𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 | b. bridgerton

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟖𝟏𝟐 | part one

Villaconejos, Madrid.

Dusk, the precursor to nightfall.

The unmistakable scent of summer hung in the air, off the end of every breeze; sweet and earthy like the sprawling fields of wildflowers that bordered Villaconejos. It was never truly quiet, not with the sounds of wild horses grazing or with the mill churning at the base of the river, but it was peaceful. The farmers had departed from the fields, the grocers had packed up their wares; everyone had begun to go back to their families for the night, but not Jo.

Josephine Howard, Lady of Norfolk and - more importantly - of England, remained tucked away in some tiny corner of Europe where her family's name and money meant next to nothing.

La Dama Inglesa - the 'English Lady' - who spoke almost perfect Spanish and bought cakes and silk embroidery thread every Sunday from the shop on the corner on her trips into town. Who, with her entire household of serving staff as well as her governess, seemed to materialise out of thin air one day many years ago, settling in the abandoned estate out west on the outskirts of the village. She was seen by many in town, in a favourable manner too, but not often heard, not after teatime, when darkness fell and she was ushered back to her manor where she was kept like a secret until the sun rose the following morning.

Jo would be seen tonight though, she had made sure of it.

The white satin of her slippers scuffed against the stones and dust of the porch as she closed the heavy wooden door behind her and hurried over to the approaching vehicle. A small, nondescript black carriage approached the looming estate, propelled forward by two auburn-haired mares that looked more akin to workhorses than coach horses if their slightly clumsy gait was any indication. This was part of Jo's plan though, as she could not risk using one of the estate's own carriages to take her into the city. She knew all of their drivers and they would be sure to report back to Señora Flores immediately if they caught wind of her plans. So she opted for hiring a coachman from the rental service in town who would not ask questions if paid enough.

On her way out, Jo had also slipped the doorman as well as any maids that might have seen her a few extra coins from her reticule. Not that she necessarily needed too as she trusted every member of her staff implicitly but Jo thought it best to err on the side of caution. As the driver opened the door to the cab and she clambered into it, he informed her that the journey to the Salamanca District would take just over an hour and a half, which Jo accepted with a smile as well as a grimace. All the more time to overthink and backtrack, and doubt some more for good measure.

The carriage pulled away from the manor as awkwardly as it had arrived but soon they settled into a comfortable rhythm down the village's country roads. Jo tucked her feet under herself and pulled her shawl further over her shoulders to conserve as much warmth as possible.

She watched the view from the carriage window change from the familiar fields of Villaconejos to an indistinguishable haze of woodland and brick houses, until the metropolis that was the city of Madrid came into view.

Jo did not remember the last time she had been this close to such liveliness and vivacity since moving to Spain in her youth. They took a route through Puerta del Sol, the cobbled street corners adorned with local musicians and passers-by. She spotted pairs of lovers and groups of friends dancing along in the square or watching the surrounding fanfare gleefully, the whole scene bathed in the warmth of the setting sun. A few older ladies stood in adjoining terraced houses nattering loudly with each other as they hung their laundry out of their chamber windows, some with babies wrapped against their chests or backs.

Gradually, the jaunty exuberance of Puerta del Sol faded into the reserved opulence of the Salamanca District. This type of wealth was distinctly familiar to Jo, the regality of the towering townhouses with their neatly trimmed gardens and Roman white bricks. It brought back vague memories of evening gatherings with London's finest in her adolescence, in her uncle Samuel's drawing room, him nursing a glass of scotch as he jostled her up and down on his knee and spoke with the other guests until she tired and fell asleep against his chest, the older man's hearty, baritone voice reverberating between her ears as she drifted into slumber.