Juliette withheld a giggle at her cousin's antics.
"Édith, my dear, your fraudulent words are weak," Lady DuBois stated, unimpressed. Despite the obvious discontent, Lady DuBois failed to hide the sliver of amusement seeping from her lips. Turning to Lord DuBois, she exclaimed with the tiniest bit of humour dancing upon her tongue, "Not only have we raised a busybody but a liar, my love."
Lord DuBois grunted in response. "Yet, somehow, it could be worse. Let us be grateful."
Édith directed a cheeky smile at her mother. "And, mama? You cherish me nonetheless."
Lady DuBois released a delicate laugh. "My dearest Édith, I hold more cherish for you than my heart can fathom."
A sharp pain nudged itself into Juliette's chest as she watched the interaction. A mother's love. Juliette missed her own mother greatly. Without a doubt, her life would be much, much different if her mother was still alive.
After her mother's untimely death, Juliette refused to marry. Well, less of a refusal and more of avoidance and an inability. Albeit, her hesitance for marriage wasn't only due to her mother's death. She also felt invalidated and unwanted — who would want to marry her? Who would wish to marry a young lady with a broken heart that still yearned for its tormentor? If her father no longer wanted her, and if her greatest love no longer wanted her, then why should she assume anyone else would? Juliette couldn't help but feel like undesired goods.
In the span of weeks, Juliette lost the three most important people in her life—her mother, her father, and her Anthony. Three people in which her heart loved the most.
It was a foolish thought, but since their childhood years, Juliette assumed she would marry Anthony Bridgerton. For years, marriage to Anthony was not an 'if' but a 'when'. Through the discrete late-night conversations at her window to the morning promenades. The inside jokes and stolen glances at the dinner table. Hushed whispers and delicate touches behind closed doors. Seven years of letters. Seven years of words written from beating hearts during their months apart.
Then, when the letters ceased, the 'when' crumbled with every piece of her shattered heart. A cruel constellation. If her mother was alive when Juliette's heart became spread across the sky, then a mother's love would have mended the pieces back together. The blow to the chest wouldn't have been as deadly.
If her mother never fell victim to the unforeseen and fatal illness, Juliette would not be twenty-six and unwed. She would have a loving husband and a child.
Lady Villeneuve would have mended Juliette's broken heart.
A mother's love.
"Anyhow," Lady DuBois began, directing her attention to her niece. Juliette was pulled from her merciless thoughts. "Lady Bridgerton invited us for tea in three days, Juliette."
Juliette smiled, although strained. The Bridgerton house was a graveyard. Ghosts of former memories, of former desires, and former touches dwelled in the beautiful Bridgerton home. Juliette has not entered the house in three years, not since her last summer in London. The memories of her final summer were the ones she feared the most, the ones she craved not to reencounter. They plagued every room, leaving an unignorable taint. Her smile faltered, the tips of her mouth tugged downwards into a heavy frown. The facade of pleasure once prominent on her enchanting features shattered.
"That is quite wonderful news," Juliette said, her tone laced with a fool's gold happiness. "I'm looking forward to it."
. . .
YOU ARE READING
DEAR JULIETTE ▹ Anthony Bridgerton
Fanfiction"My final letters, were they read? Or were they written in vain?" Although born in France, Juliette Villeneuve often spent her childhood summers in London. With the passing of each summer, her adoration for a certain Bridgerton boy grew. During thei...
