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A Tangle of Bluebells
Sequel to A Patch of Violets
Violet Bridgerton was going to have the busiest summer!
She had just made the acquaintance of the loveliest little lady she had set her eyes on, with the most delightful dimples on the plumpest cheeks that Violet had ever seen, and simply the most bewitching hazel eyes. Little Violet Baek Bridgerton had her father in the palm of her hand, and she spent merely fourteen of the forty eight hours of her grandmother’s visit awake.
Yes, Violet the elder timed it.
And that persistently sleepy bundle was the only reason that Violet would claim the adjective. She was, after all, still spritely and energetic. Why, one would hardly suspect that the fingers of one hand were insufficient to count off her grandchildren.
But it was quite a fulfilling visit with the husband and wife who had finally honored her by naming their child after her. Mothers never picked favorites of course. Benedict and Sophie, however, had just secured the spots if ever Violet had to pick. A child named after her, extending her name by another generation! Why, she had always known that Sophie was a proper, well-bred young lady. Even before the mess of her situation with the Penwoods was discovered, Violet had suspected her decency and manner. And what a gesture this was. Sophie truly rubbed on her Benedict in all the right ways.
She smiled at the memory of that first afternoon. Sophie served tea with such elegance as she always exhibited—the finesse that slipped only once to Violet’s recollection. It was the afternoon that she entertained the Hollisses in Bridgerton House and Sophie burned Benedict’s hand. And that was truly Benedict’s fault, not Sophie’s. In fact, the morning after Violet found out from Araminta Gun’s courthouse outburst that Sophie was the Lady in Silver, and Benedict joined her for breakfast with a self-satisfied smile and a look of relaxation brought about by a full night’s sleep aided by a rose oil scented bath, she wanted to take the steeping hot tea and burn his hand all over again. How very inconsiderate of him, she thought, to have brought such heartache to her very favorite lady’s maid and—now given Violet II’s existence—favorite daughter-in-law to be.
That afternoon, Benedict carried his paint-smudged sketchbook under one arm as he strode out of the cottage to join them in the brightly lit garden. Neatly cultivated within two large square plots were patches of violets that bloomed since Sophie and Benedict’s wedding. Out in the distance where the trees bordered the forest, bluebells tangled amongst themselves, creating a blanket that added a burst of purplish blue and gray amongst the brown and green.
Her son immediately leaned over the bassinet nearby, the infant close to hand wherever Sophie was. At the sight that greeted him, most likely little Violet fast asleep with her pink heart lips in a O as she dreamed of milk and her mother’s teat, the realization dawned clear as the bright cloudless sky.
Despite the drunken nights, the interminable parties, the escapes to country houses for God knows what affairs, this was the life that suited her second son. Never had she seen such peace in his eyes. Never had Violet seen him so content. Not once. Not even in Aubrey Hall. And certainly not in London.
A small cry from the bassinet, and Benedict immediately set aside his sketchbook. He began to reach for the infant, but Sophie made a tutting sound. He broke into a grin, then without complaint headed to the pump to wash his hands of the charcoal and dried paint. By the time he returned, his wife was fussing over the infant. Sophie settled into the chair across from Violet, hidden by the shade. Benedict began to reach for his daughter, but little Vivi nuzzled at her mother’s covered breast.
“I can do many things, little love, and I would do it all for you. But that your papa cannot do,” Benedict stated. With nary another word, he picked up his abandoned sketchbook and settled on the grass by Sophie’s feet.
Violet observed, wondering what possessed her son. And then she saw how the sunlight played with the leaves of the trees and cast fragments of light and shadows upon her face and figure. While Vivi suckled, Benedict’s fingers furiously worked to capture the moment.
“Drawing us.”
“As always,” he acknowledged.
Sophie smiled down at her husband, with a look that Violet wondered if anyone ever saw on her a long time ago whenever Edmund appeared. Then again, Violet doubted she ever had such freedom under the constant visibility of being the viscount’s eyes. In their little country escape, Violet thought, unburdened by titles and expectations, Benedict and Sophie were quite fortunate.
“In fact, I have nearly finished my new series.”
“Oh?” Violet was surprised. She had not even realized that Benedict had grown so prolific. Which of Wiltshire’s landscapes would she see next in the National Gallery, she wondered.
The pride in Sophie’s voice could not be hidden. “He spends most mornings chasing the proper light. And look at him now, finding the light even in the afternoons.”
“Well,” Benedict replied, his voice taking on a soft and tender tone, “my favorite model has been endlessly patient.”
“How very fortunate to find someone way out here!” Violet exclaimed. Most models for hire frequented London, where there would be a steady stream of work. Indeed, Benedict lucked out.
Soon, his son rose from the grass and took the sleeping baby, warm and drunk with her mother’s milk. He kissed his wife, as he should, yet lingered on Sophie’s lips far longer than Violet thought proper in the city. They were in the countryside though, with none of Society to watch and judge. She allowed it, if only to delight longer at the sight of her son cradling his newborn in his arms while basking in his wife’s adoring gaze.
Such happiness.
Finally, for Benedict, Violet thought. Genuine happiness the likes of which he had not had. What fortune after years caring for his siblings’ own joy, that he should find it for himself.
Violet could only hope to give him more of it. She had a few more treasures in her chest. And now she knew exactly how to add to Benedict’s happiness.
She formulated her simple plan. When she arrived back to Bridgerton House, she would have Mrs Wilson take a few servants with her to find some lovely infant gowns that she had preserved for the granddaughters. Daphne would not miss them out in Clyvedon. Truly, the duration of travel would just crumple the lovely dresses. Francesca would not mind once she finds out that the wardrobe would go to Benedict’s child. The two of them had been whispering in corners like two collaborators in a secret plot. And Eloise—well, the precious baby gowns would be in danger of succumbing to mold and age before Eloise would even think of needing them.
She forgot Hyacinth.
Hyacinth would forget about those clothes the moment she was swept up in her own love story. Besides, it would be so far into the future that pretty baby Violet would have outgrown them. And then Hyacinth might ask Sophie for them. Unless of course, Sophie and Benedict decides on a Violet III, or the IV. Violet also had a middle name. They may use that too, as long as they kept producing such little beauties like Violet II.
Violet was in such a pleasant mood that she was not even flustered when the carriage rolled to an awkward and abrupt stop right in the town. There would be a delay, apologized the footman. An hour or two, he estimated. Fortunately, they were in the commercial district of the town, and there was the wide main street of tea shops, dressmakers, bookstores, and other such civilities. She spied a lovely storefront that had a shelf of little dolls. One wore a lovely pale blue dress and a was adorned with a head full of black yarn hair. She would be perfect for her little Vivi, even if the child could not even keep her eyes open for longer than an hour. What was another gift waiting for when the baby could grasp?
Filled with purpose, Violet trudged through the clear streets to purchase the doll outright. She held the bag in one hand afterwards, making sure the head of the doll peered out, playfully entertaining the thought of telling Vivi in a few years’ time that her grandma ensured that her dolly could breathe during her transport to her new home. Vivi would love that, and Violet imagined the child to be so grateful—Sophie would absolutely teach her child the graces—that she would throw her arms tight around her.
The footman was not yet standing in the streetcorner to take her back to the carriage, which meant the delay was longer than anticipated or that Violet did not take so long to purchase the doll. And so she wandered further down the main street until she stumbled upon a gallery as prestigious as they came in this part of the country.
“Wessex Art Gallery,” she read out loud. It appeared to be new, freshly painted, and Benedict had not mentioned it at all. His landscapes hung in London, and the fact filled her with such pride and joy. She must write to Benedict about this discovery. It would be a nearby platform to test out some of his works when he did not deem them ready for London.
“Here is my hour,” she declared. Violet had never minded museums or galleries. They were such pleasant past times. It would be cool shade to get away from the summer sun, and no one could truly turn away from beauty. One day, she would hold little Vivi’s hand and she would introduce her to her first gallery—perhaps even this one! What could she bribe Benedict with, she wondered, so that he would allow her to be the first to bring her granddaughter to an exhibit? She still had pieces from her own grandmother that she could promise. He was obviously not going to propose marriage again, but maybe a debutante gift to Vivi and any of the succeeding younger Violets, or even engagement rings if he should ever have boys.
Yes, Violet decided, Sophie would teach the graces, and Violet would bring culture and respectability into her grandchildren’s education. There should be enough in her jewelry box to get Benedict to agree.
She stepped into the gallery and walked sedately from section to section. The portraits were lifelike, and captured a different type of personalities than those to be found in London. She read the titles, “Milkmaid. Country dancers. Village fool. Seamstress. How quaint,” Violet murmured. And then she wandered to the next section, and the large paintings were much more to her taste. She truly did enjoy landscapes and had been happy when Benedict chose to focus on landscapes after his first breakthrough with Sophie’s Lady in Silver portrait. Violet appreciated views of the Cotswolds, a stunning view of the Avesbury rocks at sunset, and a nice rendition of the cliffsides. There were experimental landscapes as well. Violet had never seen before the surreal spread of paint that contrasted with the darker backdrops, and even with the indelicate strokes of the brush the petals on the canvas seemed almost soft.
“Such technique,” she thought. “Benedict would appreciate this brushwork.”
Why, she would not even need for Violet II to grow older before bringing someone to discover this gallery. First, she would take Benedict for his own edification. He might learn a thing or two, and for the first time in a good long while, he would owe it to his mother. Not that he did not recognize her contribution to his life already. Her prettiest granddaughter’s name proved the point quite loudly, legally, and proudly.
As Violet made mental notes of the specific paintings she would make sure to showcase to her artist son, she noted a far door towards a cordoned section of the gallery. There seemed to be a select few who wandered there, and those who emerged did so in deep conversation, with some women fanning themselves briskly in flushed disbelief. Even some of the men bowed their heads, most especially those who entered with their wives. Some spectators seemed to have come in groups—artists most of them, who spoke of technique in animated fashion, and themes and shadows and all sorts of terminology that Benedict surely would have heard before. She hoped to take Benedict here when artists such as those were around. He could make friends.
Not that he would want to join any Saturday clubs of artists, when he inhaled every waking moment of his infant. In fact, even asleep, Violet II took up most of his attention. Wife and child defined him now, that poor fortunate boy.
A man and woman walked of the exhibit—followed by an elderly woman who shook her head and pursed her lips as she stalked out of the section. The young woman disengaged her arm from the gentleman’s and then she ran away.
Intrigued, Violet strode towards the special exhibition. PRIVATE COLLECTION, it said right outside the door. “Ah,” Violet said. Now she understood such reactions. Of course there were those unused to such fashionable and liberal things. At least Violet was raised by her father to have an open and exploratory education. “Figure studies,” she assumed. “And likely Greek influences.” She had seen so many of those before in books, and during some of her early travels with Edmund had even explored statues and paintings depicting the human form.
What was there to be concerned about, when we all such anatomy? What she did not have, she had seen before.
Even as she thought it, she blushed in memory.
Violet entered the gallery section. The people milling about spoke in much more hushed tones than elsewhere in the unexpectedly larger than it seemed Wessex Art Gallery. Instead of what she initially expected, of hard cut planes and figures like Michelangelo’s David, or various Renaissance imagery, she saw—
Life.
The first painting depicted the painter’s point of view uniquely, putting the viewer in exactly the location and distance of the artist. Right at the bottom of the painting was a sketchbook depicting what was centered on the canvas. A wife dressing for the day, her head bowed as she worked on her laces, her dark hair a curtain shielding her face.
How elegant it was, a tender moment between man and his wife. “Rather personal,” she thought. Immediately, the artist had brought spectators into the privacy of their bedroom. “Surely this belongs in a private collection.” And then she remembered the large block letters outside the door that she chose to push open.
She would rather not be witness to a stranger’s morning rituals, but Benedict may be interested in the unique point of view with the sketchpad captured in the art as well, so she noted it as a piece of interest.
She moved to the next painting. Her eyes flared at the sight. Quick, almost harsh brushstrokes, depicting a hurried sequence by the artist’s hand. An embrace, with limbs encompassing and reaching. The woman’s arms reached around the wide expanse of a man’s back. “Surely no one requires to see so much skin.” She was so much smaller. One could barely glimpse her form but it was obvious how he overwhelmed. The painting was static, yet Violet could tell. This was a long embrace, lingering and unhurried. She swallowed, then fanned herself with her hand for lack of a proper instrument.
“Why, where is the proprietor of this establishment!”
Dazed, she moved to the next.
The painter’s version of a study of the human hand—one of the most common exercise for any visual artist—came in the form of a scene depiction. Based on the faded background, the setting was the aftermath of a dance at the Society ball. This intrigued her, because it meant the painter was familiar with the Season and knew enough at least to be quite realistic. That hand was his, she thought, lingering upon the woman’s waist.
“The room must come with a warning,” she muttered. “Young ladies out not to wander in. It is highly inappropriate.” They might think such touches were acceptable in Society. She was no prude, but this simply would not do as an example to respectable young debutantes. “They are quite impressionable.”
The man looked down upon his masked partner. His eyes said everything, even behind the minimal slits of the mask he himself wore.
In front of the whole world, a novel could be read in those eyes. The preface was in his. The epilogue in hers. “Why is she looking at him like that?” she whispered. Between them hung, in the emptiness that was their breaths intermingling. Violet looked around her and was shocked that no one was scandalized the way she was.
“Someone ought to complain.”
She hurried away from the painting before it came to life and the man and woman began reproducing in front of her.
There was a turn where the next painting was, the wall facing to the side that one could not immediately see it from its vantage. It was intentional to hide the next feature, and that intrigued her. Violet stepped forward, prepared by the previous works to expect the very worst.
What she saw next was not explicit or scandalous. In fact, it seemed almost innocent, quite idyllic. As she had expected earlier before she even walked in, this one featured the nudity of the works of several European masters. She smiled at the sight of a naked woman lying among a blanket of bluebells. The man, equally bare, leaned over her in the picture, smiling down at her as the bluebells almost swallowed them whole. Her eyes fondly drank the sight of the two, so obviously in love and quite tastefully covered by the English wildflowers. Her gaze flickered to the title on the side. “A Tangle of Bluebells.”
Violet looked back at the painting. She froze. She could not tear her eyes away.
She was intruding upon a private moment, one that the painter chose to portray in his art for the public to ogle.
“I am someone,” she thought. “I am the someone. I am Lady Violet Bridgerton! I have the ethical obligation to protect public decency!” Why anyone could simply walk in from Main Street. That was precisely what she did!
Who shall she complain to? There was a magistrate, or the gallery owner, or she could go all the way to the queen!
Armed with her noble purpose and remembering that she had four daughters, three daughters-in-law and one spectacularly wonderful and innocent young granddaughter, Violet picked up her skirts and hurried towards the attendant of the gallery. She straightened her back and clasped her hands in front of her. She must be perfectly composed if anyone should take her seriously. She must be a complete Bridgerton.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted. The young gentleman came up closer to her. “I was merely wondering whether one might inquire as to the artist responsible for this…” She gestured widely around her, indicating the entire private collection.
She should say it. She was here anyway. And she was complaining.
Indecency. Scandal.
Yet she was too much of a respectable lady to put it into words.
She pursed her lips, her dour expression saying more than words could.
To her dismay, the gallery attendant beamed. “You are looking for the painter. Of course, of course. Several visitors have approached me for the same inquiry, my lady. This collection has quickly become our most popular, our most celebrated exhibition in the history of the Wessex Art Gallery!”
“And how storied is this gallery?” She needled.
“Two years, maam.”
Violet scoffed. She was the viscountess of eight generations. They were elite. There were not many of them. “The artist,” she prompted.
“Of course, maam. The celebrated artist is a local to the area.”
“He must be.” To have so little constraint. The man must have grown so isolated from London Society.
“Benedict Bridgerton.”
Violet blinked. “I beg your pardon.” How many Bridgerton families were there in Britain? Of course Edmund had siblings, and Bridgerton notoriously spawned quite quickly—fertile bunches as they were. But Violet did not remember any other family that used Benedict’s name.
The attendant handed her a pamphlet. She looked down and read the Artist Biography.
“Eton,” she read softly. “Cambridge. A Wiltshire local,” just as the attendant proudly staked his claim. “Resides in the countryside… with his wife Sophie…”
Was there a chance? She was fooling herself, because she did love the sanity she reclaimed after she post it after Edmund passed.
“And their lovely little Violet.”
Suddenly, their lovely visit shifted in her memory. The brightly lit rooms and warm afternoons dimmed and cooled. Violet recalled the exchange in the garden, taking on a tinge of horror as she recalled her daughter-in-law and then her son holding precious little Vivi in their arms as the words echoed in her mind.
His favorite model.
She was congratulating him on his luck of finding hired help so accommodating out there in the countryside.
Over breakfast, Benedict had commented on the particular angle of the sun in the library, then invited his wife to inspect it so that she may learn a thing or two about mixing colors to capture the amber light. She rose from the breakfast table, then asked Mrs Crabtree to listen for the baby. Violet had immediately risen and offered her attention to her grandchild while Sophie learned her yellows and oranges.
The new series that Benedict was set to complete was not of landscapes, she thought. She had not even known about this series that surrounded her.
Sophie disappeared for an hour for that amber light. The studio had been locked. Violet noted it, because she was certain within that hour the angle of the sun had shifted many times, and amber blazed bright yellow and stark white.
Which one, Violet wondered.
The limbs, she wagered. She worried her lower lip, because she had stared at that an inordinate length of time. Fascinated.
And then she looked up to find her coachman standing at the doorway. She perked up at the chance to slip away immediately and try to scrub all memory and thought of the previous hour from her mind. The road to London was long, and that should be sufficient to cleanse her brain. To her horror, another figure stepped forward from behind her staff.
“Mother,” Benedict said. “I have come with another carriage to escort you back to My Cottage.” His gaze shifted from Violet to the gallery behind her. “Or you can take it back to London, if you wish.”
It was a slap one after the other, truly. Violet licked her lips, searching for a response that would keep her dignity intact. She and Benedict were much the same. He would understand eventually. Violet already begun to understand, so open-minded she was. Yes, yes, she understood. She just needed time. But the next slap came before she adjusted, because the next thing she heard was the pleasant voice of her son’s wife, “Love, have you found her?”
Sophie emerged from behind her son. She truly was much smaller, just as that painting showed. Violet did not even notice her there, and now she saw Sophie with her daughter strapped across her chest.
Now she really ought to file a complaint. At least restrict the age of the visitors. It cannot be good for a child to be exposed to her parents’ little misadventures. Little Violet must be protected.
Violet could see Sophie begin to swallow the laughter that rose in her throat.
“You are the painter.”
Benedict slowly nodded. Sophie placed a hand on the small of his back. “That is what it says on the pamphlet,” he said. And then he nodded at the paintings on display. “And on each and every one of the title cards.”
How she missed them she could not know. It must be the art, the subject or the technique. “I was captivated by the work. I missed your name.”
Benedict gave a slight smile. “Well that is rather flattering, mother.”
“Are you alright, mother?” Sophie asked tentatively.
Violet nodded. “You are the patient model. You posed for him.”
“He is my husband. My body is malleable for his art.”
Like the soil that he had tilled, well and often.
Violet sighed. She should no longer be surprised, really. And then she hooked her arm through her son’s. “Come then. Walk your mother. It is clear that I missed important information, such as your name. Who knows what other intentions you had in your pieces that I was not equipped to notice?”
His wife took his other arm. Violet decided not to file a complaint about her zero year old grandchild being in the private gallery among some nudes.
The artist did not speak about the technique, or the movement that his work echoed. Instead he spoke about his subject and the life that led to each scene. How gently he painted her. How tenderly he told stories about her. And because he spoke of her, Violet focused on the model on the canvas. How much she trusted him, Violet thought. While he hid her face—the curtain of her hair when she dressed, the bluebells before her face in the field, his form looming around her showing only her limbs—it still spoke volumes of their love the way she was bare for his brushstrokes.
Suddenly she realized why it was that the exhibition was celebrated so, and why the visitors spoke in a hush before the pieces. Just like the hand on her waist, but a love story read from their eyes. Desire did not eclipse tenderness. The exhibit was not about the human form.
At the end of the section devoted to his works, Violet reached the thesis of his story. It came on big block letters painted on a card.
YEAR ONE.
Outside the gallery, Violet waited for her carriage. Beside her, Sophie leaned against her Benedict. His arm wrapped around her shoulders while her head rested on his chest. Little Violet, as expected, slept peacefully. Unaffected, it seemed, by the titillating and scandalous scenes that her own father had painted.
The Bridgerton carriage finally arrived. For the second, Benedict peeled away from his wife and child and helped his mother inside.
Once Violet was seated, she turned to her second son. “I shall refrain from checking on your work from now on,” she said. “And I shall trust that you are creating beautifully, dearest.”
“That is probably the wisest decision, mother.”
She looked back at the forms of both Benedict and Sophie, and the yet barely noticeable Violet across her daughter-in-law's chest. On the side of the gallery, a banner was nailed to the wall. A new exhibit, Violet thought. She mulled over which of her children would benefit from an invitation to visit. All the Bridgertons must make their way to the Wessex Art Gallery immediately, so Benedict knew how much support he had.
“Year One,” it said. “Oil on canvas collection – Benedict Bridgerton.” The attendant did not lie. It was their most celebrated. Benedict deserved no less than the recognition of his name so broadly displayed. Despite her initial reservations, she smiled. “Well, the gardens truly did flourish.”
Fin