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Sophie's laughter gradually faded as she watched Benedict stoop to retrieve the kite once more after it had surrendered to the grass for what must have been the sixth or perhaps the eighth time. She had long since lost count. Every attempt to launch it ended the same way, with the breeze teasing the bright fabric into the air for five minutes before dropping it unceremoniously back to the ground. Each time Benedict declared the next attempt would surely be the one, and each time the kite betrayed him, sending them both into helpless laughter.
"Come," she said at last, unable to watch him pretend not to hold his injured side any longer. "I think you should rest. Mrs. Crabtree is no doubt watching us from one of the windows, and I fear she will blame me for any extended recovery."
Though her words were light, there was no disguising the genuine concern beneath them. A large part of her felt responsible for his wound, for if it weren't for Sophie's attempt to save Hazel from Phillip Cavender then Benedict would not have the injury.
Benedict answered with an exaggerated groan. "Please do not make me go back inside. I have been imprisoned in that cottage for five days."
"You have been recovering," Sophie corrected, one brow arching. "There is a difference."
"From my perspective, very little."
She regarded him with a look that made it abundantly clear she was not persuaded.
"Very well," she relented, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Then at least sit down for a moment."
Without waiting for his reply, she crossed the lawn towards the old stone bench nestled beneath the hawthorn hedge, its sun-warmed surface dappled with shifting patches of light. She did not see Benedict's slight roll of the eyes as he followed after her, though the smile lingering on his face suggested he was secretly pleased to be ordered about by her.
A companionable silence settled between them, so natural that neither seemed aware of its arrival. There was no expectation to fill it with conversation. Instead, they simply sat together, letting the warmth of the afternoon sun soak into their skin while the gentle breeze stirred the alder tree overhead.
Sophie's gaze wandered lazily over the cottage. Ivy climbed the western wall in thick green tendrils, manoeuvring over weathered stones mottled by decades of rain, frost and sunshine. Time had softened every corner of the old house, giving it a quiet steadiness that settled over anyone fortunate enough to find themselves there. It was the sort of place that invited one to linger, to breathe a little more deeply, and to forget, if only for a while, that the world beyond its garden gates continued to turn. For Sophie, she had not known such peace and safety in many long years.
Unbeknownst to her, Benedict's attention had drifted elsewhere. His eyes rested upon her hands where they lay quietly folded in her lap, their stillness at odds with all they revealed. They were not the delicate, pampered hands of the ladies he knew, but capable ones. Strong, steady hands, he thought. Hands that mended, comforted and created. Hands that, for reasons he scarcely understood, he suddenly found himself wanting to hold.
Benedict shook his head at the thought.
"Why 'My Cottage'?" asked Sophie.
One of Benedict's brows lifted.
"The name came with the estate." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I rather like the way it confuses people, so I never changed it."
Sophie gave a soft huff of laughter. "I suppose one of your ancestors appreciated the humour as well."
Benedict stretched his legs out before him, resting his arms behind him on the stone bench. "This estate did not belong to any of my ancestors," he said. "I bought it."
"You did?"
"On a whim." He nodded, then caught himself. Only as the words left his mouth did he realise how absurd they must sound.
She turned to him, unable to hide her surprise. "A whim?"
Sophie raised her brows, not in disbelief but in genuine curiosity, silently asking him to explain how one simply bought an estate on a whim.
"I suppose it sounds rather ridiculous," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "To buy an estate simply because I felt like it. But there was a motivation, a good one...at least I thought so at the time.”
By now all of Sophie's attention rested upon him, her eyes fixed expectantly on Benedict's face as she waited for him to continue. She asked nothing aloud, sitting with a quiet invitation in her expression, offering him the trust to continue if he wished.
"After father died, mother moved us to London once she was well enough, but none of us truly belonged there. We were miserable. We'd grown up in Kent, with fields enough to lose oneself in. We all longed for the country." He smiled faintly. "She could not bear to return to our home at Aubrey Hall. Not then. There were too many memories.”
"I am sorry to hear of your father's passing." Sophie's voice was soft, her sympathy unfeigned. After a brief pause she asked, "How old were you when he passed?"
"Sixteen," Benedict replied.
Sophie inclined her head. She knew that particular sorrow all too well and for a moment words seemed unnecessary.
“When I turned eighteen, my father's will allowed me to come into my inheritance." Benedict twisted his signet ring absently between his fingers. "Weeks before I decided i'd buy a house, one where the family could visit with no ties to memories of my father. There was nothing here to remind us of him. It felt... like a fresh beginning. Or perhaps an escape.” He looked towards the manor, a fondness softening his features. "So I bought this place on a whim...well a feeling. I just felt like it was right." He laughed quietly at himself.
Sophie turned her gaze towards My Cottage with fresh eyes. It was no longer a charming country manor. It was a place Benedict had chosen for his family in the wake of grief, somewhere he offered for his family to heal when the memories of childhood home had proved too painful to bear.
"We spent many off-seasons here. Thus all the dresses from my sisters. Then the grief settled somewhat, we eventually returned to Aubrey Hall, siblings started new lives, but this..." He gestured towards My Cottage. "This remained mine."
“Your family is fortunate to have you,” Sophie said. “You thought of them with such care, even when you were dealing with your own grief.”
Benedict shrugged, a familiar gesture of dismissal. Sophie noticed the slight hesitation that followed, the way he looked away as if he did not quite believe he deserved the sentiment. “Well, it is a fine house...."
Sophie smiled. "I'm surprised it has remained so...reasonably intact. Especially after a weekend party."
Benedict shook his head. "No. This house has not seen any parties—not like what you witnessed. I've only ever come here alone or with family. You're the only other person I've ever brought here...as a guest.”
“All those portraits…you do not know them? They are not family.” She was smirking now.
“I have no idea who they are. The owner sold me the house and all the contents within."
Sophie laughed, the sound warm and unguarded.
“The knick-knacks, the vases, the statues,” he continued with an amused shake of his head. “I have no idea where any of them came from.”
“I'm not sure why I find this so funny.”
“I'd never thought about it before. A house full of people I don't know. But you are right.” He looked back towards the cottage, its grey walls glowing softly in the afternoon light. “One day, I'll make it my own.”
She followed his gaze, wondering what memories and hopes he attached to this place.
“You intend to live here permanently when you marry?”
Benedict lifted one shoulder, his eyes remaining fixed ahead. “I could not see myself raising a family in London,” he said quietly. “Not when I know there is somewhere else I would rather be.”
She could imagine roses picked from the garden, muddy footprints trailing through the kitchen after rain, children racing across the lawn with kites and scraped knees while Benedict laughed from exactly where he sat now. She imagined herself beside him, growing older in this quiet place until every unfamiliar portrait had been replaced with people they loved. The vision was so achingly ordinary that it stole her breath.
For one reckless moment Sophie considered telling him everything. She could tell him that she was not a stranger to him, that the woman who had danced with him on the Bridgerton terrace was sitting beside him. She could tell him that she remembered every word he had spoken that evening, every kindness he had offered without knowing who she truly was, how perfectly her hand fit in his, the touch of his lips on hers. The confession sat so close to the surface that she dared not even open her mouth should any words escape.
She could tell him the truth. But then what?
She looked at Benedict beside her, at the ease with which he spoke of this place and the memories it held, of family and belonging and a future he had already begun to imagine. He trusted her enough to bring her here, to share with her a part of himself that he had kept hidden from the world.
And suddenly the thought of revealing herself felt far more frightening than remaining silent. If she told him then she would no longer be Sophie, his guest, she would become illegitimate unlovable Sophie, the maid who stepped out of her station on a whim of her own.
“That was a terrible lot of my life I have shared with you,” Benedict said, “and I know so very little of yours.”
“Honestly, as I said before, there is not much to tell.”
“I very much doubt that.” A faint smile touched his lips, but he did not argue.
“It is not so very happy…” she admitted, the words leaving her before she could stop them. Sophie faltered, searching for some lighter remark, a clever turn of phrase guiding the conversation back towards him. But none came.
Sophie glanced towards Benedict. He was not looking at her face, nor at the large house beyond them. His attention had fallen instead to her hands resting quietly in her lap. His own hand lay upon his knee beside hers, close enough that only the smallest movement would bring them together.
Sophie watched as his fingers shifted slightly, not quite reaching, but moving close enough that she wondered if he might take her hand. Her own fingers moved without thought, remembering the way he held her hand at the masquerade ball. For one fleeting second, their hands nearly met, skin brushing skin.
Then reality returned. Sophie pulled back gently, separating her hands and resting them apart in her lap as though nothing had happened. The quiet between them felt different now.
“Mr. Bridgerton, I have been sent out here to summon you for a cup of tea and cake.”
They both looked up, each relieved and disappointed in their own way to see Mr. Crabtree.
“Do you feel like a cup of tea?” Benedict asks Sophie, his expression solemn. Then lowering his voice he added, “by tea, he means a lecture from his good wife.”
Sophie tried to hide her smile and failed. “You go ahead,” she said, rising from the bench. “I shall fetch the kite and my shawl.”
Benedict narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you dawdling so that I might bear the lecture alone?”
“It only seems fair,” she replied, offering him a look of innocent reason. “After all, the kite was your idea.” The smile which followed was full of mischief, just enough cheek and defiance to make him laugh. “Enjoy your tea and cake,” she added sweetly. “I'm going to leisure elsewhere.”
Benedict shook his head, unable to hide his amusement.