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A clock, Benedict realized, could well-nigh drive a man to madness.
He’d hardly given it thought in the past. It simply sat on the mantle of his bachelor lodgings, diligent in post but unassuming in presence. Perhaps he’d imagined it a mite judgmental on the rare occasion he did pay it mind, finding in its face a reflection of his mother’s displeasure, though the clock had proven significantly less outspoken over his tardy habits.
Now, its ticking marched softly but unrelentingly through the night. He paced alongside it, attempting to ease the restless current beneath his skin. His efforts proved fruitless. Each second that brushed against him brought heightened awareness of the passing time, every tick, every footstep, pushing him further from the moment he’d last seen her.
Never had a memory settled so vividly in his mind’s eye: two souls, cradled in the wrought iron of the terrace, curtained from the world by white wisteria and the night. She was a vision of silver and starlight, so incandescent he hardly knew whether to credit her shimmering mask or beaming smile. The placement of her hand in his was featherlight. Something in him had quieted just long enough to recognize the moment as delicate. Ephemeral. He’d kept his movements slow, careful so as to not startle her like a bird.
She’d left regardless. Still, even in her haste to flee up the steps, she’d curved her head over her shoulder and for one final, fleeting second, their eyes had met.
His heart leapt at the reminder. She had looked back. Somewhere on that terrace she had found something worth seeing not once, but twice.
He couldn’t let it go, just as he couldn’t release the glove strangled in his grasp, nor cloak himself in the dark tapestry of sleep. How could he, when the tapestry of his mind lay very much awake? If he pulled even a single thread, he rather thought time would unravel altogether.
Thus, he remained awake, pacing, thinking of someone he’d known not even a day prior.
He had heard the tales and read the poems. In the eyes of an artisan, few things stood more coveted than a muse. He’d talked with many an artist who claimed to have found theirs. Some declared to have loved and then lost, stuck in a perpetual state of mourning, their creativity falling stagnant. Others laughed at such a fantastical notion altogether. Though he’d never counted himself truly and honestly among their ranks, Benedict had always thought it rather constricting to draw from a single wellspring, especially in a world so riveting and unexplored.
But this…he’d hardly felt something like this before. His heart beat rapidly. His fingers flexed, searching, discontent with the empty air. Not even the glide of a silk glove across his palm could satiate.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the spillage of moonlight over her dark hair, how it fell against the exposed skin of her back and neck as she gifted him one final glance. It wasn’t enough to simply dream and remember. Each moment, every detail—he had to capture them. He had to make her real.
An urge stirred within him, rousing something he’d long declared dead and buried:
Inspiration.
An impish thing, that. Benedict had spent the better part of his life chasing after it. How comical he should now find himself in its clutches. For a moment he ceased pacing, mouth stretched wide in a silent, resigned laugh. There was no use fighting. All he could do was embrace it, greet it by name when it came to call, even in the dead of night.
Indeed, there was no guarantee it would entertain him past the morning.
He resumed his stepping, boldened with a new direction—the bookcase. He searched feverishly along its shelves, pulling out the occasional book or curio, not bothering to return them to their proper place before moving on to the cupboards. The first door clattered as he yanked it open. The second didn't, thanks to his belated efforts to keep the late hour quiet, lest he disturb his staff. Neither yielded the object of his desire.
A frown nagged the corners of his mouth, growing larger as he overturned baskets and rifled through drawers until, finally, he found a small wooden box, tucked in the bottom of a chest beneath some old hunting boots.
He settled at his desk and flipped open the lid. One hand reached blindly for a fresh sheet of parchment while the other dragged a candlestick closer, causing its light to flicker. Though shadows bobbed along the wall and edges of his vision, they failed to captivate his attention for long. Turning to the box revealed a set of charcoals. Not nearly as fine as those he’d banished to his cottage, but they were what was on hand, and they would more than do. He reached out. Paused.
His fingertips danced over the nearest stick. Hovering, but not yet meeting.
Fragments of memory flashed in his mind: a wide smile barely contained by rosy lips, a silver bow nestled between strands of inky black hair, shadows waltzing in slow but perfect synchronicity. He swallowed, breathed in, and grabbed the charcoal.
His first line fell light against the parchment, hesitant but quickly outmatched by a second, bolder line. Then it was as though something inside of him gave way, collapsing so rapidly he could barely keep pace as two lines turned to five, then ten.
He mapped the shape of her jaw, decorated the junction of her neck and collar with her pendant. The skirt of her dress took vague, though flowing, form. He shaped her hair with intricate braids, leaving a single strand to hug the side of her face. His eyes darted to the lone glove on the desk. It rejoined its mate on the page, a pair once more.
The charcoal was cool to the touch, sitting awkwardly between his fingers at first, but eventually the two seemed to reacquaint with one another like old friends reunited and soon familiarity settled in both his hand and chest. After some time—the extent of which he could not be sure of—a cramp joined as well, forcing him to take pause. Running a thumb to work out the tension in his hand, he leaned back to examine his work.
For the second time that night, she stood before him. The silver ingénue. The most interesting person he’d ever met. His lady in silver.
Well, not his, he thought with an amused huff. No doubt she’d tease him over such a presumptuous thought. And she wasn’t quite whole, with some of her features made hazy beneath the veil of night while others stayed concealed by the shape of her mask.
Even art carried limitations. His especially, an unpleasant voice chimed before he could shoo it to the darker corners of his psyche. A drawing couldn’t emulate the full sound of her laughter. It couldn't evoke the intoxicating scent of lavender, mixed with something unexpected he almost mistook for smoke. It couldn’t detail how the chocolate on her breath weaved with the gin on his. And her eyes…no press of charcoal on paper could give justice to the way they’d gleamed, nor capture the joy that’d called to his heart.
He sighed. No matter. Perhaps he couldn’t parse the exact shade or shape of her eyes, but that was of little consequence when he could fill them with starlight. The curve of her cheek, although distorted by fabric, he’d make up for with the curve of her smile. Lace would adorn any freckles or moles, dimples or scars, until he received the honor of uncovering them.
Yes, he decided. For now he would hold the place of that which was missing. All would be set to rights once they found each other again. If she allowed him, she’d have a portrait worthy of her brilliance.
Again he glanced at his sketch, blinking when he found it lit in a wholly different hue. Weak light had begun to seep through the windows, fighting that of the candle, which still burned cheerfully despite the late—or rather, early—hour. He peered to the road to find it washed in gray, cobblestones painted in the same silver as his lady’s dress. A good sign if he’d ever seen one.
It appeared he had sketched his way past the night and into the morning. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been awake to greet the day. If he looked at the clock now, it would surely show a face he hadn’t seen in some time. He grinned, suddenly feeling like a giddy foal, unsteady and new, yet bucking with possibility.
Hatch, his valet, was in for quite the shock when he arrived to rouse him. The poor man would need a moment to collect himself.
Benedict chuckled, shook his head, and once more took the charcoal into his grip.
Madness, indeed.
She must think him a madman, this maid. If he’s honest, the past day has done little to prove otherwise.
First there were the dire conditions of their meeting, followed quickly by the rain, which had washed away any refined bearing he might have possessed. His ineptitude led her to break inside My Cottage, his own estate, when he himself could not. Then, the most unfortunate circumstance of them all: her needing to drag his fool self back from the brink of death with her own two hands.
He notices them immediately—her hands, that is. They are rough, which he supposes falls in line with her position, but not unpleasant. The way her calloused grip had pressed against his palm as he helped her into the phaeton sent a jolt strong enough to cut through his drunken, though sobering, stupor and replace it with a sense of familiarity. Firelight contoured her fingers as she deftly lit the kindling, painting them as dainty little things, later proven wrong when, even through a feverish haze, he felt her furiously hold a bandage to his wound.
By morning, it’s clear that she likes to keep them busy. Benedict insists she does otherwise, thinking that if he can only still her for a moment, then perhaps he can study those hands closer, take them between his and turn them over in the daylight, delineate their ridges and lines. But that would be unbefitting of a gentleman, and as she grips the back of a chair, scowl in her tone as she defends her capability to leisure, he’s more than delighted to turn attention to the stubborn set of her face.
While she may find him mad, he simply finds her fascinating…not that much else proves fascinating when one is bedridden. Usually he is rather fond of beds, be it during languid late mornings or intimate long nights. Unfortunately, the situation he finds himself in is neither.
He is, quite tragically, bored.
It’s even more tragic when his most riveting companion takes her leave and he has no choice but to cave to Mrs. Crabtree’s demands of rest. His dreams are restless things, flashes of shape and color that bleed into one another but never fully solidify. A glint like glass. The rumble of thunder. A rich brown that warms his chest before it cools to silver. Through it all, a silhouette stands motionless on the horizon of his dreamscape, vanishing the very second he reaches forward.
When he awakens, his hands itch for his sketchbook. He forces them to remain idle, though it pains him to do so. A smile pulls at his mouth regardless. Perhaps he and the maid are more alike than one would think.
He had often struggled to calm his limbs as a youth, finding them unwilling to stay in one place for too long, much to the dismay of his instructors and, at times, his knuckles. The urge had never fully faded with adulthood, though it had grown easier to pretend when he could channel his energy into a pencil, hiding it behind bound leather and parchment.
For a moment, he considers drawing. Then he realizes that neither the materials nor the confidence required are within reach, and so his thoughts change course.
He hums under his breath. He picks up a book, halfheartedly traversing three of its pages before surrendering it to the floor. Its crumpled remains lead him to an old, scuffed ball rested against the footpost, tucked too far back for Mrs. Crabtree’s sharp eyes and too far down for her sensitive joints. He briefly considers disobeying her strict orders of rest to retrieve it, but then the pull of his injury grows discomforting enough to hiss air through gritted teeth.
Rebellion, he decides, will have to wait a moment more.
Defeated, he turns his head and stares at the painting on the far wall. Its size is as admirable as its subject matter—a ship, tossed about by the waves. The estate’s previous owner had been an eclectic first and foremost, a patron of the arts a close second, which had lent weight in Benedict’s decision to purchase My Cottage in the first place. The painting he had found covered by a sheet and stowed under the stairs, which was peculiar enough, but even more intriguing was the lack of a signature. It had no name. No symbol. Nothing to tie it to the very being that had given it existence.
He hardly knew whether he could even call it finished. That hadn’t deterred him from giving it a proper display in his chambers. It’d felt a shame to do otherwise.
He squints, considering the painting’s muted colors and the way its dark, undefined edges nearly swallow the ship whole. Why had it taken him so?
Perhaps he’d found companionship with the directionless waves. Perhaps there was a hidden siren that called to him, though Benedict had never once felt the urge to dash himself upon the rocks. Or maybe the absence of a signature simply stirred a recognition within him, not unlike the disgruntled woman that now explores his halls.
His fingers twitch. He knots them in the bedsheets, keeping his gaze anchored to the painting. He counts each tattered sail. His eyes follow the rounded bow of the ship. They trace the arching waves, lingering just long enough to drown in them.
He does not think of how one would curve light around calloused hands, nor does he consider which brush would best fashion a strand of black hair, dampened and curled by the rain.
“Is all well, brother?”
Benedict blinked, tearing his attention away from a young debutante. She had dark hair, and he thought the bottom of her chin might prove a match, but her eyes…they were far too light. A lovely hazel to be sure, but not belonging to his lady. “Hmm?”
“You’ve hardly spoken a word all promenade.” Francesca smiled and repositioned her hand in the crook of John’s arm. He smiled at the movement but did not remove his attention from the clouds above. Her voice lightened in jest. “Are we truly so dull that even you can’t find a topic of interest?”
“Of course not! I am simply feeling more…introspective, today.”
“Oh my, so you are unwell! What matter could have possibly taken such hold of you?”
“A hushed one,” he said cheerfully before fixing her with raised eyebrows. “I thought you appreciated the merits of silence.”
John chuckled, finding it prudent to tear his gaze from the heavens and join in their exchange. “Come now, Francesca. You and I well know that sometimes a person simply needs their quiet.”
“Yes!” Benedict snapped his fingers, drawing a few startled glances from passersby, which he promptly ignored. “Thank you.”
“However, you do seem rather…distracted, lately. More so than usual. Perhaps we would fare better had we worn silver for the occasion?”
They shared a glance, grins growing on both their faces, and Benedict, already fighting the urge to throw his head back in defeat, found himself missing Eloise dearly. Unfortunately, she’d been ensnared by some outing involving fans and lace that not even he could talk their mother out of. Feeling somewhat bereft without her assistance, he’d accompanied his sister and brother-in-law on a stroll down Rotten Row, hoping their discreet and discerning natures would prove helpful.
He hadn’t considered how easily that discerning nature could be turned on him.
John wasn’t wrong; distraction seemed to be his constant companion as of late. She pulled his attention like candlelight in a darkened room, offering warmth against the cold backdrop of society and its rigid expectations. Of his responsibilities.
It was fortunate that, after nearly a year of holding his brother’s place, he’d grown accustomed to pretending. Stepping in for the viscount was not what Benedict would describe as easy. In fact, he would have long since cast first the ledgers and then himself into the fireplace were it not for Anthony’s generous supply of liquor—less generous now, he’d admit. The illusion of ease, however, could go far in the right circumstances. He simply had to angle his sketchbook properly away from Hatch as his valet rambled on and make sure to nod on occasion. Sometimes he’d go as far as to offer an assenting hum.
If Hatch noticed his scrawling took the shape of masks and bows instead of sums, he said nothing of it. He was good like that, Hatch was. A good man with good pay which, perhaps most importantly, made him good with Benedict's more discreet endeavors.
Not, he thought with wince, that the subject of his drawings was much of a secret, thanks to Lady Whistledown. He did wonder at times what had possessed him to so willingly prostrate himself before the wolves of the Ton. Young ladies pawed at him with their cursory words. Their mamas eyed him like a hog soon to be slaughtered, plump with honor and charm and the Bridgerton name. He answered their bites with a smile, ruling out each and every debutante until his collar grew too tight and his dejection too deep. In the aftermath, as he nursed his wounds over a glass of brandy, he often considered calling off the hunt altogether.
But then he’d remember the young lady who’d speared him with nothing but a smile, her lips curved slyly as she dodged his every question before splitting him open with her own, and he roused once more.
That smile littered his desk, each inhabiting an unfinished visage. He didn’t dare count the number of attempts, as doing so would only assign a number to his failures. She evaded the page just as she’d evaded him the night of the masquerade, leaving nothing but flashes of silver, the only tangible things a glove and her imprint on his lips. London was large and his lady elusive, but Benedict feared he was more likely to stumble upon her by chance in the streets than he was to ever capture her on paper.
“Benedict?”
Francesca’s voice. It pulled him from the dark crevice of his thoughts and back under the light of sun and stares alike. How fortunate he was that Hatch had set out darker colors for him that morning. He was beginning to sweat through his coat.
“We are only teasing. I hope we haven’t caused any harm.”
She looked at him with wide eyes that quickly darted sideways, a sure sign of uncertainty that left him wanting to wrap her in a hug and offer an apology all at once. But he knew Francesca settled best when attention was drawn away from her, and so he did neither, putting forth a reassuring smile instead.
“Not at all. You’re much kinder to my senses than, say, Eloise. Were she here, she’d accuse you of coddling me!”
The tension in Francesca's shoulders loosened. Whether from Benedict’s words or John’s hand on her arm, it didn’t matter much, so long as she was at ease. “Yes, well. We can’t have that.”
“No,” he agreed with feigned seriousness. “Else she be proven right and we never hear the end of it.”
“Then let us solve this mystery, and quickly,” said John. “Is it matters of the estate that trouble you?”
Benedict scoffed, removing one of his gloves so that he may readjust it. “Trouble? Hardly.”
John hummed and looked at Francesca with a tired grin. “Spoken like a man mercifully unattached from the headache of Parliament."
“Perhaps his mind is set on a correspondence.” At Benedict's raised eyebrows, Francesca nodded towards his fidgeting hands. “Your fingers. They are stained with ink.”
Blinking, he glanced at his fingers to find them indeed streaked with gray. Not from ink, as Francesca had presumed, but charcoal.
“Observant as ever, dear sister, but incorrect. I’m not caught up on some letter. I’ve simply—”
Taken to drawing again. The words halted on his tongue. The admission carried a weight, one far greater than the levity of his voice could carry. Once it fell, there’d be no retrieving it.
Not that Benedict was ashamed of his favored pastime. On the contrary, he used to flaunt it quite openly, tucking a sketchbook under his arm so frequently that even now he felt bare without it. He’d spent so much time living within its pages that he hadn’t seen the actuality of his art, not until it was far too late.
His eye turned to the glove in his hand, a supple brown leather much heavier than the silver one burning a hole against his heart. It knotted a harsh reminder in his chest. He did have a propensity for distraction. Perhaps he was better off dedicating his focus to the search instead of a pile of trivial, half-finished sketches.
“—found myself bested in this mystery,” he hedged, hoping one truth was enough to steer away from another. He yanked the glove back on, flexing his fingers. “In truth, both you and John are…not far removed in your guesses. I fear there is not one letter in my study, but many. It’s impressive. Far from Mayfair and still our dear viscount insists on running a ship tighter than the one boarded to India.”
She tilted her head, sympathetic. “Anthony has been away for some time. He surely misses us.”
“Ah, don’t discount the ledgers! I’m half certain he’ll greet them first upon his return, second only to Mother.” He grinned to soften any misinterpretation of ill will. “But you may be right, and Anthony simply finds himself in need of kinship. Perhaps Kate and the new heir finally tired of his hovering and barred him from the room.”
“Benedict!”
“Do not laugh! This is a serious matter! He could be commiserating with Newton over a glass of scotch as we speak.”
John chuckled. Francesca shook her head, but her mouth twitched at the corners, betraying her amusement. Benedict supposed he should feel relieved that neither she nor her husband had caught him out on his evasion. Yet as they pressed forward, crossing paths with a beaming young lady and her equally-eager mother, the knot in his chest pulled tighter, leaving him to pray his smile didn’t do the same.
By the second eve of their acquaintance, he has discovered two rather curious details about his guest. The first is that he was correct in assuming she does not know how to leisure—not comfortably, anyway—and the second is this: though she possesses little in the way of ease, she is quite rich in discernment.
On reflection, he should have known the moment she’d parsed his discomfort through a curtain of rain. Or, had he not been so occupied fumbling through the bushes like a ninny, he might have better appreciated her ability to spot an opened window through the shroud of night. Yet it’s not until they cross paths in the library that awareness truly lights within him.
At first, he’d stolen there intent on finding a distraction—a discreet one, given Mrs. Crabtree's dogged determination to keep him bedbound. He finds a collection of myths Colin had secured at one point or another during his travels, and starts to read it through, but quickly abandons his quest at a startled, “Oh!”
An eager smile breaks forth at the unexpected, though not unwelcomed, company. It’s a stark contrast to that of his guest. She carries herself carefully. Gone are the smiles and sighs from breakfast. She holds her spine ramrod straight, hands folded politely over her skirt. Her chest hardly moves, as though she’s scared to so much as breathe. Her movements are careful. Restrained.
Her gaze is not. It roams his bookshelves, tracing each title with methodical care before moving to the rest of the room. Benedict supposes such flagrant observation should unnerve him, but her eyes are bright and curious things, bringing warmth each time they pass him over. He’s seized by a strange desire to peer through them himself, to see the world as she does. Not for the first time, he finds himself deeply disappointed to be chained only to the realm of the possible.
As it stands, when she inquires about the library, all he can do is shrug. What is there to share, really? It’s more of a studio than a library. At present, more storage than study. He sincerely doubts anything could hold more interest than she does.
Then she pulls out a kite, of all things. He blinks as he takes it from her, astonished that she’d managed to single it from an entire pile of clutter. How often had he passed it by? He must have tread over it at least once, if the boot print scuffed on the tail is to be trusted.
His paintings…well, he’ll concede those are a little harder to miss, scattered through the room as they are, a folio stand propped in its very center. She inevitably approaches it, and so distracted is he by the kite that by the time he has noticed, she’s already holding a piece of sketched linen in her hands. He hastens to stop her but surrenders after a single step forward. It leaves him to hover like an uncertain schoolboy as she sifts through his works without hurry or reservation. His feet shift, eager to escape. The movement does little to shed his sudden nerves.
Her hands still. She gasps.
The painting she chooses, the one she states is “the one”, nearly halts his heart.
The landscape is unfinished, having sat untouched for years, but he places it immediately. The view depicted is one not far from Aubrey Hall, along the riding path he and his father had taken mere days before his death. It had been one of the few, and final, times Benedict spent well and truly alone with his father. He can’t recall the words exchanged, or if anything had been said at all. Instead, he remembers trees swaying in the distance, a breeze tugging his jacket, picking at their horses' manes. He remembers the way evening sun played with the valley, pulling the shadows long but never once dampening his father’s face.
Perhaps the memory was nothing remarkable. A placid afternoon. A near-sunset. He’d clung to it regardless, first as a retreat from the suffocating blacks and grays of the funeral, then as an anchor in the sea of his mother’s grief. Once he’d realized there were five, and then six, confused little faces, each looking to him for a levity Anthony could no longer give, it’d settled permanently.
This painting—it is not exact. The strokes are unpolished and the colors messy. It will never align perfectly with the picture in his mind. But, he thinks, it was never supposed to.
His guest can’t possibly know the history layered in those few dabs of paint. Even so, she takes one look at the painting before her and claims it exactly for what it is: a feeling. Her next words are enough to startle his heart back into quick rhythm. An odd feeling bolts through his chest. He shies from it immediately, preferring to examine her instead.
He doubts she realizes, but she too is a bit of an artist, painting a rather intriguing self-portrait as she speaks so assuredly of Michelangelo, further adding layers when she reveals herself a learner of French. The canvas she offers him is not unlike his own neglected paintings, but he finds himself wanting to finish it, to fill the blank spaces with the sound of her unbridled snort as she fails not to laugh, or the press of her fingers against his jaw, brief-but-searing.
She so often directs her gaze anywhere but him, so when her eyes stay fixed to his, shining with amusement, he realizes that—
Ah, she doesn’t just see things; she perceives them completely. Her dark eyes drive through his very being, forceful enough to unearth that which he’d decided was best left buried.
A part of him is relieved when Mr. Crabtree interrupts, even if the rest of him silently whines in frustration as she walks away. He calls after her lightheartedly, hoping that perhaps she’ll pity him enough to use his God-given name, or at least look at him again, if even for a second.
She does no such thing.
Still.
Her eyes are a shade he won’t soon forget.
If one person stood undaunted by brutal honesty, it was Eloise. She was never one to shy from her thoughts; instead, she spoke her mind in a manner that, although some claimed loud and uncouth, was stripped of all pretense. His sister didn’t simply face the truth—she sought it out. Though her findings weren’t always the most precise in their accuracy, her determination alone was enough to shine light on hidden things. It was one of the many reasons Benedict admired her so, and no small part in why he’d solicited her help to begin with. Her price was mockery, naturally, but Benedict consoled himself with the knowledge that for whatever he lost in dignity, he’d gain tenfold in an unyielding accomplice.
He proved correct, even if his resolve in such a decision wavered on occasion. Particularly when her observations shone a little too honest for his comfort.
“No mysteriously masked ladies,” she’d remarked after yet another failed outing, cutting through the dejected silence that clouded the carriage, “but I have, at least, unmasked the source of my headache.”
“Is that so? Given the tedium we just endured, I’m surprised there is a singular culprit.”
“Yes—you, and your ambiguity! I understand that was the whole purpose of Mama’s masquerade, but must you stay so infuriatingly vague in your observations? This is exactly why Whistledown could have never been a man. Women are clearly the more perceptive sex. Your glove lady would already be found had I only seen her myself that night.”
He met her scowl with a laugh. “Mm, yes, my apologies. Should I have extended you an invitation to the terrace?”
Eloise visibly shuddered.
“Of course not. There are some things a sister should never suffer witness to, chief among them her brother’s mortifying attempts at courtship.”
Again, he laughed. “I’ve imparted every detail gleaned during my so-called ‘courtship’, I assure you. If anything lies forgotten then I welcome it, though I can not possibly see it.”
“So you are growing blind in your old age. Pity, that.”
“Do you not speak of yourself, Eloise?” he mused, tilting his head. “Seeing as you claim to be such a seasoned spinster and all.”
She sniffed and collapsed her fan, driving its point into his chest, though it was slight. Playful. “Better a spinster than a jester, dancing before the court of the marriage mart.”
“No one has said a word about marriage! And I’ll have you know that this glove lady, as you so insist on calling her, found my dancing skills rather admirable. She could hardly believe her fortune at having found such a remarkable tutor.”
“Any lady who claims you as such is a dishonest one. Fortunately, you have other talents, ones that could finally, mercifully, bring an end to this wearisome chase if you would only use them.”
“Are my gentlemanly wiles not enough?”
“They are wanting,” she droned.
“Then I am at a loss. Please, enlighten me?”
She dropped her fan and leaned back. It clattered to the carriage floor as she fixed him with an exasperated look. “Your art, Benedict! What else?”
“Ah.” His smile weakened with the word. “Well, I suppose your plan holds some merit, if not for one particularly fatal flaw.”
“Oh, not this again!“
“Art requires an artist.”
“I am spent by the evening as it is. I beg you, brother, do not tire me further with poor excuses.”
“It is not an excuse—“ he started, but cut off sharply as she kicked at his boot.
“No, you continually blind yourself to the painfully clear, so listen. Maybe you don’t have the recognition, and we all know you could do with more conviction, but what of it? You have the intuition. The lessons.” At his scoff, she softened. Eloise was honest, but not deliberately cruel. She knew not to further prod at that particular bruise. “It only makes sense. If words are so inadequate to describe this woman, could you not simply draw her?”
“Indeed. I could not.”
The carriage eased to a stop in front of Bridgerton House. Thankfully, no one had wandered out front to bear witness as Eloise threw her back against the seat with a groan that was most unladylike. “You are insufferable.”
“And grateful, do not forget! Even so, I remain certain that our current course proves the most promising." He disembarked from the carriage, tugging at his neck to loosen his cravat before offering her his hand. Her eyes narrowed, but she eventually accepted it with a sigh.
“Very well. If we must continue to drag ourselves through misery, so be it.”
Benedict nudged her arm with his. “Were Lady Alby’s cakes truly that awful?”
“Her cook is acceptable. I refuse to extend the same grace to her son.” He smiled, properly amused as she launched into a tirade over the poor conversing habits of one Francis Alby. But when he returned to his—well, Anthony’s—study, he found her earlier words swirling through his mind as he thumbed through his sketchbook. It would thrill her to know just how correct she was. It had crossed his mind, at least a time or two, to use his sketches to his advantage. He’d always relied on the visual to bring to life what words could not. Now, when charm and inquiry had continually led him nowhere, the prospect was growing ever more tempting.
The Lady in Silver had been bold; it would not surprise him should she require boldness in kind. Perhaps her attention required a more daring approach. He did wonder what she would make of his sketches should he resort to displaying them publicly, parading her likeness throughout the Ton in some poor, half-done imitation of a miniature.
He flipped through each page of his sketchbook, both loose and bound, considering. There had to be something presentable. Passable, at the very least.
When his eyes began to tire from strain, he moved to the window and yanked back the curtains, holding the sketchbook aloft so that daylight could cover it fully. A mistake, because the change only served to highlight each inaccuracy. Each turn and tilt left him wanting—not for his lady and her presence, as had been the case for the last few weeks—but for the integrity of each composition. Surely the nose was too rounded, or the jaw too sharp. And the eyes, well, he’d never been able to master them, not even once.
Not a single rendition felt right. Real.
He exhaled heavily, upsetting a loose paper. He didn’t follow its path to the floor. Instead, his attention drifted upward, coming to settle on the portrait suspended above the fireplace. The eighth viscount, Lord Edmund Bridgerton, looked on.
More than once, Benedict had been teased for his wandering eyes. The moment he so much as set foot in a room his attention drifted toward the wall, in search of every landscape, still life, and portraiture. He could hardly help it. Art stirred his passions just as a good glass of brandy or promising night of pleasure might.
This was one portrait, however, that he looked away from more often than not.
It was good, that much he would concede. More than good, really. The painter’s technique was admirable, the subject’s portrayal tasteful. Most who knew the late viscount would consider the resemblance to be extraordinary if not exact.
Benedict had always found something in it lacking.
Though the artist certainly captured his father’s likeness, he had done a shoddy job of instilling any life within it. Perhaps the appraisal was as irrational as it was unfair. No artist could capture the steadying weight of a hand on a shoulder, nor the exact luster in Edmund’s eyes as he stared down at Benedict with a warmth not every father reserved for their son. There was no doubting how much Benedict had been loved, nor how much he’d loved his father in return.
The portrait’s posture was stiff, oil-paint eyes dull and distant as they looked past Benedict to places unseen. He couldn’t help but wonder, if an artist were so skilled as to bring his father back to life, how would he look at his second son now? With relief that at least a few of his lessons were being put to good use? In amusement that his most restless child was doing everything in his power to hold that title? Or would Benedict brave his father’s gaze only to find it a mirror, disappointment reflected therein?
He swallowed, trying not to squirm out of sudden awareness of his disarrayed state; his shirt sat untucked, his cravat long since unraveled and draped limply over the chair. His hair had been undone by frustrated fingers, which were still stained not with ink from accounts but from drawings that had led nowhere. If the study itself were a painting, few things stood more out of place than a free-spirited spare.
He glanced back down at his sketches. His Lady in Silver, though faceless, had an accusatory air about her. She was still missing. Still incomplete.
No, he decided. No, he clearly couldn’t display such work, not when it was in such a pitiful state. He would simply have to weather Eloise’s disappointment. Stay his current course and believe, beg, that it would be enough.
The fragments of dream tucked away in his sketchbook—those must remain for him, and him alone.
After days spent in very little company but his own, Benedict has grown quite sick of himself. His body is restless and his senses stale. His cut is…not recovered, exactly, but he is in far too good of health to remain in bed any longer. He can only watch the shadows waltz across his floorboards for so long. Thus, he absconds from his chambers with both purpose and a plan. Time spent at My Cottage is time suspended, and he’s intent to occupy it, just as his thoughts seem most thoroughly occupied by his dear friend.
Or, if not a dear friend, then a near one. She may not yet consider them such, but he likes to think that their close proximity and his easy charm has softened her to him somewhat. Either way, it is of no consequence; some fresh air and spirited fun should do the trick. At the very least, it provides him an excuse to seek her out.
She’s easy to find, and surprisingly easy to bait away from the comfort of her book and out into the gardens. There is a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and Benedict fears it's to protect from more than a crisp breeze because she keeps her arms just as crossed, set in front of her like a shield. He studies her slight frown, the tilt of her head. She’s irate and curious all at once. Luckily, curiosity seems to emerge victorious once she sees the kite laid out on the grass, and he smiles, giddy over such a fine start to his plan.
Naturally, the only direction in which it can go is down.
Sending the kite aloft is effortless; keeping it that way is less so. The kite is in the air all of two seconds before it plummets to the ground.
Though he’s failed quite spectacularly, there's hardly time to sulk over it because he’s immediately distracted by her laugh. It’s stifled, but enough to chip at her sternness because she moves towards him, smiling lightly, hands outstretched as she offers to look the kite over. He waves her off. His pride smarts—as does his finger after he slices it on the kite’s frame—but it only fuels his determination further.
He’s used to playing the part of the fool. Used to disappointing his family. His peers. At times, himself.
He doesn’t want to disappoint her.
His efforts, paired with feigned confidence, pay off. The kite flies. Not perfectly, but well enough that her face breaks into the most genuine smile he’s ever witnessed, not just on her, but perhaps on anyone he’s ever had the pleasure to meet. The garden grows more vibrant. Her dress is a soft blue, matched with the brilliant sky. Warm, honey-like hues surface in her eyes. Sunlight is kind to her, he thinks. She glows.
So does something within Benedict. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel so accomplished over fixing a simple kite, but he does. By God, he does.
It’s hardly the first time this kite has inspired pride, having been a favorite of his and his brother’s in their youth. They would fight over it often, at times coming to blows—nothing serious, just two gangly sets of limbs flailing until they both toppled into the mud. He’d ended up pinned beneath Anthony more often than not, but in the end it hadn’t mattered; he was the one who’d emerged with the final laugh.
One day, when Anthony was preoccupied with their father, Benedict had stolen away with both the kite and a set of paints. He’d first traced the letter B with painstaking care, officially marking it as his own. Then he’d set forth to claim the rest. He must have spent hours hidden in his room, just trying to get the shapes right! The resulting artwork was crude, as was to be expected from a child with no grasp on color theory, let alone shading, but enough to at least distinguish a sun and moon.
“My two eldest,” their mother used to huff to her friends during their squabbles. “At times they may seem as different as the night and day, but I assure you they are just as attached.”
It’d only felt right to add them both, sun and moon, because although the kite was clearly Benedict’s…perhaps Anthony could have a piece of it, too.
Once the paint had dried, returning the kite to its rightful place in the nursery proved little trouble. No, the hardest part of the entire ordeal had been awaiting the day Anthony found it. Though he was impatient to see which vexed expression would inevitably arise from his trickery, Benedict couldn’t deny that he’d been equally eager to learn his older brother’s thoughts regarding what, at the time, he’d considered to be his greatest masterpiece.
Anthony never saw the kite. He’d left for Eaton a month later, leaving all childish, frivolous things behind. After the kite broke during an incident involving Daphne and a tree, the simplest solution had been to simply let it fall by the wayside. After all, Benedict had thought, wasn’t it time he moved forward himself? Moving on had proven even easier years later when Gregory found the kite, asked him to fix it, and Benedict simply…never got around to it.
Now, seeing his joy matched on a friend’s face as they laugh and chase and stumble together, he can’t imagine ever discarding such a wonder from his childhood, especially when she appears to be mourning something from hers.
When they return inside, hair scattered and faces made rosy by early-autumn cold, he doesn’t return to bed as he ought. Kite in hand, he enters the library. Evening turns the room dim, but never has he seen it more clearly. It’s as though his eyes have finally adjusted to the dark, and only now can he distinguish that which the shadows previously concealed: a wooden horse with a chipped tail, a vase of shriveled wildflowers, a crumpled piece of sheet music. Canvases, several of them, line walls and tables and shelves.
The entire room is brimming with things forgotten. Things overlooked.
Things unfinished.
But not everything, he thinks. Not anymore.
A smile blooms as he looks at the kite, growing ever wider as he remembers a certain laugh, head thrown back as sunlight plays across a slender neck. He may never set it down. If he does, he just might take up an empty canvas, and finally do something with it.
He couldn’t remember her face.
The realization was sobering, which made it all the more tragic he was sober to start. He’d reach for a flask had he only the foresight to conceal one in the folds of his coat. Granted, a show so brazen would push him beyond the socially acceptable, but then, when had he ever sought acceptability? At least drunk he’d have an excuse for such abject memory. Drunk, he could continue to bask in foolish hope, conjuring all sorts of fantastical dreams in the loose, pleasant haze and believe them to be true. Gin may not make him the most upstanding gentleman, but it would ease the edge along his heart. Dull the hurt.
Instead, his head ached not from drink, but from pleasantries. His smile sat even and small, so weighed by dispondency that the leftmost side could hardly rise higher than the right. He drifted aimlessly through yet another ball, bobbing through a sea of pastel skirts and perfectly-knotted cravats, scanning each wave of faces as though one would outshine the rest, enough to provide landmark for a lost man.
None of them inspired a sense of familiarity, or wonder, or even desire. All he found was failure.
The full extent of his failure didn’t seize him until after they’d returned to Bridgerton House. He pressed a parting kiss to his mother’s cheek, eager to dodge her pitying gaze, and headed to the study—and, more importantly, the spirits hidden within it.
Still, before he searched the desk for a half-filled decanter, he first scattered his drawings across its surface. It had become a ritual of sorts. A comfort. He’d spent more time correcting his drawings than any of the estate’s wayward affairs, so certain that something laid amongst them, be it an answer or, at the very least, proof that the night had been real. That she existed beyond his imagination. Now, he was faced with the reality of having failed his Lady in Silver quite tremendously.
Doubt curled coldly in his chest. He could no longer be sure of what was truly hers, and what his silly sketching had distorted to the point even his memories rang false. Her hair was dark, yes, but was that not the natural consequence of charcoal and pencil? Tracing a finger along her lips revealed cold parchment rather than supple flesh. Even the gleam of her smile was dulled. His folly was clear.
He had draped her in gray, not silver.
Struck with a pang of despair, he hastily gathered the drawings and shoved them into a drawer, closing them in darkness. His charcoals followed, tossed haphazardly in their box before they, too, were hidden away as he slammed the lid shut. He propped both arms on the desk and leaned forward with a slow, calming breath. A strand of hair fell free to brush his forehead.
Maybe, he thought, grasping feebly at one final thread of optimism, it was not his rendition that served a hindrance, but the medium itself. He had admittedly little experience when it came to plaster or marble, but sculpting held some appeal, if only so he could feel her under his hands once more.
He frowned, banishing the thought before its completion. His lady hadn’t been inert and cold. No sculpture would hold her warmth. She’d shone, leaving no shadows for him to stand in, bringing color to an otherwise dreary evening.
Color. A new idea took shape. Nebulous at first, but growing increasingly clear while Benedict’s heart beat ever more unsteady.
He could add color of his own, in a manner of speaking. He could paint.
His fingers ceased their drumming along the desk, unconvinced. Sketching had been one thing—namely, safe. It took significantly little effort to convince himself that it was nothing more than dalliance. Something to fill his time, temporary and insignificant. Retrieving his oils from the dark and dusty corners of his studio felt all the more permanent. Painting meant layers. It meant marrying two pigments together in hopes of creating something remarkable. It was making mistakes that couldn’t be undone by a simple eraser.
He rolled his lips, feeling them chapped and dry. Could. He could paint. He did, back at the Royal Academy. But it had all been an illusion, a farce, and once the veil had been torn from his eyes he could hardly stand to so much as hold a brush. Which, he reminded himself, was for the better.
He sketched. He doodled. He kept the fireplace fed with poor shading and fickle lines. He did not paint—not anymore.
Somewhere within the bowels of the house, a clock chimed. He closed his eyes, counting twelve tolls, each one leaving him more hollow than the last.
Perhaps it was time for him to stop dreaming and truly, completely, come to accept that which he’d always known. Benedict was many things in the eyes of society: a rake, a second son, a Bridgerton. There were some things he could never be. A true nobleman fit for society’s arbitrary standards. A…husband, one worthy of a lady wrapped in starlight.
As for an artist?
Well, he’d learned that lesson long ago. How foolish he was to have learned it again.
He stands before an easel, charcoal in hand and gaze fixed resolutely on the canvas, its surface marked with the faint beginnings of a woman. He has yet to set a brush to it, having left his properly mixed paints stranded in Mayfair, but it’s no matter; in the refuge of the cottage, a preliminary sketch will more than suffice. Potential nips at his fingertips, sending an excited thrum through his chest. He’s always been partial to a new start.
An ending…now, that is a different tale entirely.
It appears that, even now, doubt is his most fervent companion. He rolls his shoulders, attempting to shrug free of its constant, clammy grip as he would a pestering sibling. He can not allow uncertainty to take hold. He can not think of the academy, nor his brother’s donation, nor the numerous drawings languishing in his sketchbook. No, he resolves, this time he will charge fully into the war between head and heart, paint and canvas, and prove himself more than a deserter. A victor, rather than an imposter.
Though he tells himself this, he does not believe it—not fully, and not when it springs from his own internal faculties. He does, however, believe her.
She lingers. Even when they are rooms removed from one another, her presence is as inseparable as his shadow. Her scent clings to his shirt: summer grass and ash, grounding and heady all at once. The image of her face, flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the day, appears each time he closes his eyes. His lips tingle with the touch—the taste—of hers.
But it is her words that have stayed with him the longest. They encircle his thoughts like a bee amongst flowers, gentle, but with the capability to sting if examined too closely, a curiosity easily turned fatal.
“An artist,” she had said. “You are an artist.”
It is not the first time he’s been told such, but the remark had always felt flimsy and false, more a passing courtesy than an expression of true interest. Never before had he heard it spoken with such certainty. She’d left no space for doubt, only a delight that illuminated every inch of her being. It’d staggered him so completely at the time that he’d fallen back on habit, deflecting her insistence with stilted words and fidgeting hands. Still, by the third time her words return to his mind, haunting as a spectre, he must admit that something has sparked within him.
He understands, now, that not only does she see his work, fragmented though it may be, but the entirety of the person behind it. She peered through his darker shades and drew out that which sheltered within, the small and simple joys that he’d let sink into a backdrop of spirits and parties and despair. The parts of himself he’d thought unworthy, or lost altogether.
She has gifted him new eyes. New life, even, further demonstrated when she walks into his studio, née library, and every bit of him pulls to attention. Though he tries to temper his zeal, he can’t resist spilling awe into her name.
“It is good to see you at the easel,” she says.
It is because of you, he wants to counter. Surely she must know. How could she not, when she has not only altered the fabric of his world, but has managed to change the color palette completely!
Benedict supposes he is much like his art—or rather, her interpretation of it. What had she called it? Unrestrained, but with true feeling? As a result, he must call upon every ounce of self-mastery to confine his thoughts to a mere smile. He looks away, momentarily taken by nerves, but quickly fortifies himself to return her gaze and admit, “Yes. I’m finally starting to feel more like…myself.”
Though a simple truth, it is enough, because she nods and smiles such a lovely smile that, although subtle, he knows to be equally true. It breaks through the hesitation that lingers from their lakeside kiss. For a moment there is neither time nor haste; there is simply the easel between them and the company that they share. Hope rises tentatively within him; perhaps they can bask in it a while.
Then her smile falters. The clock restarts.
“I’ve been thinking that I should like to return to London,” she says. He feels as though he’s been shoved out into a frigid winter’s night. The very last thing he desires is to swap the vibrant green of My Cottage for London’s confining gray.
But, a voice near-indistinguishable from Mrs. Crabtree’s chides, there are parts of himself that he must not forget. His responsibilities. His family. Above all, his station. It yanks him to the ground, wedging something solid and cold in his gut, leaving him pinned.
When she asks to leave, what choice does he have but to agree? To apologize?
The room dims as she departs. He tries to return his attention to the task at hand. When that fails, he drops the charcoal and stares at the canvas. The sketch is still in its infancy, but teeming with promise.
He envisions it bursting with color, picturing dark hair and smooth skin, a playful smile and kind eyes. The dress’s fabric wraps her in gentle waves, lit the softest shade of blue…
He blinks, nose scrunching. Silver. His lady’s dress was silver, of course. He may have lost many things to the sands of time, but her dress was certainly not one of them.
Fighting a sudden surge of panic, he assures himself that, no, he has not forgotten his muse. He can’t, for if he does, then he can never call himself an artist. If he does, then he may never forget a different young woman, one as equally, if not more, spirited and alive and oh-so-clever.
A woman infinitely more real—as real as the world that traps them.
Exhaling, he takes the charcoal and begins anew. No matter what discoveries lie in his shrouded corners, he is still a nobleman, expected to shine bright and commendable for his family name. For all her light, she is still a maid, forced to live a life confined to the shadows.
And yet, as his fingers maneuver the charcoal with featherlight strokes, as the canvas starts to take the shape of a silver lady—
His hands ache for Sophie all the same.