chapter fifteen
A LETTER FROM FATHER
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN MILLED AROUND GROSVENOR SQUARE. They chatted with one another about the recent events at Somerset House a few days prior. A popular topic of conversation was that of Miss Juliette Villeneuve and Prince Friedrich. It seemed as if the young lady ascended from the ashes of ineligibility and caught the interest of a prince. The morning after the event at Somerset House, the DuBois drawing-room was filled to the brim with callers. Suitors yearned to catch a glimpse at the young woman worthy of the prince's attention. The drawing-room with floral wallpaper and a piano had been empty since Lady Whistledown's words of condemnation. But, it seemed as if a man with the title of 'prince' was all she needed to redeem herself — one of society's more negative attributes.
As Juliette stood before the Bridgerton house, she felt the eyes of the ton searing a hole through her back. The ladies and gentlemen of Grosvenor Square whispered her name and stared at the girl who was once nothing. They were in shock. They wondered how she became worthy enough to catch a prince when few suitors had taken an interest. She ignored the hushed whispers carried by the wind and the burning sensation on her back.
Juliette's fist hit the wooden door of the Bridgerton house with a curt knock.
Humboldt, the footman, opened the door and led Juliette into the home.
"Thank you, Humboldt," Juliette smiled in gratitude.
"Of course, Miss Villeneuve." Humboldt nodded, returning the smile before walking away.
Juliette stood in the entrance hall of the Bridgerton house.
Since her arrival some time ago, this was the second time in which Juliette set foot in the Bridgerton House. Although the architecture was graceful, a graveyard of memories hid behind the elegant white trims and sturdy columns.
Moments before, Lady DuBois requested Juliette to fetch Édith from the Bridgerton house as it was nearing dinner. Édith spent the afternoon amongst Hyacinth and Gregory. Although she was a year older than Gregory and three years older than Hyacinth, Édith connected with the two siblings like a missing puzzle piece. Juliette remembered how during her summers in London, whilst Juliette spent her days roaming the Bridgerton house with Anthony, Édith did the same with Gregory and Hyacinth. The three were as thick as thieves.
Juliette could hear the loud giggles and heavy footsteps from the floor above. She began to grow impatient. That evening, Juliette was due to attend another ball and to see Prince Friedrich once again. They had not spoken since Somerset House a few days prior. The entirety of the event at Somerset was pure bliss. Prince Friedrich was as kind as his title suggests and he was, to simply put it, charming. Fortunately, she had the opportunity to speak with Reginald as well, although briefly. Juliette was on edge from the night's nearing events, as nervousness seeped into her thoughts. Her usual patient demeanour dissipated quickly.
Following the laughter that echoed off the pristine white walls, Juliette ascended the wooden staircase. As she did so, she ran her hand up the smooth handrail, maintaining her balance.
Juliette strolled around the halls of the Bridgerton house. She ignored the ghost of memories that attempted to torment her heart. Instead, she focused her attention on the hushed whispers of the three children and the beauty of the house.
Despite her attempts to focus, Juliette became lost in the intricate details of the white walls and the large familial portraits. Aimlessly, she followed the footsteps of her heart as she laid eyes on the familiar and gorgeous paintings.
An anomaly in the familiar setting caught her attention. A deviation to the consistency of her past, of her summers spent navigating the house.
The door to the Viscount's study was open.
From her many years of roaming the halls of the Bridgerton home, the large wooden door was always closed. Anthony never left the door ajar, not once did she witness the door being the slightest bit open.
Juliette had never set foot in the Viscount's study.
As if losing all importance, Juliette forgot her search for Édith and the ball that evening. Instead, an intense desire to investigate a hidden layer of Anthony's personality emerged. Untameable curiosity bloomed in the confines of her chest. Anthony never forbade Juliette from entering his study. No, that was not the case at all. Juliette never entered because Anthony never wanted to waste their passing moments in such a lacklustre place of paperwork. He wanted their summers to be amusing and full of excitement — to be memorable.
Intoxicated with curiosity, she fell victim to her own rash impulses. Juliette inhaled sharply and eyed the hallway for anyone before slipping into the study. Slowly and quietly, she inched the door shut behind her. The door failed to shut all the way, leaving it somewhat ajar.
The drapes were drawn shut, allowing darkness to cloak the room. The only light in the room seeped from the crack where the drapes met and from the brightly lit hall.
Despite the intense darkness, Juliette made her way around the study with ease. Bookshelves lined a wall, built from dark wood. Every crevice of the shelves occupied by a novel or other miscellaneous items. A sudden wave of comfort washed over Juliette. The study was peaceful and cozy, it was an extension of Anthony. Juliette found herself drawn to his desk. The area in which the Viscount spent a great deal of time was tidy, yet obviously worn.
The smooth wood of his desk was soft against her skin as she trailed her fingers against it. The light seeping from behind the drapes hit a piece of paper, casting it in brightness. Juliette would have to be blind to have not seen it. The corner of the paper slightly stuck out from the closed drawer. She knew it was wrong, as it was an invasion of privacy, but she couldn't help it. She plucked the paper from the crack.
It was no larger than her palm. Folded several times to keep the secrets within at bay. Scrawled on the back was an address. It was addressed to Anthony Bridgerton — a letter.
As Juliette unfolded the letter, she was met with splotches of ink, damaged by water. The creases from the folds were weak, almost ripping beneath her delicate touch. The fragility was a sign that the letter was often reread. Despite the blurring of some letters, the penmanship was all too familiar. From the harsh crossing of the t's, the absence of dotting the i's and the slanted curvature of the letters, Juliette knew who wrote the letter. For she had witnessed the penmanship many times over the course of her life.
Her father, Lord Villeneuve.
Unease arose in her stomach and dread enveloped her heart as she stared at the cursive. A veil of uncertainty and unknowing tainted the atmosphere of the study, causing a chill to crawl along the curve of her spine.
Juliette sat down in Anthony's chair. It was foolish to admit, but the smooth material against her back eased the tiniest sliver of turmoil — an indirect embrace. With trembling fingers, Juliette began to read the scrawlings of her father.
January 2nd, 1810
Dear Viscount Bridgerton,
I must say, your letters are met with —
A quiet creak sounded as the study door was pushed open. The sudden noise caused Juliette to jump in the chair, pulling her from her father's written words. She shoved her hands, along with the letter, underneath Anthony's wooden desk. Internally, she cursed herself for her rash decisions. How could she ever explain her meddling? What would Violet say to this inexplicable and disrespectful behaviour? What would Anthony think?
Looking up, Juliette nearly sighed in relief — Édith.
"Juliette?" Édith spoke softly from the doorway. Her tone was heavy with curiosity as well as disbelief. In a hushed whisper, she questioned hurriedly, "What are you doing in Anthony's study?"
Under the desk, Juliette folded the letter.
"Uh—nothing," Juliette lied. She winced at the weakness of her words. With haste, she shoved the folded letter up the sleeve of her dress. Édith noticed the action, although she said nothing of it. Juliette sensed her cousin would ask questions at a later time.
Juliette pushed herself away from the desk and approached Édith at a quickened pace.
With a faltering smile, Juliette stood next to her dear cousin, she offered her arm. "Shall we?"
Édith hooked her arm in Juliette's, concern plaguing her countenance.
They exited the Bridgerton House, and as they did so, the letter hidden within Juliette's sleeve burnt her skin as if it was forged from fire. Guilt ate away at the inner lining of her stomach and tormented her heart. Her recent behaviour was impulsive and disgraceful. Nevertheless, she needed to know why her father was writing to Anthony. And, why was he writing so soon after her mother's death? The letter was dated days after Lady Villeneuve's untimely demise.
She needed answers.
. . .
Upon arriving back at the DuBois house, Juliette wasted no time in heading to her room. She untangled her arm from Édith's before rushing up the wooden stairwell.
"Juliette, my dear, you must begin dressing for the ball!" Lady DuBois called after her niece. "We are to leave right after dinner! We have a prince to enchant!" She paused briefly before continuing, "As well as other gentlemen, but think of the prince!"
When Juliette failed to answer, Lady DuBois sighed before yelling once again, "Juliette!"
Juliette paused on a step, looking behind her at her aunt. With a weak smile, she said, "Yes, of course, dear aunt. The ball, the prince, getting prepared — I will call for Anne and I shall be ready with haste!"
Then, without waiting for Lady DuBois's response, Juliette continued ascending the large stairwell. Truthfully, the upcoming ball that evening was the furthest thing from her mind at that very moment. Her inappropriate meddling unveiled a peculiarity that piqued her interest and caused concern.
Juliette shut the door behind her once she set foot in her bedroom.
As she sat on her bed, it dipped slightly under her weight.
With a sharp inhale, Juliette slid the folded letter out from under her sleeve. The paper was rough against her soft skin and bent from the curvature of her forearm. She unfolded the delicate letter, and once again her eyes met with the messy cursive of her father.
Her heart was heavy in her chest, weighed down by the thought of her father. Frankly, she didn't know what to feel or what to expect.
January 2nd, 1810
Dear Viscount Bridgerton,
I must say, your letters are met with distaste.
As the sombre words may have already met your eyes and your ears, Lady Villeneuve recently ascended to the heavens. For if you have not heard of such news, then you are as much of a fool as you are bothersome.
Darkness shrouds the atmosphere of the Villeneuve House. Wails of heartbreak echo throughout the halls and grief-stricken memories plague every room. Juliette, a victim of anguish, has succumbed to the turmoil within, allowing sorrow to feast on her soul.
Nevertheless, Juliette is to marry regardless of her distress. A suitable husband will do her well. Your letters of hollow phrases and weak promises are not sufficient, nor are they well received.
I have grown tired of your fraudulent and objectionable words that pose nothing more than a distraction to Juliette.
If not for you, Juliette would've wed long ago. Perhaps, to a fine gentleman or a man of riches. As of now, I do not attribute any concern to the niceties of her potential husband. I attribute concern to the simple matter that Juliette has yet to wed. My suggestions of suitors over the years have been met with blatant refusals on Juliette's behalf. The fault can be ascribed to you, Viscount Bridgerton.
Lady Villeneuve failed to attend the wedding of her only daughter — her only child.
Regardless of your inherited title, you are of no worth. Viscount or not, you are hardly a man. You are a mere diversion. A hobby, if you so wish, that has prevented Juliette from a life of marriage. This prevention will no longer occur. Juliette requires a husband not a form of weak entertainment.
It may come as a shock to someone of such a daft nature, but I must reject your request.
I advise you to cease all letters to Juliette. If you are foolish enough to neglect my demand, then your letters shall be met with flame before they should ever meet Juliette's eyes. The game has continued far too long.
Do not disrespect my wishes — the wishes of a father. More gravely, you would never dare disrespect Lady Villeneuve's final wish moments before her demise.
Should you have any morality or dignity, you will respect the words of a dead woman.
Yours sincerely,
Lord Villeneuve
The words of a dead woman.
Her mother.
A small gasp fell from Juliette's lips. Her grip on the letter loosened, allowing it to slip from her nimble fingers. Like Icarus who flew too close to the sun, the letter fluttered to the ground along with the fragments of her shattered heart.
Juliette sat there in silence, staring at the fallen letter. The lightness of the paper was a stark contrast against the dark wood, airing out of place in the consistent environment. She was unable to process the words she had read, for if they were of truth then all she knew would be false. As she sat there, unaware of the passage of time, she became withdrawn from the world — numb to her surroundings. She could not feel the rapid beat of her heart in her chest nor could she hear Edward's loud footsteps as he ran the halls. The sole tear that caressed her rosy cheek went unnoticed. She was lost in the treacherous currents of her own thoughts, drowning.
With every attempt of a weak breath, her head was pushed under the current once again. She could not escape the dangerous waters, the dangers of her mind.
Her parents. Her father. Her mother. They swore to love her, to protect her, to ensure her happiness.
They took her love away — her Anthony.
A curt knock sounded from Juliette's door. But, she failed to hear it. For a tempest of sorrow and confusion swirled within her prison of skin. The world was silent as Juliette became a victim of her own thoughts. Of painful memories. Of anger and sadness.
She did not hear the creak of the door as it opened nor did she notice the form of her aunt emerging.
"Juliette?" Lady Catherine DuBois entered the room. Anger settled on her beautiful features at the sight of her niece who was not ready for the ball. In disbelief, she badgered, "Please do not tell me you've been sitting there for an hour not preparing for the ball this evening?"
When Juliette failed to respond, she spoke again, her tone a sharpened blade, "Juliette, answer me."
"I'm sorry," Juliette muttered. The words were raw and quiet, barely having made it out from the confines of her mouth at all. The simple sentence forced from her tongue exerted her dwindling energy. She couldn't bring herself to say more, for her mind and heart were at war with one another. Juliette was exhausted.
The sound of Juliette's voice rattled Lady DuBois. Any anger that once resided in the woman quickly vanished as concern washed over her. Catherine's eyes softened and the taut scowl on her lips loosened, falling into a frown.
A small sigh fell from her aunt's lips as sat down next to Juliette on the bed. She brushed the part of her skirt resting on her thighs, straightening out the bunched fabric.
"My dear, what is wrong?" Catherine questioned, her tone soft and a source of warmth. She caught sight of the discarded letter on the floor. With haste, she bent down and plucked it from the ground, holding it tightly in her grasp. "What is this?"
Nervously, Juliette toyed with her fingers, unable to muster the words her aunt yearned to hear.
As her aunt read the letter, her brows narrowed and a heavy frown pulled at her lips. Her green eyes darkened and anger began to rise within. Lady DuBois knew of Juliette's complicated relationship with the eldest Bridgerton son, and she knew how much he meant to her niece. Once she dropped the letter to her lap, she was unable to contain the flurry of rage seeping from her tongue. She rambled, "The nerve of that despicable, horrid, foolish man! I cannot believe—"
Lady DuBois' words faded in the realization that they were doing the young woman no aid. She did not need to hear how horrid her father's actions were, nor the actions of her deceased mother. Juliette needed comfort. She needed love.
"Oh, my dear," She consoled, taking Juliette's hand in hers. "My dear Juliette."
Juliette released a sharp breath, attempting to maintain her composure. A facade of fool's gold strength weakly intertwined with her following words, "I will not be attending the ball tonight."
Quite frankly, Juliette did not have the courage to face High Society. She was vulnerable and unable to tolerate their stares of amazement and baffle. Nor was she in any state to hear the horrid words spoken by hungry mamas and angry debutants. Many were unimpressed with the prince's interest. Most of all, Juliette could not stand before the sweet blue eyes of the prince and lie.
"That is quite alright," Catherine reassured, brushing a thumb along the hollow part of Juliette's rosy cheek. "I will have Anne fetch you a warm cup of milk and—"
"Did uncle know?" Juliette questioned, her words of feeble nature as she interrupted her aunt.
Her aunt released a small sigh and a sad frown plagued her beauty. Catherine's heart broke for her niece — failed by her parents. She reassured, "No and he would never condone such a thing."
Lady DuBois wrapped her arms around Juliette, pulling her into a tight embrace. Juliette's breath hitched in her throat as a silent sob plagued her mouth. The aunt held her dear niece tightly in her arms, providing her comfort.
"All will be well," Catherine whispered. She glanced down at the heartbroken girl cradled to her neck. Catherine's following words were quiet. They hardly surpassed the confines of her lips to touch the air of thick sorrow. "I promise."
Catherine married into the family when Juliette was of age five. The love she held for her niece matched the love she held for her own children, Edward and Édith. Catherine was always thrilled when the girl joined them during the summer. During the summer months, the DuBois family felt complete. Catherine DuBois loved Juliette Villeneuve like a mother loved a daughter. A love that transcended all things trivial and all things of seemingly great importance.
A mother's love.
. . .
rose's notes
so that happened ... Juliette received some answers??? 👀
I hope you enjoyed chapter 15! if so, please vote and comment! I love hearing what you have to say <3
- rose
^ me knowing what's coming next