by Julia Quinn
Aubrey Hall, Kent
Twenty years later
The moment Violet heard Eloise scream, she knew something was dreadfully wrong.
It wasn’t as if her children never yelled. They yelled all the time, generally at each other. But this wasn’t a yell, it was a scream. And it wasn’t born of anger or frustration or a misplaced sense of injustice.
This was a scream of terror.
Violet ran through the house, with speed that ought to have been impossible eight months into her eighth pregnancy. She ran down the stairs, across the great hall. She ran through the entry, down the portico stairs . . .
And all the while, Eloise kept screaming.
“What is it?” she gasped, when she finally spied her seven-year-old daughter’s face. She was standing at the edge of the west lawn, near the entrance to the hedgerow maze, and she was still screaming.
“Eloise,” Violet implored, taking her face in her hands. “Eloise, please, just tell me what is wrong.”
Eloise’s screams gave way to sobs and she planted her hands over her ears, shaking her head over and over.
“Eloise, you must—” Violet’s words broke off sharply. The baby she was carrying was heavy and low, and the pain that shot through her abdomen from all the running hit her like a rock. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her pulse, and placed her hands under her belly, trying to support it from the outside.
“Papa!” Eloise wailed. It was the only word she seemed able to form through her cries.
A cold fist of fear landed in Violet’s chest. “What do you mean?”
“Papa,” Eloise gasped. “Papapapapapapapapapa—”
Violet slapped her. It would be the only time she would ever strike a child.
Eloise’s eyes went wide as she sucked in a huge breath of air. She said nothing, but she turned her head toward the entrance to the maze. And that was when Violet saw it.
A foot.
“Edmund?” she whispered. And then she screamed it.
She ran toward the maze, toward the booted foot that was sticking out of the entrance, attached to a leg, which must be attached to a body, which was lying on the ground.
Not moving at all.
“Edmund, oh Edmund, oh Edmund,” she said, over and over, something between a whimper and a cry.
When she reached his side, she knew. He was gone. He was lying on his back, eyes still open, but there was nothing of him left. He was gone. He was thirty-nine years old, and he was gone.
“What happened?” she whispered, frantically touching him, squeezing his arm, his wrist, his cheek. Her mind knew she could not bring him back, and her heart even knew it, too, but somehow her hands would not accept it. She could not stop touching him . . . poking, prodding, yanking, and all the while sobbing.
“Mama?”
It was Eloise, come up behind her.
“Mama?”
She couldn’t turn around. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t look at her child’s face, knowing that she was now her only parent.
“It was a bee, Mama. He was stung by a bee.”
Violet went very still. A bee? What did she mean, a bee? Everyone was stung by a bee at some point in their lives. It swelled, it turned red, it hurt.
It didn’t kill you.
“He said it was nothing,” Eloise said, her voice trembling. “He said it didn’t even hurt.”
Violet stared at her husband, her head moving from side to side in denial. How could it not have hurt? It had killed him. She brought her lips together, trying to form a question, trying to make a bloody sound, but all she could get out was, “Wh-wh-wh-wh—” And she didn’t even know what she was trying to ask. When did it happen? What else did he say? Where had they been?
And did it matter? Did any of it matter?
“He couldn’t breathe,” Eloise said. Violet could feel her daughter’s presence growing close, and then, silently, Eloise’s hand slipped into her own.
Violet squeezed it.
“He started making this sound”—Eloise tried to imitate, and it sounded awful—“like he was choking. And then . . . Oh, Mama. Oh, Mama!” She threw herself against Violet’s side, burying her face where there had once been a curve of a hip. But now there was just a belly, a huge, massive belly, with a child who would never know its father.
“I need to sit down,” Violet whispered. “I need to—”
She fainted. Eloise broke her fall.
When Violet came to, she was surrounded by servants. All wore masks of shock and grief. Some could not meet her gaze.
“We need to get you in bed,” the housekeeper said briskly. She looked up. “Have we a pallet?”
Violet shook her head as she allowed a footman to assist her into a sitting position. “No, I can walk.”
“I really think—”
“I said I can walk,” she snapped. And then she snapped on the inside, and something burst inside of her. She took a deep, involuntary breath.
“Let me help you,” the butler said gently. He slid his arm around her back, and carefully helped her to her feet.
“I can’t—but Edmund . . .” She turned to look again, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t him, she told herself. That’s not how he is.
That’s not how he was.
She swallowed. “Eloise?” she asked.
“Nanny has already brought her up,” the housekeeper said, moving to Violet’s other side.
Violet nodded.
“Ma’am, we must get you to bed. It’s not good for the baby.”
Violet placed her hand on her belly. The baby was kicking like mad. Which was par for the course. This one kicked and punched and rolled and hiccupped and never, ever stopped. It was quite unlike the others. And it was a good thing, she supposed. This one was going to have to be strong.
She choked back a sob. They were both going to have to be strong.
“Did you say something?” the housekeeper asked, steering her toward the house.
Violet shook her head. “I need to lie down,” she whispered.
The housekeeper nodded, then turned to a footman with an urgent stare.
“Send for the midwife.”
She didn’t need the midwife. No one could believe it, given the shock she’d had and the late state of her pregnancy, but the baby refused to budge. Violet spent three more weeks in bed, eating because she had to, and trying to remind herself that she must be strong. Edmund was gone, but she had seven children who needed her, eight including the stubborn one in her belly.
And then finally, after a quick and easy birth, the midwife announced, “It’s a girl,” and placed a tiny, quiet bundle in Violet’s arms.
A girl. Violet couldn’t quite believe it. She’d convinced herself it would be a boy. She would name him Edmund, the A-G alphabetization of her first seven children be damned. He would be called Edmund, and he would look like Edmund, because surely that was the only way she would be able to make sense of all this.
But it was a girl, a pink little thing who hadn’t made a sound since her initial wail.
“Good morning,” Violet said to her, because she didn’t know what else to say. She looked down, and she saw her own face—smaller, a bit rounder—but definitely not Edmund’s.
The baby looked at her, straight into her eyes, even though Violet knew that could not be true. Babies didn’t do that so soon after birth. Violet should know; this was her eighth.
But this one . . . She didn’t seem to realize she wasn’t supposed to stare her mother down. And then she blinked. Twice. She did it with the most startling deliberation, as if to say, I’m here. And I know exactly what I’m doing.
Violet caught her breath, so totally and instantly in love she could hardly bear it. And then the baby let out a cry like nothing she had ever heard. She wailed so hard the midwife jumped. She screamed and screamed and screamed and even as the midwife fussed, and the maids came running in, Violet could do nothing but laugh.
“She’s perfect,” she declar
ed, trying to latch the tiny banshee onto her breast. “She is absolutely perfect.”
“What shall you name her?” the midwife asked, once the baby had busied herself trying to figure out how to nurse.
“Hyacinth,” Violet decided. It was Edmund’s favorite flower, especially the little grape hyacinths that popped up each year to greet the spring. They marked the new birth of the landscape, and this hyacinth—her Hyacinth—she would be Violet’s new birth.
The fact that as an H, she would follow perfectly after Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, and Gregory . . . Well, that simply made it all the more perfect.
There was a knock at the door, and Nanny Pickens poked her head in. “The girls would love to see Her Ladyship,” she said to the midwife. “If she’s ready.”
The midwife looked at Violet, who nodded. Nanny ushered her three charges inside with a stern “Remember what we talked about. Do not tire your mother.”
Daphne came over to the bed, followed by Eloise and Francesca. They possessed Edmund’s thick chestnut hair—all of her children did—and Violet wondered if Hyacinth would be the same. Right now she possessed just the tiniest tuft of peachy fuzz.
“Is it a girl?” Eloise asked abruptly.
Violet smiled and changed her position to show off the new baby. “It is.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Eloise said with a dramatic sigh. “We needed another one.”
Beside her, Francesca nodded. She was what Edmund had always called Eloise’s “accidental twin.” They shared a birthday, the two of them, a year apart. At six, Francesca generally followed Eloise’s lead. Eloise was louder, bolder. But every now and then Francesca would surprise them all and do something that was completely her own.
Not this time, though. She stood beside Eloise, clutching her stuffed doll, agreeing with everything her older sister said.
Violet looked over at Daphne, her oldest girl. She was nearly eleven, certainly old enough to hold a baby. “Do you want to see her?” Violet asked.
Daphne shook her head. She was blinking rapidly, the way she did when she was perplexed, and then all of a sudden she stood up straighter. “You’re smiling,” she said.
Violet looked back down at Hyacinth, who’d dropped off her breast and fallen quite asleep. “I am,” she said, and she could hear it in her voice. She’d forgotten what her voice sounded like with a smile in it.
“You haven’t smiled since Papa died,” Daphne said.
“I haven’t?” Violet looked up at her. Was that possible? She hadn’t smiled in three weeks? It didn’t feel awkward. Her lips formed the curve out of memory, perhaps with just a little bit of relief, as if they were indulging in a happy memory.
“You haven’t,” Daphne confirmed.
She must be right, Violet realized. If she hadn’t managed to smile for her children, she certainly hadn’t done so in solitude. The grief she’d been feeling . . . it had yawned before her, swallowed her whole. It had been a heavy, physical thing, making her tired, holding her down.
No one could smile through that.
“What is her name?” Francesca asked.
“Hyacinth.” Violet shifted her position so the girls could see the baby’s face. “What do you think?”
Francesca tilted her head to the side. “She doesn’t look like a Hyacinth,” Francesca declared.
“Yes, she does,” Eloise said briskly. “She’s very pink.”
Francesca shrugged, conceding the point.
“She’ll never know Papa,” Daphne said quietly.
“No,” Violet said. “No, she won’t.”
No one said anything, and then Francesca—little Francesca—said, “We can tell her about him.”
Violet choked on a sob. She hadn’t cried in front of her children since that very first day. She’d saved her tears for her solitude, but she couldn’t stop them now. “I think—I think that’s a wonderful idea, Frannie.”
Francesca beamed, and then she crawled onto the bed, squirming in until she’d found the perfect spot at her mother’s right side. Eloise followed, and then Daphne, and all of them—all the Bridgerton girls—peered down at the newest member of their family.
“He was very tall,” Francesca began.
“Not so tall,” Eloise said. “Benedict is taller.”
Francesca ignored her. “He was tall. And he smiled a great deal.”
“He held us on his shoulders,” Daphne said, her voice starting to wobble, “until we grew too large.”
“And he laughed,” Eloise said. “He loved to laugh. He had the very best laugh, our papa . . .”
London
Thirteen years later
Violet had made it her life’s work to see all eight of her children happily settled in life, and in general, she did not mind the myriad tasks this entailed. There were parties and invitations and dressmakers and milliners, and that was just the girls. Her sons needed just as much guidance, if not more. The only difference was that society afforded the boys considerably more freedom, which meant that Violet did not need to scrutinize every last detail of their lives.
Of course she tried. She was a mother, after all.
She had a feeling, however, that her job as mother would never be so demanding as it was right at this moment, in the spring of 1815.
She knew very well that in the grand scheme of life, she had nothing about which to complain. In the past six months, Napoleon had escaped Elba, a massive volcano had erupted in the East Indies, and several hundred British soldiers had lost their lives at the Battle of New Orleans—mistakenly fought after the peace treaty with the Americans had been signed. Violet, on the other hand, had eight healthy children, all of whom presently had both feet planted on English soil.
However.
There was always a however, wasn’t there?
This spring marked the first (and Violet prayed, the last) season for which she had two girls “on the market.”
Eloise had debuted in 1814, and anyone would have called her a success. Three marriage proposals in three months. Violet had been over the moon. Not that she would have allowed Eloise to accept two of them—the men had been too old. Violet did not care how highly ranked the gentlemen were; no daughter of hers was going to shackle herself to someone who would die before she reached thirty.
Not that this couldn’t happen with a young husband. Illness, accidents, freakishly deadly bees . . . Any number of things could take a man out in his prime. But still, an old man was more likely to die than a young one.
And even if that weren’t the case . . . What young girl in her right mind wanted to marry a man past sixty?
But only two of Eloise’s suitors had been disqualified for age. The third had been just a year shy of thirty, with a minor title and a perfectly respectable fortune. There had been nothing wrong with Lord Tarragon. Violet was sure he’d make someone a lovely husband.
Just not Eloise.
So now here they were. Eloise was on her second season and Francesca was on her first, and Violet was exhausted. She couldn’t even press Daphne into service as an occasional chaperone. Her eldest daughter had married the Duke of Hastings two years earlier and then had promptly managed to get herself pregnant for the duration of the 1814 season. And the 1815 one as well.
Violet loved having a grandchild and was over the moon at the prospect of two more arriving soon (Anthony’s wife was also with child), but really, sometimes a woman needed help. This evening, for example, had been an utter disaster.
Oh, very well, perhaps disaster was a bit of an overstatement, but really, who had thought it a good idea to host a masquerade ball? Because Violet was certain it had not been she. And she had definitely not agreed to attend as Queen Elizabeth. Or if she had, she had not agreed to the crown. It weighed at least five pounds, and she was terrified it would go flying off her head every time she snapped it back and forth, trying to keep an eye on both Eloise and Francesca.
No wonder her neck hurt.
But
a mother could not be too careful, especially at a masquerade ball, when young gentlemen (and the occasional young lady) saw their costumes as a license to misbehave. Let’s see, there was Eloise, tugging at her Athena costume as she chatted with Penelope Featherington. Who was dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.
Where was Francesca? Good heavens, that girl could go invisible in a treeless field. And while she was on the subject, where was Benedict? He had promised to dance with Penelope, and he had completely disappeared.
Where had he—
“Ooof!”
“Oh, my pardon,” Violet said, disentangling herself from a gentleman who appeared to be dressed as . . .
As himself, actually. With a mask.
She did not recognize him, however. Not the voice nor the face beneath the mask. He was of average height, with dark hair and an elegant bearing.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said.
Violet blinked, then remembered—the crown. Although how she might forget the five-pound monstrosity on her head, she’d never know.
“Good evening,” she replied.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Again, she wondered at the voice, and again, she came up with nothing. “Several someones, actually,” she murmured. “Unsuccessfully.”
“My condolences,” he said, taking her hand and leaning over it with a kiss. “I myself try to restrict my quests to one someone at a time.”
You don’t have eight children, Violet almost retorted, but at the last moment she held her tongue. If she did not know this gentleman’s identity, there was a chance that he did not know hers, either.
And of course, he could have eight children. She wasn’t the only person in London to have been so blessed in her marriage. Plus, the hair on his temples was shot through with silver, so he was likely old enough to have sired that many.
“Is it acceptable for a humble gentleman to request a dance with a queen?” he asked her.
Violet almost refused. She hardly ever danced in public. It wasn’t that she objected to it, or that she thought it unseemly. Edmund had been gone for more than a dozen years. She still mourned him, but she was not in mourning. He would not have wanted that. She wore bright colors, and she maintained a busy social schedule, but still, she rarely danced. She just didn’t want to.