A/N: okay SO the timelines diverge after ch12, and this is how life would look like if ch13 and onward didn't happen.
March 3, 1820 - B,
I apologize for my delayed response – I'm sure you'll understand that I was a tad occupied giving birth. But she's finally here! It was easier than the other three, so I'm personally delighted, though Anthony seemed just as stressed as usual. And, as usual, he'll most likely be resting for the next five days. If he ever stops looking at her in awe, that is. It would be quite adorable if I didn't need to wrestle her away from him to nurse her every few hours!
Although, I will say that Anthony being taken with her has worked out quite well for me. I was able to finish my novel and get a full night's sleep last night. I'd love to see you soon if you're up for it. You can meet her and we can discuss your latest painting, which I heard was absolutely breathtaking. Anthony and I will both be home for the next week at least, so feel free to pop by any time.
Yours, Y/I
You finished addressing the envelope to Benedict right as Anthony walked into your bedroom holding the tiny form of your newborn daughter. Twisting in your seat to face them, you cooed when you saw her fast asleep in his arms. She was wrapped in a soft pink blanket, and you couldn't help but marvel at her tiny fists opening and closing absentmindedly as she slept. She looked so peaceful in Anthony's arms, and it was terrifying to think that a human being this small would grow up to be an adult and that you would have to guide her through it. Well, she would have Anthony too, you thought. And the thought did a lot to quell your fears.
For as long as you had known him, Anthony had been a steadfast figure in your life. He'd been the eldest of the Beaumont-Bridgertons, and he certainly acted like it, too. The responsibility he felt for his family was evident in everything he did, and it was one of the qualities you admired most about him. Now, seeing Anthony cradle your newborn daughter with such gentleness and awe only solidified your feelings for him.
You had decidedly not been in love when you had married him, but one couldn't simply have four children with someone and not develop at least a little affection for them. The two of you had been wonderful friends even before you were married, and you still were, but along the way, it seemed that you had learned to love each other in your own funny sort of way. It wasn't the sort of all-consuming love you had for Benedict all those years ago, and that perhaps you had still in a corner of your heart. But it was comforting and safe and built upon a deep respect for one another, and your life was all the better for it.
Perhaps you and Ben had never been destined for a life like this, you thought. Your childhood intention to wed Benedict had been just that: a naïve plan. That night in the studio with Benedict, after he had found out in the most unfortunate manner that you and Anthony were courting, you had needed something safe and constant. And Benedict had given you the complete opposite. For so many years, he had been your anchor, but that night you felt like the ground had fallen away below your feet and you were in free fall. You had so much love for Benedict that you didn't even know where to put it. You could feel it from your heart to your fingertips, and it was terrifying. You thought about Violet and Edmund in that moment, and how destroyed Violet had been when Edmund passed. The thought of that happening to you and Benedict made you sick. The thought of taking the risk and putting your heart in his hands only for it to crumble.
Maybe running away from Benedict at that moment was the cowardly thing to do. Maybe you should have faced your fears and given in to the overpowering love. Maybe you should have kissed your best friend and dealt with the consequences later, holding his hand the whole way through. But you hadn't. You had sought out safety instead, running up the stairs to Anthony's room and knocking incessantly until he opened the door, eyes startled and hand holding a handkerchief to his cut lip.
"We're getting married," you had declared, breathing ragged and arms crossed tightly over your chest.
"Who's 'we'?" he asked, hoping you meant you and Benedict but suspecting otherwise given that you were currently at his door looking furious.
"You and me. And we're going to do it as soon as possible."
Anthony uttered a soft, "Oh." He didn't know what else to say. "And Benedict..." he added in a questioning tone.
"No," you said firmly. "No Benedict."
He had expected you to say more, but you just stood in front of him, unmoving.
"I suppose I can start the arrangements," Anthony said finally. "If you're sure this is what you want."
"I am sure."
God, Benedict must have truly done something stupid, he thought. "Very well, then."
"Good night, Anthony. We can inform our families of our engagement tomorrow morning."
He just nodded in response, still too stunned to fully process your words.
You cleared your throat and your stoic façade faded slightly. "And thank you, Anthony. For everything," you said, suddenly very aware of what being married to Anthony might mean.
He shook his head. "No, no. It was nothing. You are family."
A month later, you were married at the church near Aubrey Hall. Benedict barely stayed long enough to see the two of you say your vows, citing an urgent problem with his cottage in the countryside. His family was kind enough not to question his obviously fabricated excuse, but he couldn't miss the endless looks of pity sent his way. He had been hurt. Well, you had hurt him. You hurt him when you walked away from him, and you hurt him when you announced your engagement to your family without telling him first, but most of all, you hurt him when you chose Anthony even after two decades of history with Benedict.
Maybe none of your fears would have come true, and you and Ben would have been happy. Maybe he would have treated your heart with the same love and care with which he always treated you. But it didn't do to dwell on what could have been. Your marriage with Anthony was real. It was concrete and it was grounding, and you couldn't imagine a more stable presence in your life.
Bringing you out of your musings, you felt Anthony kiss your cheek in greeting and ask, "Do you want to take her?"
You nodded eagerly, setting down the letter in your hand so you could hold your daughter. "I'm surprised you're willingly letting me have her," you teased, laughing as Anthony all but collapsed onto the loveseat across from you, clearly exhausted.
He had been an awfully attentive father the past few days, ecstatic to finally have a girl after three boys. Though she had brought out a heightened sense of protectiveness he couldn't seem to shake. It was rather endearing to see him so frazzled over a baby that weighed less than eight pounds, but you suspected there might be something more to it.
"She's so tiny!" he defended, gaze fixed on her admittedly minuscule form in your arms. "I can't help it..." He trailed off, deep in thought. You glanced up at him, noticing the change in his tone and his hunched posture. After five years of marriage, you had him memorized, and reading him came as naturally as reading a book.
"Is anything the matter?" you asked gently, already having a general idea about what was plaguing him.
But he shook his head, murmuring a soft no and focusing on the writing desk behind you instead. "Is that for Benedict?" he inquired, nodding in the direction of the letter.
"Yes, I'm just telling him that she's here and asking him to come visit," you answered, still eyeing him carefully.
"So, he's coming to visit, then?" pressed Anthony, eyes back on your daughter, who was currently sleeping soundly in your arms.
"Well, I don't see why he wouldn't. Why do you ask?" You changed tactics, trying to seem nonchalant about your concern.
"Alright. That's good. Yes, that's good," he muttered, seemingly satisfied with your answer but his mind was obviously miles away.
Growing increasingly worried, you stood up and carefully laid your daughter in her crib, ensuring she remained undisturbed. With her settled, you approached Anthony, who hadn't shifted his gaze from where you had been sitting. Kneeling beside him, you reached out and gingerly placed your hand on his. The touch seemed to quiet his restless thoughts, and he turned to meet your eyes, acknowledging the weight of his anxiety.
Anthony spoke softly, carefully. "I just want to make sure that you and the children are taken care of. In case something happens to me. I want you to have someone."
You should have known that this was what plagued him. During the first year of your marriage, you settled into a comfortable dynamic with Anthony. It was not quite love, but something like it had blossomed between the two of you. However, it was after the birth of your first son, Arthur, that Anthony reached a breaking point. He realized that his grand plan to marry someone he didn't love to avoid any undue heartbreak was not, in fact, foolproof. Even if there hadn't been growing affection between you, Anthony completely fell in love with Arthur from the moment he was born. It was like nothing he'd experienced before; beyond anything he could have imagined. And it was terribly frightening.
He had shared his fears with you–he'd had no choice in the matter when you were as stubborn and insistent as you were–and you had shared that you, too, were scared. But you trusted one another, and so the two of you navigated parenthood in tandem and Anthony's fears subsided. Regardless, you could understand that the birth of your daughter brought back this fear in full force, and he felt a greater need to protect her from danger than he would with his sons.
"Anthony, I won't need someone. You're right here, and you always will be."
He shook his head, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. "How can you know that?"
You pursed your lips, brows furrowing. "Even if you aren't, it won't be your fault. You're a wonderful father. And a wonderful husband."
With a deep sigh, he clasped your hand and stood up, bringing you with him. "Just promise me you'll ask Benedict to take care of you if I go?"
Your heart softened. Knowing he needed to hear you say it out loud, you nodded, "I promise."
---
March 5, 1820 – Y/I,
One would think Anthony had been the one to give birth instead of you! I'll pop by today to give him a talking-to. And to meet my lovely niece, of course.
Yours, B
You found yourself in the nursery this afternoon, your three boys gathered around you and your daughter fast asleep in her crib. It was a lovely day out; sunny but not too hot, but the boys hardly noticed. Instead, they sat still, completely enthralled as you read from your current novel. Though you adored reading to your children, you found children's books rather boring and repetitive. Thus, you had shifted to reading them excerpts from your own reading material. It made the endeavor much more interesting, and the boys seemed to love it too, evident as they hung on your every word.
"'Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder,'" you read, and your sons gasped, not quite understanding the meaning of the word but easily catching onto your surprised reaction. You continued, "'and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask-'"
"Surely I've heard wrong and you're not reading to your children about murder!" came Benedict's voice from the doorway.
Immediately, three voices squealed in delight and Frankenstein was completely forgotten as your sons rushed over to their uncle. Charles was only one year old, but his brothers' excitement only fueled his clumsy crawl toward Benedict's waiting arms.
"They don't exactly know what it means, Ben," you laughed. "Besides, it's wonderful literature. And it keeps them entertained."
He picked up Charles in one arm and Arthur in the other, making his way over to you as Bernard clung to his leg. "Well, I'm sure you know better than me, darling," he commented and kissed you sweetly on the top of your head.
"Isn't that usually the case?" you teased, standing up to properly greet your best friend. Though you hadn't joined the welcome committee, you were positively glowing now that Ben had arrived. It had been over a week since you had seen him, and you had missed him terribly. You smiled brightly, instantly at ease in his presence.
Eyebrows raised and eyes shining with mirth, he teased back, "You forget I have three very bloodthirsty boys on my side who have just learned what murder is."
You looked at Arthur, who was completely focused on attempting to undo Benedict's cravat, and Charles, who had two fingers in his mouth and was unsuccessfully attempting to put in a third, then glanced back at Benedict.
"Quite bloodthirsty, aren't they?" you deadpanned as you gently pried Charles' hand from his mouth.
Ben couldn't help the waves of laughter rolling off him as he observed your sons. "It seems they still have a way to go before they get there."
Then, spotting the pink crib across the room, he gasped and set down Arthur and Charles and somewhat successfully shook Bernard off his leg. Walking over to the crib, he stared at her, completely awestruck.
"She's so tiny!" he exclaimed, careful to keep his voice down so as not to wake her.
You giggled, making your way over. "That's exactly what Anthony said," you smiled at him.
But your smile did nothing to soothe the dull ache that had blossomed in his chest as he remembered all the things he could have had with you. The pain was not as unbearable now as it had been five years ago, but he was inclined to think that it would be there for the rest of his life. In the back of his mind, Benedict wondered if he would have been as good of a father as Anthony. He supposed he would never know, having devoted himself completely to his art and extinguishing any lingering hopes Violet had that her second son would ever marry. But you seemed happy, and that was truly all that mattered.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, he smiled sweetly back down at you. "What's her name? Something starting with a D, I'm sure. Otherwise, Anthony will have lost his mind."
"Yes, naturally," you giggled. You tugged on Ben's sleeve to bring him closer to the crib. "Benedict, meet Diana Bridgerton."
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bridgerton," he murmured, intently observing your daughter as she slowly blinked her eyes open.
"Quite eager to meet her uncle," you observed, but Benedict was too mesmerized by her to respond properly.
"She's got your eyes," he whispered after a few seconds, turning back to you and placing an arm around you. Your arm snaked around his back, and you drew him in a little closer.
Leaning down to place his cheek on your head and hugging you tighter, he spoke softly, "I thought you might name her Daisy. Flower names and all that. Besides, it starts with a D."
Benedict didn't quite know where the comment had come from. You hadn't mentioned flower names in years, but the thought had suddenly popped into his brain quite unexpectedly and he had been unable to stop the words coming out of his mouth. He knew he was so incredibly lucky to know you and to love you and to have a friendship with you, but it was at times like these when he wished he didn't know you quite so well. At times when knowing you was only a reminder of what he lost.
In that moment, you were thankful to be facing Diana's crib instead of Benedict, because you could feel the tears prickling at your eyes. The flower names. Of course Benedict would have remembered. You had never truly regretted marrying Anthony, but what you had with Ben transcended anything you could ever have with anyone else, and sometimes it was hard to come to terms with the fact that he wasn't your person anymore.
Shaking your head to will the tears away, you responded, "No. No, I could never."
"What? You always said you wanted to name your children flower names."
"No, Benedict. I wanted to name our children flower names."
He felt all the air in his lungs escaping all at once. It felt as if someone had reached deep inside of him, taken hold of every organ inside his body, and squeezed very tightly. Wanted to name our children. Our children. Our. Just a simple word, three letters in total, had managed to leave him completely disarmed.
It was silly, really. You were married and had four children with his brother, of all people. And Benedict was still completely and irrevocably in love with you. He rather thought that he would always love you, in some form or another. Benedict suspected that Anthony knew this too, though his older brother was far too tactful to ever broach the subject.
Seemingly unaware of Ben's internal turmoil as he tried to reduce his feelings to their usual dormant state, you grabbed hold of his hand and led him away from Diana toward the door. "Nurse Edwards can watch the children while we go downstairs to have some tea. I must hear about your painting displayed at the National Gallery! I wish I hadn't been about two days from bursting so I could have gone to see the unveiling."
---
November 17, 1820 – Benedict,
Y/N has fallen ill, and I am away on business unable to tend to her. Go to Aubrey Hall as soon as possible and make sure she's alright.
Please.
Anthony
Benedict could barely hear the rain pouring down outside his carriage over his racing heartbeat. Anthony's frantic note had left Ben in a state of panic. He had left for Aubrey Hall immediately upon receiving the note, but he still worried that he might be too late. What on earth had frightened his older brother to the point of asking Benedict for help? A million possibilities, each one as devastating as the other, raced through his mind.
The sight of your home interrupted his catastrophizing, and he swung the door open and ran toward the entrance before the carriage could come to a complete stop. Benedict was somewhat aware that he was getting completely drenched in the rain, but his mind was far too focused on getting to you to care.
The front door was already open when he reached it, and Benedict burst through, barely hearing the butler's, "Upstairs in her bedchamber, Mr Bridgerton," before he was frantically climbing the stairs to get to you.
Once he reached your door, Ben stopped quite suddenly. He didn't want to startle you by bursting in unannounced, so he waited a few seconds to catch his breath. Finally, he turned the doorknob slowly, hands shaking nervously as he entered your bedroom.
In between shockingly vivid dreams and a splitting headache, you vaguely registered what looked to be Benedict's tall frame standing in your room. You shook your head, confused by his presence and not quite trusting your own eyes, but the effort left you breathless and you coughed violently.
"It's alright, darling. You just rest," he shushed you, shrugging off his drenched coat before he came to your side.
It killed him to see you like this, pale and sweaty as shivers wracked through your tired body. He had never seen you look so ill, not even when you came down with influenza when you were ten years old, and he was trying his hardest to hold himself together.
"Have you called for a medic?" his voice came out a bit strangled as he asked your lady's maid, Rose, who had been nervously fidgeting off to the side.
"Yes, Mr Bridgerton. It's pneumonia," she said softly, her voice filled with concern. "The best we can do is keep her comfortable and give her fluids until her fever breaks."
He nodded, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to calm down. But you had drifted into fitful sleep, and your shallow, ragged breathing was only making him more worried.
Nevertheless, he had to think clearly. Anthony was away, meaning that Benedict was now entirely responsible for you. The realization steeled his nerves, so he straightened his waistcoat and released a controlled breath, ready to face whatever came his way.
"Where are the children? I trust Nurse Edwards is with them now," he said firmly.
Rose nodded. "They're asleep now, but she is there in case they need anything. They're taken care of," she reassured.
"Very well. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance to them." Then, clearing his throat, "Ring for tea, please," he instructed. "And bring me towels and a bowl of lukewarm water."
She nodded, hurrying out of the room. Benedict moved closer to your bedside, his heart twisting at the sight of you in distress. He didn't hesitate, pulling a chair close to the bed and sitting down beside you. Gently, he reached out to feel your burning forehead, but you immediately flinched, the pain evident in your eyes as they shot open.
"Too cold," you rasped. "Please don't."
He cursed under his breath, heart cracking slightly at your reaction. But he withdrew his hand immediately, settling instead for sitting on a chair next to your bed, watching you intently for any signs that your condition was worsening.
You looked awfully pale, paler than he'd ever seen you, and your lips had turned a concerning shade of purple. Though even when you were drenched in sweat and shivering, you still were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, he thought. Even now, years after you had married another man, you remained his muse. The heartbreak he experienced that summer had been an admittedly excellent source of inspiration, and his new works helped propel him forward in the art world. It had served as a distraction, proving especially useful when Ben heard the news that you were pregnant for the first time so soon after the wedding. But now he supposed that art was no longer a distraction, and had instead become his life.
Maybe it was better this way, he sometimes thought. Maybe fate had never intended for him to be with you, though he couldn't fathom why the universe seemed so cruel. But the conclusion that he most often came to is that this was some sort of punishment. And he supposed he rather deserved it. He had continuously run away from the person he loved most, his best friend, the love of his life, time and again while you had only waited patiently for him to love you back.
Looking down at you now, he still felt the need to take care of you. The instinct would never go away. But it was a shame that the only reason he was allowed to do it now was because your husband had asked him to.
Your lady's maid cleared her throat, standing at the doorway with the items Benedict had requested. He waved her in and had her place the tea on your bedside table, but he took hold of the towels himself and dipped one of them in the bowl of water.
"How long have you been here?" Ben asked Rose, taking in her exhausted appearance.
"Since midmorning, Mr Bridgerton," she responded, stifling a yawn. "But I'm happy to do it. Lady Bridgerton seems to need it, too."
"Well, I think you ought to go to bed now, Rose," he responded, gently placing the damp towel on your forehead. You let out a soft sigh of relief, and the tightness in Benedict's heart loosened the tiniest bit.
Hearing his words, Rose could have collapsed right then and there. "Thank you, Mr Bridgerton. Please call for one of the servants if you need anything," she said gratefully. And then, before he could change his mind, she hurried out of your bedroom.
The towel had seemed to rouse you from your sleep, and you sat up weakly so you could take in your surroundings.
You opened your eyes, happy to find Benedict still in your room. "Hello, there," you croaked, but he shushed you, immediately holding a teacup to your lips. You took a hesitant sip, but the warm liquid ran down your throat so soothingly that you grasped the cup with your own hands and drank the entire thing.
Ben laughed softly, delicately taking the teacup from you so as not to touch you, not having forgotten your earlier protests when he placed a hand on your forehead.
"How long have you been here?" you asked Benedict, a particularly strong shiver making your teeth chatter. Noting his look of concern, you rushed to reassure him, "I'm fine, Ben. Promise." However, you didn't know how convincing you had sounded, given that you started violently coughing immediately after the words left your lips.
"I can see that. You look great," teased Benedict.
"I bet," you shot back, and he was unable to keep the fond smile off his face. "I'm–" you started, but another coughing fit prevented you from continuing. He looked at you, eyes overflowing with worry, and exchanged the towel on your forehead for a fresh one, hoping it would provide at least some relief.
Once your coughing fit subsided, you were overtaken by a wave of exhaustion. Sliding back down into bed, you turned to Benedict. "I think I need to sleep if that's alright," you said softly, eyes already drooping shut.
"Mmm, I think so, too," he agreed.
You reached out and grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers with his and bringing your joined hands to your chest. "Please stay, Ben," you said, eyes already closed.
His heart nearly skipped a beat, having completely forgotten just how right your hand felt in his. "Always," he murmured, reaching over to kiss you on the forehead. Benedict settled into the chair beside your bed, carefully watching you to make sure your breathing remained even.
An hour later, a particularly intense shiver ran through you and you woke up to find that you were still clutching Benedict's hand. He was staring at you intently, and you felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness for him. Even though you had married Anthony, he was still here by your side, ensuring that you were safe. Even though you probably looked about two minutes away from death, and even though he probably had much more interesting things to do, he was here.
"I'm sorry, you know," you whispered, not quite sure you wanted him to hear but needing to say it anyway.
His brow furrowed, not quite sure why you were apologizing. "It's quite alright."
"No, I am. I'm so sorry," you said, barely registering the tears running down your face and mixing with your sweat.
Ben wiped away your tears with one hand, the other still holding yours. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he whispered.
You shook your head and the towel fell from your forehead once again, which he immediately replaced with a new one. "I don't regret marrying him, but I regret hurting you," you choked back a sob. "It was cowardly of me, and I'm sorry."
Benedict was at a loss, your confession bringing his complicated feelings to the surface. But before he could find the right words, you had fallen asleep once again, eyes closed peacefully and your breathing even. He sat back in shock, attempting to process the meaning behind your words while still being careful not to move his hand too much so you could sleep peacefully.
Benedict sat there for what felt like hours, his mind in a whirlwind of emotions. Guilt weighed heavily on his heart as he watched you sleep, your hand still clasped in his. Surely you were at least a little delirious, he reasoned. How could you apologize for something he had caused?
Hours later, the morning sun filtered through your curtains and you stirred awake. You blinked your eyes open, a bit disoriented as you took in your surroundings. You glanced down, seeing Ben sitting in a chair next to your bed, fast asleep in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable position. Your hand was still clasped in Benedict's, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand. You felt a pang of guilt at the sight and cringed slightly as you remembered your tearful apology the previous night.
Sensing that you were awake, Benedict stirred, half opening his eyes to make sure you were alright. Wincing as his neck cracked, he sat up and asked groggily, "How're you feeling this morning, darling?"
"Much better, actually," you responded.
A sudden wave of panic washed over you. "Who's with the children?"
"Don't worry! They're alright. Nurse Edwards is with them," he assured you. "Perhaps it's for the best; they might get to engage with some books actually meant for children." He kept his tone light and teasing, not entirely sure if you remembered your apology and not wanting to open up the conversation if you didn't.
"Oh, thank you," you sighed in relief, relaxing against your pillows once again. Then, swatting his arm, you scolded, "And they enjoy the literature, mind you!"
"I suppose you are feeling better if you had the strength to hit me," he remarked amusedly.
You rolled your eyes. "I could have hit you last night. Easily." But your expression turned sincere. "Thank you for coming. I didn't mean to be a burden; I know you're working on a new piece."
"It's nothing," he waved his hand. "You could never be a burden."
You cleared your throat awkwardly, suddenly looking anywhere but at him. "And I meant what I said last night. It was ill-timed, I know, but I am truly sorry."
"Nonsense," he shook his head. "There is nothing to apologize for. I didn't treat you the way I should have and I was the one who hurt you. I'm just glad I can still have you as a best friend."
You smiled at him, pulling him into a hug. "We seem to be quite good at that, don't you think? Being best friends."
"Oh, the best," he smiled at you, adoration clear in his eyes.