clarify what had been rejected.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
Aren’t we all, he had wanted to say. Instead, he nodded.
“Did they say why?” she asked.
“I did not read that far,” he answered and gestured to the crumpled up ball of paper in the corner.
Sophie went over to retrieve the letter and carefully opened it back up. He could see her eyes scanning back and forth as she read it in its entirety. “Well,” she said finally, “they questioned your choice of subject matter.”
The painting had depicted their gardens in full bloom. Ever since his marriage and semi-retirement to Our Cottage, Benedict had an unending source of inspiration between the beauty of Wiltshire and that of his wife. He had thought it was a fine landscape-type work that showed a mastery of depicting light and shadow and texture. It was sure to impress the Academy trustees. Apparently not. “What about my subject matter?” he asked sourly.
“They say your technique is ‘adequate,’” she said in a tone that clearly showed that she disagreed with the assessment, “but that when dealing with the Royal Academy, an artist should take more care to impress.”
He let out another frustrated groan.
“But,” she interjected, “they say that if you go to London to meet with them, the trustees would be willing to allow you to make adjustments and try again.”
He didn’t respond to that. The trustees had already made their opinions clear and he was not going to dignify their insult by bending over backwards to “fix” his work.
“Will you go to London then?” Sophie asked.
Benedict looked up at her. “I don’t think so,” he said.
She looked dismayed at that for some reason. “Not even to retrieve the painting?”
“Why would I retrieve the painting?” he asked.
“I… I thought it was a fine work and there are some empty spaces on the wall or we could give it to one of your brothers or sisters,” she said.
“If it is not good enough for the Academy, then it is not fit to hang anywhere,” he said coldly. “They can burn it for all I care. Good for nothing failure.” He did not miss the way her face fell. He really should stop but could not. This was the culmination of weeks of pent-up frustration and disappointment and now it was leaking out.
“That was our garden,” she said, her voice wavering. “I, we spent quite a bit of time on it this past spring.”
“I know,” he said flatly. Was that supposed to make any difference? Clearly, the trustees did not appreciate all the work he had put into it.
Sophie swallowed. “Are you planning on submitting another painting then?” she asked.
Benedict felt something inside of him break. What was she getting at with all of these pointless questions? “No, I do not think so,” he snapped harshly. At her stricken face, he added, “I apologize. It appears you have not fixed me entirely.”
“I have never tried to fix you, Benedict. I have only loved you.”
“And what good has that done?”
She took a shaky breath. “Plenty.”
“Has it? As far as I can tell, I’m still the same miserable failure I’ve always been.”
For a second, he thought she was going to protest, but then she closed her mouth, smoothed down her skirts, and headed for the door. Just as her hand reached for the knob, Benedict decided to get another word in despite his better judgment.
“Are you leaving me now?” he asked. “It would not be the first time so I suppose I should not be too surprised.” As the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a terrible mistake but it was too late.
Sophie stiffened and he could see a tremor shake her entire body. “Perhaps it would be better that way,” she said, her voice thick. He could see her eyes fill with tears before she opened the door and fled the room. He could hear her footsteps grow quieter as she raced down the corridor and far away from him.
Oh God. What had he done? She had never been anything but perfect and loving towards him. He had promised her that he would take care of her and that she could trust him and now here he was violating that trust and hurting her in the worst way possible. As the door slammed, he started to move to chase after her but stopped halfway to the door. She wouldn’t want to see him now. Why would she?
So he sank down to his knees in the middle of his study. He needed to fix this and now. What if she actually left? No, she couldn’t. It was miles to the nearest town but then again, that had never stopped Sophie before. He had to find her before she ended up on the road somewhere alone and in danger.
Benedict stood up and froze. Something deep inside him, maybe the sixth sense that was always sharp when it came to Sophie, told him to stop. She would not leave today. With that small comfort, he took a deep breath and inspected his study. He had not been productive with the stress of the Academy's response hanging over his head so the room had become a pigsty littered with discarded sketches and other waste. Sophie was always so fastidious and he knew she would be displeased if she saw this mess.
With that unhappy thought, he turned to the task of tidying up the room. The rough sketches covering the floor and his desk were thrown out and his used brushes were collected and left to soak in water to remove the dry paint that had crusted on the bristles. He was glad for the distraction. He needed to cool off before he went to his wife after all. She deserved nothing less than him at his best. He had been an inconsiderate brute to her and he would not repeat his mistake by losing his temper again.
As he surveyed the newly-cleared room, he felt a hollow sort of satisfaction. It looked like a proper artist’s studio now but when he looked down at one of his recent sketches, his heart twisted painfully. It was of her of course; she was one of his most frequent subjects. He had captured it a few weeks ago while she was sitting on one of the couches in the hall reading. She had looked so lovely, he had drafted a workable sketch in a matter of minutes and he had kept it in the hope of using it as reference for another portrait.
She was always there - so honest and so helpful. She had nursed him back to health when he was injured, she had given him her opinion where others had flattered, and she had encouraged him in a way that nothing and no one else had. Hell, his first completed portrait - the one that was displayed proudly in their hall with his name signed prominently in red - was of her. If not for Sophie, he never would have been able to work up the courage to submit a painting to the Academy in the first place. And he might as well have spat in her face. He was such a fool.
He had finished straightening up his study a while ago but did not leave the room until it was near time for supper. Hopefully, that would give Sophie the time she needed to calm down and be more receptive to his apology. Benedict opened the door quietly in case she was still in the area and upon finding the corridor completely deserted, he made his way to the dining room.
Unfortunately, the dining room was just as empty as everywhere else in the house. He and Sophie always took their meals together and they usually served themselves to give Mrs. Crabtree some well-deserved rest and because Sophie preferred it that way. Maybe she’s delayed doing something, he said to himself. The unnatural stillness of the room was broken by the sound of his chair scraping against the floor only to fall back into the same nothingness when he sat down.
Tick tock, tick tock. The sound of the clock on the wall behind him was deafening and every tick meant one more second with Sophie absent. He didn’t care about food; everything that had happened today had ruined his appetite. He just wanted to beg his wife’s forgiveness.
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock chimed for seven o’clock and still nothing. Has the clock always been that loud? He had never noticed it before.
With an exasperated sigh, he pushed his chair back and stood up. For a moment, he contemplated heading back to his study for his brandy stash. He had no desire for food but something to help him forget sounded appealing.
By the time he made it to the threshold, he stopped in his tracks. No. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t go back to the man he had been before he met her. The one who turned up late, if at all, to family dinners. The man who slept until noon because he had stayed up until sunrise. The man who drifted from one shallow amusement to another with nothing to anchor him, who had even given up on art itself. Sophie needed him at his best. If she saw him stumbling and drunk out of his mind, she would be more than justified in leaving him. He could not run from his problems - not this time.
With that resolve steeling his nerves, Benedict began a thorough search of the house. Sophie was not in their bedroom, or the sitting room, or the library. He grew increasingly desperate, there were only a few rooms left to check and he had not seen any sign of his wife. While racing through a corridor, his prayers were answered. Through a window, he saw a flash of blue, just like the dress his wife had been wearing, outside in their garden. He stopped and took a closer look to make sure it was not his hopelessly delusional eyes playing tricks on him. Pressed up so close to the glass he could feel a slight chill on his forehead, he squinted to make absolutely sure it was her. He spotted a shape sitting down on one of the stone benches between two flowerbeds. Despite the distance, he would recognize her anywhere.
I have to go to her, was the sole thought in his head and he dashed back down the corridor he had come, down the stairs, and out the door to the garden.
Realizing that if he crashed into her like an overeager dog he risked frightening her, he came to a halt just out of view. He listened closer but did not hear anything so she was likely not crying. That gave him a small amount of relief. He stepped out from behind the hedge, making sure that his boots crunched the gravel to signal his presence.
Sophie, who was still sitting on the bench, looked up. Strands of her dark hair were coming loose from her bun and her shoulders were slumped, but he could not see any tears in her eyes or any signs of deeper distress. Good.
Once he was sure she had spotted him, he stopped. They were now only a few yards apart from each other but to Benedict, it was like a mile-wide chasm. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Sophie,” he began. What does one even say in a situation like this? ‘Sorry’ seemed woefully inadequate but he had to start somewhere lest he look even more like a fool.
“Sophie,” he started again. “I want - no, I need to apologize. I was frustrated at the Academy’s rejection and the delay and everything to do with it. I know that it’s no excuse and it was terribly wrong of me to take it out on you. That is the very last thing that you deserve. I promised you that I would love you and take care of you but I failed and I cannot tell you how sorry I am.” He stopped and allowed her the chance to respond.
After a long pause, Sophie responded. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, her voice so quiet Benedict was not sure if he had heard her right.
“No, God no, never. Of course not,” he said, willing her to believe him with every word. “I will never leave you and I would never want you to leave me. I love you, Sophie. I always will.” He held out his hand, hoping that she would accept his apology.
Sophie said nothing for a long moment. Every second was agony but he supposed it was better than an instant rejection. “Please, Sophie,” he added. “I regretted it the second I said it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was a thoughtless idiot. Please… stay with me.” He could feel the sting of tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
Then, finally, as if all of his prayers had been answered, Sophie stood up and took a hesitant step towards him. Then another and another and another until she was standing only paces away. “Benedict,” she said, “I understand that you were frustrated but…”
He knew he should let her keep talking but when faced with the prospect of losing the love of his life, he could not restrain himself. “I will go to London,” he promised. “I will sit down with whichever trustees will meet with me, I will take their advice, and I will make any adjustments they want.” For her, he would swallow his pride and his ego, whatever he had to do, but he could not bear to lose her.
That got Sophie to crack a small smile. He had broken through! “I’m glad,” she said. “But you do not need to do that. The Academy is hardly the only arbiter of taste.”
“I know but-”
Sophie cut him off. “And for what it’s worth, I liked it very much.”
Benedict smiled. That was an understatement. “I know you did and your opinion matters more to me than any doddering old fool’s at the Academy.” He closed the remaining distance between them and leaned in to give her a kiss, tentatively to give her a chance to pull away if it was what she truly desired.
She did not pull away.
It was like a great weight had just been lifted off of his chest and Benedict kissed his wife, first on one cheek then the other and finally on her lips. Much to his joy, Sophie responded immediately, her lips moving against his slowly. The kiss did not last long before her arms came to wind around his waist. On instinct, he reciprocated the embrace, drawing her closer. They had only been apart for a few hours but he felt like he had been missing a limb. He needed her more than anything. With one final kiss to the top of her head, he pulled back.
“Would you like to head in now?” he asked gently. “It’s getting late.”
Sophie looked over to see that the sun was sinking below the horizon. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”
Arm in arm, they headed back inside. When they passed the empty dining room, Sophie paused. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked.
Benedict let out a light chuckle. “No. My stomach was far too unsettled to keep anything down.”
“That won’t do. We can have a late supper then.”
They walked into the room and Benedict set out the plates and utensils while Sophie went down to the kitchen to fetch some soup that had been warming over the fire all day and some bread Mrs. Crabtree had made.
The meal was simple but to Benedict, it rivaled the fare served at Mayfair’s finest tables.
“I’ll go to London anyway,” he said as they sat down together. Before she could interject, he continued. “If the Academy does not want my painting, so be it. But you’re right - I put in too much time and effort to allow the trustees to discard it. What is the point of having so many rooms if not to have an abundance of wallspace?”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” she said.
“And I want you to pick where we should hang it.”
She hummed as she thought. “There are already several landscapes in the hall and in the sitting room.”
“What an astute observation,” he drawled. “You’re completely correct as always.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
How modest of her. “You should come to London with me.”
She blinked a few times in surprise. “Are you certain?”
He took her hand. “Quite certain. The painting was inspired by your garden after all. You should be there with me when I collect it.”
“It’s our garden, my love.”
“That’s a matter of semantics. The point is that if it wasn’t for your efforts, I wouldn’t have had anything to paint.” In more ways than one, he thought.
They returned to their meal for a few minutes until Sophie suddenly put her spoon down. “I have it!” she declared.
“Have what, my dear?”
“The perfect location for the painting,” she said.
“And where is that?”
“Our bedroom. That way, we can admire our beautiful garden whenever we want.”
“That is rather egotistical, is it not?”
She grinned. “Perhaps, but do you really care?”
Benedict gave that a nice, hard think. Did he really care? As he looked at his wife’s smiling face, he decided that he could not care less. He had put his all into that painting and it deserved to be admired, Academy be damned.
“No, my love. I do not care at all.”