chapter i. alive, gloriously alive
act i. wax-dipped wings
From the wings of Sadler's Wells Theatre, he watches as the audience take their seats in the semi-circular pit, or the tiers of boxes where the most wealthy of the London ton pay to watch the show, or the galleries where they can command a full view of every part of the stage. His hands twitch around the heavy velvet curtain blocking him from sight. It is far too late to turn back now, but there is something cold and heavy gnawing at the bottom of his stomach.
There, near the front, Lady Mondritch and her daughters. They have already opened their playing cards, spreading them over the table sat in front of them. She was there three years ago. Will she remember? Will any of them remember? Lady Danbury and Viscountess Bridgerton in the same box, of course, their seedy eyes ready to burn a hole right through him as soon as he takes a seat on the stage. They'll hiss at him as soon as they see him, the waves of his brown hair, the newly grown moustache above his lip, they'll see the browns of his eyes and know exactly who they're staring at. His name was not on the poster.
He's going to shock the ton into forgiveness.
Or, that's what the members of his company said when he spoke to them about his fears. Stepping onto that stage in front of the very people who had thrown him into the fire, shrieking as his skin peeled back and showed off the very worst parts of himself. He has not seen any of them since. They have not seen him, until this very moment, when he will walk onto that stage, where his glistening gold harp awaits the feather-light touch of his fingers.
They may not even notice him. Siena Rosso is the soprano, the one who all the eyes will be on, and he will be forced into the darkness of the background. That is solace. That is torment.
A long-fingered hand wraps around his elbow and wrenches him away from the curtain. He stumbles backwards, but quickly fixes himself, turning around to shake off whoever's hands are on him. It takes him back to a time he had tried to forget. Too many hands. Pulling. Prodding. Pushing. This way. That way. Go away. Go Away. GO AWAY.
His voice is clipped. "Lord!" The pianist for their small company, Romil Mishra, stares back at him, half-smiling his usual goofy grin that spreads across his brown skin, half-hidden by the shadows of the wings. He'd come all the way from India to teach and was faced with the idea that nobody had wanted him, except for their small company of musicians who'd wanted to make it someplace in this big, bad world. This is their first time on a stage to fit all of them and more, Cornelius' hands won't stop shaking.
"Try not to pull so hard," he jokes. His voice wavers just a little. "You would not wish to mess up my good looks before our big performance, would you?"
"I would be doing you a favour, Cornel."
A laugh comes from behind Romil, a spluttering, bitter sound that is not heard often in their company. They both turn their heads towards the noise. Ellen Cooke's choppily cut dark hair has been pulled into a hasty bun at the back of her head, half-hidden by a small, round hat pinned into place. A thin, lace veil has been sewn into the rim of the hat, hiding the top half of her face from view. Cornelius has only seen the scarring around her right eye twice before. Both times were accidents, but he never told her, too afraid of her clipping tongue lashing out at him at last.
Cornelius, in an attempt to keep himself calm, takes a quick look at the rest of their company surrounding him.
Siena Rosso, one of Cornelius' closest friends and soprano of their small company, fixes the bow at the back of her large bustle. Her dress is as dark a red as wine, a favoured colour for her as it seems to compliment her glossy, creamy skin, dotted with pale freckles. Her light brown hair, darker behind the candle-lit stage is half pulled back into the bun, letting the rest fall around her shoulders in gentle waves. During her song, she will softly toss her head and the waves will dance around her body, causing a ripple through all the men in the audience. Hopefully, they might attract a rich patron to fund their company.
Their tenor, Frederick Bamber, pats down his rich suit, the only one he has that doesn't look like it has been patched up on their travels throughout the country. With his skin more tanned than what you usually find in London, and his thick sideburns, and thick accent it isn't impossible to guess that Frederick isn't exactly British. Spanish, maybe, but he refuses to tell them. An artist first and foremost. He still has no idea how he came to be with them. Frederick runs his fingers through his meticulously styled dark hair, the soft curls around his face perfect for the ladies. If Cornelius had not spent the past two years watching him primp and prune himself in front of every mirror he passed, he would probably be ridiculously attracted to him.
Lavinia Sharpe, the cellist, never lets any of them get too close, keeping them all at bay with her quick quips and sharp eyes. With golden brown skin that glows in candlelight, a pretty face with a long nose turning up at the end and long, black hair the colour of cello strings, she could certainly be Siena's competitor. But it is her attitude that sets her apart from the rest, less bitter than Ellen sure, but much harsher, more belittling. She will not let any of them slack off. If you are not pulling your weight, she will certainly make you aware of it. Growing up in a Yorkshire orphanage had made her unwilling to openness. Cornelius is still a little scared of her.
Finally, their pretty ballet dancer, who always finds a way to captivate the audience, Adelaide Lovell. She'd been travelling with Ellen before the two of them joined the company, a little younger than the rest, but sturdy enough to hold her own against their teasing. She plays with her skirts, practicing her feet movements without even noticing. Cornelius watches her for a moment. Warm, dark brown skin that only glows brighter with her growing happiness. Dark brown curls pulled back to fall perfectly over one shoulder. And there, sitting on her neck, is the one piece of jewellery she has owned since long before Ellen came along, an old necklace given to her by her long-deceased mother. Cornelius has never seen her without it.
Romil tugs him forward and he realises that it's time to go on stage, to sit behind that towering harp and not mess up. If he does, they will most certainly laugh at him and remember the man who they were sickened by three years beforehand. He is still that creature, that sickening creature who flirted with their daughters while caressing men in the darkness. That disgusting, lewd creature who they ripped open and stole all the sunlight from.
Now, he will sit on that stage and wow them with magnificent talent, because if he does not, he might as well run away with his tail between his legs.
Are his parents in the audience? Do they even recognise the son they failed to save, to love, to protect?
Cornelius refuses to look.
His focus should be on the music, on himself. Not on the audience clapping, or Adelaide dancing around them, or even Siena hitting her highest notes. No, he is solely focused on the quick movements of his fingers on his favourite instrument.
Suddenly, everything slips away, and it is just him on the stage, the candlelight forgotten, the audience barely even there. Just him and the soft strings beneath the pads of his fingers. When was the last time he touched anybody like this? So long ago he has forgotten how to even think about it, the quickening pace of your heart, the blood pumping heavier throughout your body, the slickness on your hand and the lips on your neck. He smiles at the thought of it all.
Maybe he will find that here in London, in one of the Ton who dance with ladies they have no intention of marrying. Maybe, he will whisk them all away.
Or maybe, he will just be the laughing stock all over again, another burnt creature stuck under the blinding light of their glares. That seems far more likely.
The faint sound of clapping can be heard from nearer the back of the theatre. Most people up front could not care less about the show playing out in front of them. But, there is a man in the audience, surrounded by his siblings, unable to tear his gaze away from the entrancing scene on the stage. Cornelius Howe's fingers dance across his harp strings, plucking and pulling with the tenderest of touches that makes Benedict Bridgerton's body feel a lot tauter in his suit. Are his trousers always this tight? Is his skin always this warm?
Cornelius' tongue darts out to wet his lips, and unconsciously, Benedict's does the same.
His eyes cannot miss a single thing, the quick movement of his long fingers on the strings, the intense concentration etched into his face, the way the firelight plays along his chestnut waves like it's trying to kiss him too. Benedict wishes, desperately, that he'd brought along one of his sketch pads so he could fill it with this image now carved into his mind. He's going to be up all night trying to get this down somewhere in paint, chalk, pencil, whatever he can get his hands on. Anything just to be able to draw Cornelius Howe so perfectly in his element, so different from the last time he saw him, being carted out of the Queen's Ballroom with half his suit hanging off him and his hair a mess. He'd been bright red, a mix of fury and embarrassment, caught in the lewd act with some gentry boy who had never had a second chance in London. Benedict found himself thinking about that image of Cornelius for way too long, burnt and left dripping wax, like the sun had touched him for a little too long.
He gulps, hand clasped tightly around the arms of his chair. His older brother, Anthony, sitting next to him gladly doesn't notice, much too caught up in the pretty image of the soprano whose bed he shares when his work makes his head spin. But Daphne, on his other side, shoots him a quick glance of worry.
"Benedict," she whispers gently, fingers pressing into the back of his hand to grab his attention. "Is something the matter?"
"No, no." He coughs quickly as if something is caught in his throat. Certainly not wound up feelings for a man he hasn't seen in three years. "Is it hot in here?"
"It's the candles," Eloise, their younger sister, leans over Daphne, elbow digging into the flesh above her knee. Daphne winces at the sudden pain and crinkling of her new dress. "Why does one place need so many candles? Is that not a fire hazard?"
"Most likely," Daphne agrees, pushing Eloise off of her gently. She smooths out her pale blue dress, practically a staple in their household. "But we wouldn't be able to see the amazing musicians without them. Saying that, do you recognise that harpist?" She nudges Benedict, not noticing the way his cheeks suddenly flush at the insinuation that he might.
"Maybe. Not sure."
"That's Cornelius Howe." Now Anthony leans over to talk to Daphne, fortunately using the armrest for his elbow instead of Benedict's leg. "Was abandoned by his family three years ago after embarrassing himself and them at the Queen's ball. Was a whole mortifying ordeal."
"Oh, he was not the man who..." Daphne trails off, suddenly going pink when she remembers why he was talked about for so long after his sudden disappearance from society.
Yes, Benedict wants to say, he was the man who got caught fucking another man. But, his throat feels too tight, so he just nods. What exactly does it feel like to have those long fingers caressing your – no, Dear Lord, he cannot think like that.
It is much too hot in here.
He tugs at his collar.
How badly he wants to leave, but he cannot allow himself to in case he misses something crucial. Will Cornelius smile when he is done, basking in the glory of the audience's praise? Or will he blush, unused to the attention being good rather than bad, remembering how all these people turned their backs on him once upon a time?
Benedict desperately wants to know.
He does not really understand why.
When the music finally stops and Cornelius Howe gets to his feet, Benedict finds himself inching forward trying to get a better look at his face. The audience claps wildly around them. Benedict can barely look away from the blinding smile that he wears.
Now that is something to paint.
How long he has been looking for his muse, only for him to fall straight into his lap suddenly one night without warning. Like the sun peeking out through the clouds, or a little spot of rain you never realised was coming.
For a moment, Benedict feels completely and totally free. Until Cornelius meets his eye through the theatre, brown mixing with blue, stable earth with churning water.
And then, all at once, he is trapped again.
word count - 2,333
date published - 09. JUNE. 2022
it has been far too long but i finally got inspiration to write this!