July 5, 1814 - And, dear reader, you will be most unsurprised to learn that the Featherington sisters were seen wearing ghastly gowns at yesterday's ball. Indeed, one cannot fathom how the bright citrus hues can do anything for their complexion.
But there are more important matters to discuss. Miss Y/N Beaumont was, once again, notably absent from the Danbury ball yesterday evening. It seems her absence is becoming a recurring pattern, seeing how she has abstained from the previous five balls! Her presence is dearly missed by eager bachelors and ambitious mamas but by Mr Henri Deschamps the most. Miss Beaumont and Mr Deschamps had seemed to form an attachment in the past weeks, and he is undoubtedly disappointed that our elusive diamond has paused her social appearances. Perhaps we will not see a match for Miss Beaumont this season. But who will take her place as the diamond of the season? Surely not Cressida Cowper, whose dance card was utterly void of any gentlemen's names at Lady Danbury's abode last night.
"Y/N, you cannot be absent from yet another ball, especially when this one is being hosted by the Bridgertons!" scolded Primrose, completely exasperated as she stood with her arms crossed, looking at you on the couch a few feet in front of her.
She had hoped to have worn you down by now, but you were equally, if not more, frustrated than her, albeit for different reasons, so you had no problem letting out a loud groan and continuing the argument. Initially, it wasn't an argument at all but rather your mother softly suggesting that you get ready for the Bridgerton ball. But you were in the mood to pick a fight today. So the two of you continued snapping at each other, even though your voice was raw from raising your voice, and your throat was impossibly tight from the pent-up anger you were feeling. Though this anger was not necessarily aimed at your mother, she had been the unfortunate recipient of it by virtue of the fact that she had been the first person to talk to you today.
Nearly a week ago, you had sent Ben a long letter, hoping to at least be able to correspond with him like you did when he was at Oxford, even if you couldn't see him in person. Of course, you were careful to leave out any details of your search for a husband, which seemed to be at a definitive standstill at the moment. However, you had included every annoying interaction you had with Theo and Bastian, a lengthy analysis of a specific painting you had seen with your mother and Violet when you went to a gallery viewing, and a request for book recommendations from Benedict.
This morning, your four-page letter received a simple, two-line answer.
(Y/I),
Haven't been reading much, but will send over recommendations if I do. Tell Bastian and Theo I said to stop bothering you. I hope you're having fun in the city!
Yours, B
To say you were irate would have been an understatement. Holding the letter in your hands, having read it repeatedly, you didn't know whether to scream or cry. The letter had not been one of your most sentimental, to be sure, but you had expected something a bit more substantial than what he responded with.
Part of your disappointment came from your desperate need for some sort of intellectual stimulation since you fell out with Henri two or so weeks ago. After that fateful promenade, you were left with absolutely no desire to continue looking for a husband. The soul-crushing revelation that most of the men you danced with and received flowers from were not at all interested in who you were as a person left you completely deflated. Instead, men cared about your ability to procreate, which you didn't even know how to do, your appearance, and your willingness to become exactly who they wanted you to be. It seemed to you that in order to get married, you would have to leave behind who you were right now: a woman with interests and opinions and a rich inner life. You had expected to have to change slightly after marriage, meeting the demands of being a wife and mother. Still, you did not know the extent to which your personal identity had no weight to anyone other than, seemingly, yourself. In a way, you felt betrayed. By whom, you didn't know. Maybe society as a whole. In response, you had holed up in your home for the past two weeks, only speaking to your family, the Bridgertons and Penelope, if they stopped by, and generally avoiding other members of the ton.
And so, Ben's succinct response had left you in the most sour mood. Sour enough to leave you breathing heavily and aggressively storming up the stairs to your bedroom. Your tightly narrowed eyes and infuriating powerlessness left your head throbbing, headache in full force. Perhaps for the first time in your life, Benedict had not engaged you in any sort of interesting discussion. You felt like the wind had been knocked out of your sails, angry tears forming in the corner of your eyes as you put his letter in the box in your room anyway since you refused to throw any of his writing away.
Your hands were shaking, putting this puny letter among the pages and pages of prose Benedict had previously written to you. Usually, having someone know you better than you knew yourself was lovely. His image of you was often kinder than the one you had of yourself, and you had learned to embrace all of your idiosyncrasies and become more of yourself. But maybe now it wasn't the best advantage. Ben was the only person who knew you well enough to be able to hurt you like this. You knew he had artist friends who lived in the countryside and was probably leaps and bounds happier than he was in the city, but you refused to believe he had no time to write you a proper response. You were more infuriated than anything, intensely frustrated that Benedict was acting like one of the men of the ton you so despised.
So, yes, you had time and energy to fight with anyone today. In the back of your mind, you knew your mother did not deserve the effects of your bad mood, and you also knew she was right. It would be impossibly rude to miss the Bridgerton ball. But your white-hot anger had settled in your chest, and you needed to get rid of it any way you could.
"They won't care if I'm there! I saw Violet yesterday; the rest of them can survive without me. Take a potted plant instead of me. It'll be the exact same as having me there. It's absolutely ridiculous that you want to force me to go," you shouted back at your mother, slamming your hand on the arm of the couch beside you.
Primrose was taken aback, not even caring why you were angry anymore, patience worn too thin. "Y/N Beaumont, what is the matter with you today?! That is such an impossibly rude thing to say. I can't believe I've wasted an hour arguing with you about this!"
You threw your head back, laughing cruelly. "I don't care! I don't care about being out in society, I don't care about social appearances, I don't care about finding a husband, and I most certainly do not care about going to tonight's ball!"
Suddenly, your mother's entire demeanor changed. She uncrossed her arms and softened her features. "Oh, my word. No, my love. I know what Mr. Deschamps said was incredibly upsetting, and if you want to sit out the rest of the season, that's completely fine by me and your father. I know it's been a difficult few months, and I would never dream of making it any more challenging by pressuring you to find a husband. The Bridgertons are practically family; all I ask is that you go and say hello and show support for them at their ball tonight. You don't even have to dance with anyone if you don't want to," she offered, looking at you carefully.
You were not expecting your mother to show you any compassion after the hour you had spent spewing the most sarcastic, rude statements you had said, maybe ever. You gripped the arm of the couch, immediately feeling your jaw unclench, and shame wash over you. Of course, your mother only wanted to help you. You were kicking yourself now for the way you had treated her, tears finding a home in your eyes as you willed them to stay there and not stream down your face.
Choosing to grab onto the olive branch your mother had extended, you blinked away your tears and drew a shaky breath. "Oh. Alright. That's fine, then. I'll go. But I'm not talking to anyone whose last name is not Beaumont or Bridgerton," you warned.
As Primrose let out a short laugh and rolled her eyes, smiling as she walked out of the sitting room, you relaxed, exhausted from the mental energy of holding your anger so tightly for so long. You found the knot in your chest loosening slightly, and you could breathe normally for the first time since you read Benedict's letter this morning. A ball wouldn't hurt, especially when it was hosted practically at your second home by your second family.
Left in the silence of the sitting room, alone with your thoughts again, you leaned back in your seat and threw an arm over your eyes. Your first social appearance in weeks was likely to cause a stir precisely when you didn't want one. But you owed it to your mother to go to this ball, at the very least.
---
"I'm sorry for earlier," you whispered in your mother's ear as you entered the Bridgerton ballroom, holding onto her arm.
She placed her hand over yours, leaning back and whispering, "It's alright, sweet. The house was getting too quiet, anyway. We needed some sort of chaos," and winking at you.
You went over to Violet and the rest of the Bridgertons and said hello, making sure to talk to them enough that your mother would be satisfied. After a few minutes, wanting your night to end as soon as possible, you grabbed Alex and led him to the dance floor.
"With me? Y/N, you've got a mile-long queue of people who want to dance with you. I am not one of those people," he said, shrugging your arm off.
"Right, but I don't want to dance with any of them. Put me out of my misery, please. I just have to do this once, and then I can be done," you muttered, looking around at the stares you were receiving. "For Mum," you added, pleading.
Stifling a laugh, Alexander nodded and led you the rest of the way to the dance floor. As the dance started, you couldn't help but notice people whispering while looking at you, having a more central view of everyone around you now that you were dancing in the middle. Anxious to get the dance over with so you could retreat to a corner of the vast ballroom and not speak to anyone for the rest of the night, you accidentally stepped on your brother's foot with a good amount of force.
Wincing, he spoke lowly, "Slow down, Y/N."
"Right, yes, sorry," you said quickly, eyes still frantically scanning the room.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten how to dance in two weeks," he quipped, trying to calm you down. "Stop looking around and actually dance with me, please. You can't just force me onto the dance floor and make me do all the work."
Letting out a soft laugh, you loosened your shoulders and looked back at him. "You're right, I'm sorry. I can't believe I forced you to dance a singular time with me. It was so cruel. This must be so difficult for you. Do you think you'll be able to recover?" you asked, lightening your tone.
"I could trip you right now, you know," he threatened, receiving an eye roll from you. "But seriously, is everything alright?"
"Alex, you cannot ask me that right now, in front of everyone," you scolded, voice breaking slightly. You were upset again, but mostly at yourself now, that you barely held it together after your brother asked you a three-word question.
Finally, the dance came to an end. You turned on your heel to head to the far corner of the room, but Alex grabbed your wrist. You shot him a questioning look, annoyed that he wanted to extend your time at this ball.
"Just trust me. You definitely need this right now. Come with me," he said cryptically. Curiosity winning over your desire to hide in a corner, you followed after him.
You saw him nod to Anthony, and the eldest Bridgerton responded with a questioning look. Seeing Alex nod again, Anthony walked over to you with a cheeky smile. The three of you walked inconspicuously and quietly toward the ballroom exit. Taking advantage of the fact that Cressida Cowper had swooned over some titled gentleman or another, Anthony carefully opened the door behind him and ushered you and Alex out into the hall.
"Ah, will Miss Beaumont be joining us tonight? A pleasure to have you," he said as he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, offering no hint of what was about to happen.
The three of you quickly walked through the Bridgerton home, stopping outside of what you knew was Anthony's study, though you had never actually gone inside. Once again, Anthony opened the door and led you and your brother in, closing the door firmly behind him and letting out a sigh of relief once he was inside.
"Finally! The real party can begin!" exclaimed Alexander, clapping Anthony on the back, who was making his way over to his desk drawer.
"Can someone please explain what's happening?" you asked, extremely confused at what seemed like the regular occurrence between your brother and Anthony.
"Ah, sweet Y/N. I forget you usually spend time with Benedict, who is awfully boring," joked Anthony, producing a bottle of amber liquid from the drawer and three small crystal glasses. "This is whiskey. Would you like some?" he offered, pouring a hefty glass.
You were stammering, completely shocked by what was going on, when Alex answered for you, "She will most definitely have some. You should have seen her on the dance floor; she seemed even less happy to be there than us, I do believe."
A glass full to the brim with whiskey was thrust into your hand. Alex and Anthony clinked their glasses with yours and downed their much emptier glasses. As Anthony poured two more, you were still frozen, holding the untouched whiskey away from you.
"But– I just– I've never–" you tried to say, sentences not quite forming as you wanted them to.
Alex rolled his eyes, clapping you on the back and bringing your glass closer to your mouth. "It's alright. I won't tell Mum. Mutually assured destruction," he winked at you. He and Anthony clinked their full glasses against yours once again, and you hesitantly took a sip. You immediately puckered your lips at the burn you felt as the whiskey went down your throat.
"Oh, that's dreadful! You drink this willingly?" you asked in disbelief, a terrible taste lingering on your tongue. Anthony laughed, exchanging his emptier glass with your much fuller one.
"You can't think about it too much at first; just gulp it down. You'll get used to it," the eldest Bridgerton said, sipping from his glass.
You looked over at Alex, unsure, but he nodded encouragingly. "It's alright. It'll just be one night where you can let loose and be silly. You were about to have a heart attack on the dance floor, so just relax with us for tonight. It's just me and Anthony. We're not Benedict, but we're good fun, I promise," he said.
"Or just let loose and be silly without drinking if the whiskey's too much," added Anthony. "You don't have to finish it. Or drink any of it."
You nodded, slightly more willing to drink the disgusting liquid now. You were still staring suspiciously at the glass in your hand when you asked, "So, how often do you do this?"
Making himself comfortable on the couch in the study, Alex hummed. "Well, every now and then. But when a ball is particularly dreadful, we'll come here to let off steam for a bit. Just to get away from the crowds and all," he answered, watching amusedly as you tried to drink the whiskey again, only to pinch your face in disgust.
"Well, that does seem very convenient, doesn't it?" you said finally, looking around the cozy study full of books you had never seen before. You were overtaken by a desire to tell Benedict about this, quickly replaced by a debilitating sadness at the memory of his lackluster letter from earlier today.
Alex was right. You did need to relax. So you took a deep breath and steeled yourself, bringing the glass to your lips again. Closing your eyes tightly, you quickly downed the glass, making sure to finish it before your mouth could actually process that it was tasting one of the most disgusting-tasting substances you had ever experienced. Setting your glass down, a fire in your throat, you coughed a bit, feeling warmth spread from your stomach to the rest of your body until you felt it in your fingertips. Almost immediately, you could feel the effects of the strong drink, and you felt as if you were about to float away at any moment.
"Atta girl!" exclaimed Anthony, highly impressed that you had done that your first time drinking whiskey. You turned to him to send him a smile in response but found the room spinning faster than your body. You wanted to stop yourself from tipping over, but all you could do was let out a giddy giggle as you felt yourself toppling.
Alex was laughing loudly but nevertheless reached over and grabbed your arm to steady you before you actually fell over. "Easy there, why don't you sit down for a bit on the couch," he said, standing up and placing you firmly where he had been sitting. After patting your head, he let out another snort, shaking his head at you and going over to pour himself another glass.
Anthony poured a small amount of whiskey into your glass and placed it beside you. "Don't drink this now; this is for later," he warned. You nodded solemnly, distracted by how your tongue felt inside your mouth.
"So what's bothering you? I thought you enjoyed balls to some degree. Is it that bastard Benedict?" he said playfully, leaning against his desk and crossing one leg over the other.
You giggled again, shocked by Anthony's strong language and feeling your head was both impossibly heavy and lighter than ever as you tried to form a coherent sentence. You chose to lie down on the couch, thinking it might be easier to talk if you didn't have to sit up.
"Ah, it's a bit of everything, I think. After Henri's blow-up, I think I'm through looking for a husband," you started, not missing the raised eyebrows you got from the men in the room. But you were feeling loose from the alcohol and comfortable from being around Anthony and Alex, so you launched into a speech explaining your disillusionment with marriage as a whole, which had only worsened by Mr. Deschamps' comments. Both of them were listening intently, at times glancing at one another but nodding and humming thoughtfully as you continued unentangling your complicated feelings.
"So, what are you going to do now?" asked Anthony after you had finished speaking.
"Mmm, that's the difficult part, isn't it?" you started, giggling. But you sobered quickly. "I think my last bit of hope would have been Benedict, but I sort of proposed to him, and he responded by leaving for the countryside," you said, and the boys exchanged another look. Realizing what you had said, you gasped and put a hand over your mouth. "Oh, that's mortifying. Forget I said that!" you groaned, reaching for the glass of whiskey at your side and taking a long sip.
"He really said no?" asked Alex. Sensing anger in his voice and noticing that he gripped his glass tighter as he spoke, you sat up and rushed to defend your best friend, though, at this point, you didn't quite know why. Once again, you felt the room moving quite quickly, but you had grown used to the feeling and could better keep your balance.
"Well, he said, 'I can't do that.' And he was obviously entitled to say no, but it just was a bit of a blow, you know?" you said, regretting saying anything.
"Are you quite serious?" exclaimed Anthony, absolutely taken aback by the information he was learning. "He's–"
"Do you love him?" interrupted Alex, bringing you crashing back down to reality with three times the force of gravity.
Tracing patterns on the arm of the couch and trying to keep your mind focused on not giving too much away, you answered after a pause, "I don't think it matters now." After a pause, you added, "But I didn't just ask if he wanted to marry me because I love him," immediately wincing when you realized you had given your true feelings away.
Curious, Alex and Anthony both gestured for you to continue speaking. And you had already shared so much anyway. What was the harm in saying the rest of it?
"All I've ever wanted was a marriage where I could still have the freedom to pursue literature as I do now. I know it was unrealistic, but I hoped at least a few men of the ton would be amenable. And, yes, obviously, Ben, my best friend and all that, but he was also the only person I knew could give me the kind of marriage I wanted, where I could have actual freedom to do what I wanted. And that hope is gone now, too. I don't want to become a spinster, but I feel like that's my only option now," you said, tears prickling in your eyes. "I don't want anyone else. Worse, I don't think anyone wants me. Not as I am, anyway. Not like Ben does. Or, like he did, I suppose."
Seeing tears flowing out of your eyes, Anthony sat beside you. You pushed your forehead onto his shoulder, feeling a comforting squeeze on your arm. "It's going to be alright, Y/N," he said.
You shook your head, eyes shut tightly. "How?" you asked. You knew Anthony didn't have the answer and couldn't help you beyond the strong shoulder he provided now, but you were desperate for comfort. Anything that would alleviate the crushing realization that you would inevitably have to give up a part of yourself forever.
Anthony rubbed your shoulder up and down as you cried into his shoulder, and you missed the intense look he exchanged with your older brother. "Just trust me, it'll be alright."
You wiped your tears and nodded, not wanting to wallow further. You knew if you kept crying right now, you might never stop, so you grabbed Anthony's hands and pulled him up off the couch, stumbling slightly as you did so. You twirled in place, eager to have some of the fun you were promised earlier.
"Anthony, pour us another. I think I should enjoy being here while I can, before Mum comes looking for me and doesn't ever allow me near the two of you again," you commanded, enjoying the happy tipsiness you were feeling.
Alex laughed and grabbed your glass, bringing it to Anthony's desk. "Very well, but we might have to cut you off after this. You're getting a bit too bossy," he jested, enjoying seeing you relatively at ease for the first time in weeks.
---
A few days later, the busy chatter of the Bridgerton-Beaumont gathering surrounded you as you leaned back in your chair and turned to the sky, closing your eyes and basking in the summer sun. Alex had convinced you to come to the Bridgerton home for the first time since Ben had left; at your mother's insistence, you were sure. But you were happy to be here, in all honesty. You were away from the rest of the others, off-handedly listening to Theo and Colin talk about the previous night's visit to Whites and watching Hyacinth and Gregory playing some sort of game that always seemed to end up in Hyacinth chasing her brother around the garden.
Your talk with Alex and Anthony left you feeling much lighter. You supposed Benedict was usually the person you talked to about these things, feelings, and the like, but you found his brother, and yours did the trick now that he was gone. Nothing had actually been resolved, and your problems were as present as ever, but it had been nice to talk about it after holding onto the weight of your thoughts on your own.
Bar the wicked headache that plagued you the morning after, sneaking out of the Bridgerton ball to spend time with Alex and Anthony had been delightful. Even the headache had been swiftly dealt with, thanks to a rather intriguing concoction whipped up by your cook. Alexander had brought it to your room that morning in exchange for your silence, fearing your parents' wrath if they ever found out you had sneaked out of a ball, let alone to drink whiskey with him. So, all in all, you were content. As much as you could be with a massive Ben-shaped hole in your life, you supposed. But you would have to learn to live around that hole.
Just then, you felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Anthony smiling down at you. "Feeling alright this afternoon? No more headache?" he asked, eyes brimming with playful amusement.
You giggled softly. "I wasn't that bad! It was only one morning, Anthony," you whined, pushing him away and sticking out your tongue.
He pushed you back, laughing. "Right, it wasn't like Alex had to carry you home or anything. That would be preposterous!"
You rolled your eyes, ready to stand up, before Anthony grasped your arm carefully, urging you to stay a moment longer. "No, stay with me for a second. There's something I'd like to discuss."
Confused, you sat back and gestured to the seat next to you, which he took. "What's the matter?" you pressed. Anthony seemed nervous and unsure, which was unusual, especially since he was talking to you.
He cleared his throat, rubbing his thumb on his lower lip. Finally meeting your eyes, he said, "Well, I was wondering if you'd want to marry me."