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The storm raged outside My Cottage. Raindrops the size of small stones peppered the windows so hard you would expect the glass to shatter under such heavy fire. Lightning flashed across the black sky, briefly illuminating the inside, before the crashing thunder rang out across the countryside.
One thing was certain; no one was getting any sleep tonight.
Benedict lay in bed, staring up at the canopy above him, sleep as elusive as… the Lady in the Silver Gown. Months he had searched to no avail. He was beginning to wonder if she was real. She had to be – he still had her glove. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand against his palm, which was still tingling from holding Sophie Baek’s hand as he’d helped her onto the gig. His other hand rested on the bandage wrapped around his stomach. Refusing to believe he was “fine”; Sophie had discovered that Benedict had sliced his slide open from a shard of Lord Cavender’s broken bottle while they had grappled and had already stained the entire right side of his white shirt red. She had cleaned and dressed the wound, showing no end to her talents, before ordering him to bed.
It was hard to hear his own thoughts over the wind, rain and rattling windows, and yet Benedict still heard it: distant coughing.
He shot up as if it were a gunshot, suddenly as alert as a parent who had thought they’d heard the cries of their child in the night. With the Crabtree’s away and, hopefully, warm and dry, and only two people in residence, it could only be Sophie. He listened intently. The coughing continued, deeper that time.
Benedict swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his silk dressing gown, tied the chords and went to investigate. Carrying a candle to light his way, Benedict approached Sophie’s room. He knocked.
‘Sophie?’
No one answered.
Benedict knocked again, a little harder in case she hadn’t heard him.
‘Sophie? It’s Benedict – Mr Bridgerton. The idiot who does not carry his own cottage keys. Or light a fire before influenza sets in.’
He laughed at his poor humour.
Sophie responded that time – a deep, congested cough that ought to belong to a man. Benedict sobered up instantly. He had thought she had looked pale while she was tending to his wound, but she had assured him she was well. Same as he had tried to assure her that he was well.
‘Sophie?’ he called anxiously. Still no reply. ‘I’m coming in.’
He gave it five seconds to allow her time to maintain her modesty before entering the room.
‘Are you unwell?’
Sophie was turned away from him, lying fully clothed on top of the bed. She coughed like she was trying to bring up her lungs. Benedict instinctively pressed a hand to her back, which was warm and wet through.
‘You’re burning up!’ he gently rolled her onto her back. Sophie’s eyes were closed, her face ashen and glistening with perspiration. ‘Why the devil did you not tell me?’
Benedict knew what he had to do to alleviate her symptoms, but it would require abandoning propriety and removing her clothes. Well, they were already alone together without a chaperone, and he knew that if their positions were reversed Sophie would do everything she could for him.
‘Please forgive me.’
He removed her outer dress and wrapped her in blankets. She was skin and bone. He could almost count her ribs through her shift. Then he went to the hearth, preparing the fire as Sophie had shown him. ‘Wood. Meet kindling.’
Within moments a fire was crackling merrily filling the room with warmth and light. Benedict smiled, pleased with himself for accomplishing his task, until Sophie’s coughs reminded him his work wasn’t done.
The water jug was empty as was the bone-dry basin, and he was reluctant to leave Sophie alone even for the few minutes it would take for him to collect water from the kitchens. The rain lashed the windows, the furthest on the far left was a running stream from the neglected gutting. Benedict grabbed the basin, opened the window and held up the bowl to collect the running water. He carried it over to the bedside table, soaked and rung out the cloth before applying it to Sophie’s forehead.
Sophie moaned.
‘Sophie?’ said Benedict. ‘Can you hear me?’
Sophie mumbled something incoherent. Benedict heard, ‘… turned down beds … polished the spoons … mask will be ready …’
‘Mask?’ wondered Benedict. ‘Masquerade?’
‘… one glorious night …’
Benedict smiled reminiscently. ‘It was a glorious night,’ he said, taking the cloth away to soak again.
‘Please do not leave me…’ pleaded Sophie in response to the loss of contact.
‘I am here,’ said Benedict quickly, reapplying the cloth. ‘I will not leave you, Sophie.’
‘Do not leave me as well…’
Benedict clasped her hand in his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Sophie. I give you my word. I am not leaving and neither are you.’
‘… did not want to go … I had to … home by midnight …’
‘What? Sophie, what do you mean? Sophie?’
Sophie opened her eyes blearily. Through her fevered vision, Lady Araminta Penwood loomed over her, cold and disdainful in the dark room. Had she overslept? She felt retched, but the world didn’t stop because one was ill. It is sheer idleness. Or so Araminta believed.
‘I shall assist Imra in the kitchens, My Lady –’
Sophie shifted weakly, as if attempting to get up, but Benedict gently yet firmly put a hand on her shoulder to keep her reclined.
‘You will do no such thing. Imra is perfectly capable of seeing to her duties.’ He supposed this Imra was someone from a previous employment.
‘… I only meant to rest my eyes a moment … Forgive me …’
‘You should not have to apologise for being ill. Did they make you work even when you were sick? The money must have been good.’
Sophie shook her head at the notion of sick pay. Lady Penwood would have charged her if she got so much of a sniffle or coughed at the wrong moment. ‘I know my place…’
Benedict frowned. There was a fine line between service and slavery, so why did he have the feeling Sophie fell into the latter category. ‘Your place is staying in bed until you are better. That is an order.’
Sophie blinked, the image of Araminta disappearing to be replaced by a worried Mr Bridgerton. He did not recognise her, but his concern was touching. ‘Thank you…’
‘You can thank me when you make it through the night.’
Then Mr Bridgerton morphed into her smiling Prince Charming from the masquerade ball.
‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ said Benedict’s voice as his hallucination moved in closer.
‘Kiss me.’
Benedict pressed the cool cloth to her forehead. ‘You are in no frame of mind to ask for anything at this moment.’
Sophie closed her eyes. ‘We can dance.’
Benedict chuckled. She was funny. ‘Maybe later.’
‘… He does not want to find me … I am only a maid … He does not want me …’
‘Then he is a clueless idiot. Who are we discussing?’
Sophie had fallen asleep.
Benedict resoaked the cloth and place it once more on her forehead. He sat back in his chair, keeping vigil over Sophie. He didn’t know how coherent or lucid Sophie had been during the disjointed babble, but he was intrigued to find out more. Especially if she had information about the masquerade ball. Servants knew everything.
Kiss me…
Her request called to him like a siren song, his eyes drawn to her lips.
Kiss me…
He barely knew Sophie Baek and yet all he could think about was what it would feel like to kiss her. Though not a good idea to do so without her consent. Kissing unconscious women awake might be romantic in fairy tales, but if Benedict knew Lord Cavender – and he was sorry to say that he did – he would not inflict further trauma on Sophie, particularly in her current condition.
He held her hand and settle back in his chair. But Hypnos, the God of Sleep, must be at work; fanning Benedict’s forehead with his wings, causing his eyelids to flutter. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, the lure of sleep tempting him back to the arms of the Lady in Silver. His last conscious memory before he surrendered was Sophie squeezing his hand, her head turning towards him and a peaceful smile gracing her mouth, before she slipped into his dreams, her face hidden behind the silver mask, smiling at him with rouge lips and star-filled eyes.
Do not leave me again … Let me find you …
‘Perhaps the lady came over for tea, but the tea made her drowsy.’
‘Too drowsy to retire to her own room?’
Benedict was roused from pleasant slumber by the loud clearing of a throat and feeling Sophie’s hand being whipped out of his as she sat bolt upright in bed, pulling the bedsheets up to her chin.
‘Oh. Good morning,’ said Sophie awkwardly.
Benedict rubbed his eyes blearily and the Crabtree’s came into view standing at the end of the bed, Mr Crabtree clutching his hat in his hands and Mrs Crabtree’s sharp eyes, that can spot a speck of dust on a silver spoon from the opposite end of a room, critically analysing the room.
‘Pay me no heed,’ said Mrs Crabtree calmly, coming over to inspect Mr Bridgerton and his bandages.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Crabtree,’ said Benedict, carefully sitting up straighter in his chair, trying not to undo his stitches. ‘Oh. This is Sophie.’
‘An unchaperoned lady and unidentified injuries,’ observed Mrs Crabtree. One night away and My Cottage had descended into disarray.
‘He is on the mend, I assure you,’ said Sophie.
Sophie, looking ashen, but better than she had been the night before, was sitting up, holding the bedsheets to her chest, despite wearing one of his sister’s nightdresses; flushed, no doubt, at the pair of them being found in such scandalous circumstances position.
‘Mrs Crabtree,’ said Benedict, his tone making it quite clear that he will not tolerate the Crabtree’s or anyone for that matter casting degrading and entirely unfounded aspersions on Sophie, ‘I am well aware that the phrase “this is not what it looks like” is only plausible in court comedy. But rest assured that if what is happening right now is what you think is happening, it is most certainly not.’
He stood up.
‘Mr Crabtree, Sophie, please excuse us for a moment.’
Benedict and Mrs Crabtree to their conversation outside.
‘If your mother knew how you were conducting yourself…’ Mrs Crabtree was saying.
‘We went to visit our daughter, but we got caught in the storm,’ Mr Crabtree was explaining to an embarrassed Sophie, hoping to drown out the conversation in the hallway between his wife and employer. ‘But had we known Mr Bridgerton was here, well… we would have returned at once.’
Sophie nodded.
‘…she was nearly assaulted at her house and then let go of,’ said Benedict.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Crabtree in shock and outrage, before the tone of her voice turned to that of a concerned mother, ‘Oh, that poor dear girl.’
‘I came to her aid last night and, as you can see, she came to mine. Then she was taken ill during the night, and I did my best to help her, and stayed to make sure she was all right. She is my guest, and she will be treated as such.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
Benedict returned to his room to get dressed and when he got back Sophie had a breakfast tray on her lap and a smaller table was prepared for him with Mrs Crabtree’s famous breakfast waiting to be consumed.
‘Good day,’ said Sophie.
‘Good morning, Sophie,’ said Benedict. ‘You look well.’
‘Better than I was. Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘This looks excellent,’ said Sophie looking at the delicious spread.
‘It’s no trouble,’ said Mr Crabtree, standing with his wife.
Benedict and Sophie tucked in, catching each other’s eye and smiling. Suddenly very aware of the Crabtree’s presence, Benedict made a civil motion with his cutlery, quietly encouraging them that everything was in order and that there was no need for them to remain, hoping they would see to their other duties.
‘We shall stay while you eat with your guest,’ said Mrs Crabtree, leaving no room for compromise.
‘Mm.’ Benedict forced a polite smile. ‘How thoughtful of you, Mrs. Crabtree. Please, sit.’