Violet and Benedict: The Mother and Her Mirror (x)
Benedict and Anthony: Who Parents The Parents? (x)
Francesca and Benedict: On Queer Joy (x)
- parallels:
Benophie as the Sun and the Moon (x)
Sophie and Benedict to Orpheus and Eurydice (x)
Sophie and Brienne of Tarth: On Heroes, Fairy Tales, Virtue and Honour (x)
- to literary works:
Benedict and Sophie to John Keats' Poems (1) (2)
deepdives & other stuff
An Examination of Benedict's Costume Evolution in Tandem With His Evolving Role in The Family (x)
Femininity and the Trans Allegory in Sophie's Story (x)
fics (longfics go on ao3)
- aus/multi-part chaps
Childhood Sweethearts AU- Or Benedict and Sophie meet as kids! Can be read in any order. Tagged #kid benophie au (while you're at it, you should check out @nallhir's beautiful artworks of Benedict and Sophie as kids, which uh.. suffice to say, sent me down this rabbit hole in the first place XD: Benophie with kites; Meeting as kids; Sophie's childhood)
- sophie povs.. or a look into sophie's perspective. canon and pre/post-canon fics:
Sophie tells her friends the news of her engagement (x)
The breakfast scene from Sophie's pov (x)
Sophie takes care of Posy when their father doesn't. (x)
- miscellaneous stuff
Benedict offers Fran some comfort as she prepares to leave for Bath (x)
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Love your work! Prompt (if this is your jam): Sophie being touchy feely during the engagement or marriage. Benedict is flustered as Sophie previously very guarded with her feelings🤣.
thank you so much! i love engagement-era benophie.
to everyone reading this: you may find my prompt submission guidelines here, and send me a prompt for a drabble here.
content warning: this drabble is suggestive, but not explicit.
The war commenced just before dinner, though Benedict did not know it at the time. It seemed accidental — innocent, even — when Sophie brushed up against his backside, passing him on her way to the dining table.
A sly touch of a palm to his bum, and Benedict straightened up in an instant, as though pulled up by marionette strings, much to the annoyance of Anthony and the confusion of Colin, who were seated on either side of him at this, the final dinner before the wedding.
The wedding.
It was Sophie — Sophie always, Sophie alone — who could draw such an exaggerated response out of this reformed rake, but it was the wait — the long months of abstinence while they were engaged, but not yet wed, as Benedict was nothing if not determined to respect any and all of Sophie's wishes — that transformed him from feverish for Sophie to downright feral. A mere touch and he was ready to whimper. That was his torture to bear, and only for one more night; no need to bother Sophie with the problem of relieving his seemingly unquenchable lust.
Then, during dinner, as Benedict's mother and endless gaggle of siblings each raised a toast to congratulate the couple, Sophie (who sat opposite him) kicked her up foot and delicately dragged down her dainty slipper — of silk, not glass — from the underside of his knees down to his ankle.
Benedict choked on a gulp of wine.
"Are you well, brother?" Francesca, who sat to his right, asked.
"Yes, of course. Yes! Yes. Yes." Good grief. Now, not only was he sullying his fiancée with increasingly impure thoughts, his fantasies running amok, but he was making a scene before his widowed sister, who'd so graciously given him and Sophie her blessing to proceed with their nuptials even while she was still donning her funereal blacks.
Benedict turned to Sophie, an apology at the ready, only to see her laugh into her cup. Laugh!
Nothing on God's green earth nor any hypothetical worlds beyond brought Benedict more joy than the sound of Sophie's pleasure, carnal or otherwise, even if it was at his expense, especially if it was at his expense. Her laughter at the sight of his confused arousal only made him more confused, more aroused, and thus promptly more laughter, and so on and so on. Oh dear Lord, may this feedback loop never end!
Dinner wound down soon enough. More toasts were made. More toasts (of the bread variety, that is) were served. Sophie looked at anyone and anything but Benedict, even as her feet lightly passed over his shin, once in a while. Benedict looked at nothing but Sophie, even when his mother bid them goodnight with stern instruction to remain in their separate wings of My-but-soon-to-be-Our Cottage. No one could accuse Benedict of being a rule stickler, but even if he had to sacrifice his mind, his sanity, even if he could never complete a second painting, he wanted to get this wedding right. He agonized for hours in that lonesome bed, taking himself in hand, flopping back in frustration when the mere fantasy of Sophie did not remotely quell his hunger for her reality, trying to surrender to sleep and pass by these tormenting hours unconscious, failing, and then, conjuring some new enticing image of his beloved, attempting to satisfy himself again.
He had just fished his cock out of his underpants when the knock came at his door.
Sophie.
"Sophie," Benedict sighed, the sight of her in a loose white nightgown, hair undone and and falling around her shoulders, bringing both relief and further torment. "What are you —"
She shoved him backward, then shoved the door shut.
"We should not ..."
"We should not what?" Her voice was rough, her desire too strong for her to even feign at a teasing innocence, the way she'd done when she played at being the silver ingénue at the masquerade.
With an arm full of Sophie, Benedict could hardly answer you if you'd asked for his own name, but he would always try to answer her. "We should be careful ... You said ... You didn't want ..."
"Oh, I want ..." Sophie whispered. Benedict's knees buckled at the sight of those eyes, glassy with wanting, dark with hunger. "I want you. I always want you." As he helplessly drew her back to him, she began mouthing at his neck. "It's one night."
"Oh ..."
"It's one night before we're married, before you become my husband, and I your wife."
"Oh my ..."
"One night. Even if I become with child" — her hands began to roam where his hand just been, dainty fingers dipping into his undergarments — "no one would know the difference." Her warmth tucked into his embrace, her lips at his ears. "Benedict, please?"
Months of patient restraint, of the careful upholding of a sacred vow, completely undone by a single plea?
Well, Benedict was nothing if not determined to respect any and all of Sophie's wishes.
☀️ “As I wait to be sure the coast is clear, I soak up the loveliness of Lenore Dove. She spins around, head back, arms lifted to the sky. It must have been hell for her being locked up. She can‘t stand for anything to be confined. Especially wild things, which, of course, she is.”
guys ignore the background president snow hacked my procreate 🤧
(.. or Sophie's stuck in Severance. Beatrice thinks of herself as Lemony Snicket. Much to bicker about over cute lunch notes and eggs.)
Slightly NSFW ahead! Nothing too wild though.. I think.
Sophie didn't ask for notes to be written for her, but it was one of those quirks that came free with dating one Beatrice Bridgerton.
It started out simple, actually. Unassuming. Conspicuous even. Not as out-there-in-your-face as say, a mother's loving note in one's lunch would entail. Not that she had much experience with loving mothers, but she imagined they'd conjure something up for their children to sweeten their Mondays. The concept of fun-coloured scraps of paper containing a lovely little something enclosed into the folds of a greasy sandwich delighted her initially, mostly because Bea had kept it.. how to put it delicately.. rather tame.
This new.. project, so to speak, of hers had begun with otherwise humble intentions at first— Beatrice, back then, could only make French toast, so she'd pack a Tupperware of it with a scrawly handwritten note in French. Grammatically incorrect French, but it was the thought that counts. Right? Once, she'd add a little dash of hot sauce onto it and had called it "spicy bread" but it was still very much a piece of French toast.
Nevertheless, Sophie encouraged her pursuits — she'd always return home from work with a finished lunch; the Tupperware licked clean.
Happy wife. Happy life.
But really, Sophie did want to support her.
Beatrice liked the concept of heat but feared cooking with it, so it was jarring.. and quite nice to see her in the kitchen these days and wield a hot pan without screaming bloody murder. She was in fact, an excellent baker but ever since the oven broke (... after a mishap involving several birds in the house. They didn't eat any, by the way. They also didn't die, so win-win..?) she was forced to work with hot stoves — or as she dubbed it, "the devil's asshole".
It wasn't like she could only make French toast. Bea could make a ton of other dishes just as well.
She made scrambled eggs.
She made soft-boiled eggs.
She made Eggs Benedict that she called Eggs Beatrice.
She made hard-boiled eggs.
She made eggs with rice, eggs with toast, devilled eggs that she called '#my eggs' (pronounced 'hashtag my eggs', no Sophie did not question it; she knew better now), jammy eggs, omelettes and of course, sunny side-up eggs that she dubbed 'Sophie!'
All right, maybe she had favourites, but who didn't? The chefs on TV had their own favourites, didn't they? Point being, that wasn't the point.
Or maybe it was.
You see, the eggs - a simple, otherwise humble dish requiring little to no preparation kept Beatrice's aspirations and therefore, the subject of her handwritten notes grounded. Sometimes she'd leave it with a "enjoy your day, soph!" or a "love you so so sooo much" with a sticker of a kawaii egg playing a musical instrument. Whimsical. Silly. Tame. Most importantly, not unsettling.
Worthy to underscore the fact that Beatrice Bridgerton, at some point not too long ago, was.. actually well, normal.
It wasn't until Sophie had bought a cookbook (it was on sale and she wasn't about to pass on a good deal especially when books did not come cheap) among other books that things had gone very, very wrong. In fact, Sophie could pinpoint the very second Bea, and therefore the kitchen and the rest of the house, began their respective descents into a downward spiral.
The lunches had become more elaborate. Shrimp risotto, decadent ravioli, ribbons of creamed fettucini, even tiny swirls of tortellini hid a sordid secret. The cookbook was perfect for egg lovers (or "ovarians" as Beatrice called herself) looking to make a transition into professional cooking. Homemade pastas employed lots of eggs too, and Sophie was relieved she could find a nice happy middle where she could expect new lunches everyday and not to have Beatrice give up her eggs as a result.
Poor choice of words, but still.
Going from cooking with eggs exclusively to cooking elaborate bouquets of pastas was a feat in of itself, something that seldom happened overnight. Sophie was impressed. Everyday there'd be a new pasta shape for her to try, a new mystery flavour for her to deduce and a delightful dessert to go with it — a square of chocolate, cream-covered strawberries, cubes of artisanal cheeses, a mini bottle of sweet champagne; everyday an endless surprise. Indeed, the cookbook did manage to make a mess out of their lives - arming her silly girlfriend with even sillier weapons from the silliest of arsenals but Sophie did not grow weary of the pasta lunches as she did with the eggs (Beatrice must've taken some sort of a personal oath; to prepare meals in a way that her tastebuds would never grow bored).
Sophie loved it, in fact. She loved the improvement.
That wasn't the worst part.
The notes were.
They went from being as short and curt as the size of her thumb to being as large as a full-blown handwritten letter that went on for two pages. Fucking stapled! And it wasn't a one-and-done thing, oh no, no. It progressively grew worse. They went from being a colourful Post-It to coffee-stained, parchement-shaped, like that of a terminally ill Victorian lady's scandalous writings authored to her "dearest friend". It would seem they became decadent and comprehensive in tandem with her lunches. Long gone were the days of simple squares of French toast with a heart-shaped piece of paper containing an even simpler message.
Last Tuesday, Sophie found a folded note with words covering every inch of it; a note about the size of a letterhead. That following Friday, she'd opened her lunch to find a five page note carefully packed into an envelope. The subsequent Monday, those five pages turned to ten.
Today, she held fifteen sheets of paper. (Sophie should've suspected something when Beatrice handed her her usual little baggie with her packed lunch and her mysterious folder that she'd asked her to open "much, much, much later" with a sly wink. That wink was unhelpful at best and deliberately misleading at worst.)
My darling, my sweetheart, my Sophie — oh what a delight it is to call you mine!
It is truly a shame that you are to toil away in the cavernous dungeons of your superiors. If I could burn every single one of them down, I will but you will hate me for it, but I can live with you hating me. I can tolerate your wrath, for I should be grateful to receive anything from you, as a matter of fact. Be it your love, your hate or even your mild loathing that I adore so much, I do not see the difference. Instead I see you make a delivery of who you are to me. You offer me your sincerity, your anger, your indifference and yet I have nothing to give you back. I shall give myself naked to your whims, hoping my vulnerability will suffice even though I know it will not.
On the menu today is a classic spaghetti dish with decadent tomato sauce. Homemade. A generous portion of cheese to go along with it — though I'm not exactly sure what it is though, I think you might have to give it the old sniff test but I'm.. at least forty eight percent sure it is mozzarella. It could also be cheddar, but you're always better at this than I can ever be, love. I chose this dish because it is a simple, unassuming plate of comfort. I recall the feeling of the warm breeze in summers, spending hot nights in Berlin with my stupid friends, the emptiness in my stomach the day after - this craving for a warm, hearty meal. I invoke the feeling of reassurance, one of solace and hope, one of your laughter the morning after, the softness of your skin, the gentleness in your sighs of pleasure.
Let me love you. Let me bring you pleasure abed, but let me bring you pleasure through nourishment just as well. I remember the feeling of you gazing through the window, this vacant, yet thoughtful stare you bore that inspired me to make this for you. I wanted to capture the essence of what it is like to be you — and I know I will never get it right in this lifetime. I'll never understand you but maybe as our months together turn into years and years into centuries and centuries into countless lifetimes, I hope you will show yourself to me. But I do not expect it — nor do I wish to hasten it. There is no Beatrice without Sophie; you, whose context I reside in.
Once at a friend's home, I was served some spaghetti for dinner. I hated it. It did not seem so.. understandable. It refused to be perceived. It kept getting everywhere. My mouth was as red as if I were a heron feasting on bloody carrion, and I hated it so much I never wanted to be served another bowl ever again. Now I want to make it forever, all for you. I want to know nothing but spaghetti. In a few years, they'd dig up my corpse from whatever fucking dumpster-on-fire, and they'd rip me apart because that's what these fucking doctors do - and they'd find my heart echo the same, soft sounds as the shrill crank of an old pasta machine. My heart beats for you and even if my body betrays me one day and my mind escapes me, my heart will always go to you and as long as you're somewhere in the world, I will not die.
Today's sweet treat is unfortunately not a bar of chocolate, but I hope you enjoy this little muffin I made! Well… sort of. I nicked it from Ma's house, but if she made me and if she made the muffin, then according to like laws and stuff, I made the muffin.. right?
I'm such a genius.
In fact, it is you who makes me better. You make me, me! You're all that I ever hope to have across all the lifetimes I've ever lived and..
… and it went on and on for ten more pages.
"Another one?" Alfie asked, claiming the spot next to her. Sophie gave him a solemn nod as she proceeded to stuff the giant folder into her bag. It didn't fit, naturally.
"She had it sent to me to the office."
"Like.. via the post? What?"
"You know, I've had people who've sent me flowers for Valentine's to my job in the past. Chocolates. Sometimes they'd book me a little spa day even. I mean, I'm not that likeable I.. think, but I'm not turning down a free spa day, am I? Ugh, I sound so ungrateful. Fuck! No. I mean, it is — great to receive little notes and everything, you know?"
"Of course, of course."
"But this is like, I don't know..? I mean, I'm not confused.. I'm not declining all this attention, I'm just not clining, yeah?"
"That girl loves you." Alfie said it matter-of-factly.
"Huh. Why?"
"Wh.. what the fuck.. what do you mean why?"
"I mean, we've only been seeing each other for like, a year and sure she kisses me everyday and tells me she loves me, but you know that's more of a friend-thing, I think."
"Sophie, um," Alfie set down his sandwich slowly. "What. The. Fuck?"
"Wait, hold on. Let me paint you a picture. You've been seeing this girl for a few months now, close to a year and you like her and you definitely find her.. like, amazing on all fronts, and that's great! We love the concept! It's great! Life's great. And she asks you to move in with her permanently so you do, and everything's great and she says I love you and you're like, yeah, I mean, it comes with the territory doesn't it? You love me because we're — dating now. Roommates. Besties. That sort of vibe. It's like, a casual I-love-you."
"Okay."
"Okay? Just okay?"
Alfie stood up, packed his half-eaten sandwich and walked away.
Psh.
Not that Sophie expected Alfie to understand.
But it was weird. It had to be weird, right? It was objectively, factually and at its heart, strange. It wasn't that Sophie had some attachment issues to work on, and it certainly couldn't be because she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that people liked her and went through with the effort to make it known. It seemed wrong, almost.
Work was exhausting and she was looking forward to some personal time. Back when she'd begun the job, she'd naively thought she'd have plenty of free time but it would seem late-stage capitalism had other plans for her. She made it a point to thank Bea everyday for making her homemade lunches (even if all she made were eggs), save for the.. unsettling love letters for it gave Sophie something to look forward to every day.
While the others poked at their bowls of slop, wearily scavenging through the apps for cold, uneatable food, Beatrice ensured she always had something hot and homemade to eat. Sometimes Sophie would rub a piece of pasta against her lips, as if to mentally savour the feel of Beatrice's hands against the dough, searching fruitlessly for her kisses in corporate hell. She was always so giddy when she thought of Beatrice's hands — her sculpted arms, the way she kneaded dough and leaned against the counter, watching the morning sun. Pity she would never find her cooking shirtless, no Bea was strict when it came to food — and strangely the strictest when it came to Sophie's food.
That night, Sophie sat with her book she'd bought six months ago and opened it to its first page. Beatrice however was determined to never let her begin, as she kept planting soft kisses to the sides of her legs.
"We need to go to bed," Sophie said, closing the book on the third page. To be fair, it was a dull book and it sent her right to sleep.
"Oh, is that so?" Beatrice mused in between kisses. "Someone's a little forward today."
"No, I mean, it is just an exhausting day."
"Mhm?" she left a trail of kisses from her knees to her thigh and began working at her underwear. Sophie clenched her legs at the gesture, effectively trapping Bea right where she'd like to be. It wasn't that she didn't want it, rather it felt new each and every time.
"Yeah, um," Sophie tried to compose herself. "They made me read a lot today. Lots of accounts to look at, quarterly reports to edit.."
"That is so sad, you must be so stressed—"
".. long-winded letters, even."
"They're so cruel," Beatrice dragged her tongue across her inner thigh, drawing gentle, deliberately teasing circles. It was awful in the sense, she'd like more but Sophie was supposed to be mad at her. Mad at how thoughtful and giving she was, positively enraged at the fact she had the audacity to pen her heart wrenching letters, adding an extra page filled with words every day. It went against everything she believed to be true.
"Bea,"
"I can stop, if you want to."
"No— I just — it isn't fair."
"What isn't?"
"Your letters."
Beatrice came up for air, cocking her head to the side.
"What letters?"
"Yours!"
"Oh, you mean the little lunch notes?"
"Little? They're fifteen pages long!"
"Eh."
"Beatrice!"
"What? I thought you liked them!"
"I do — I mean, I don't! It isn't — like — I don't know what to make of them?"
"I love you," she said. "That is what you should make of them."
"I should?" Sophie raised an eyebrow.
Beatrice crept her fingers around the sides of her hips, drawing her underwear down with her teeth. The action alone tore a desperate groan from Sophie's lips, which only encouraged Beatrice to take her time. Jesus fucking Christ. First the letters, now this? She craved a quick mercy, but she should've known there was nothing so quick about Beatrice. She liked her words long and elaborate as much as she liked being sickeningly gentle with her, to the point of making Sophie tremble with her unsatisfied hunger. God she was good. God she was fucking frustrating.
"Fuuck." she begged, borderline feverish, holding onto a fistful of sheets.
Beatrice stopped, just before she could relieve Sophie of her stress.
"Yes, you should," she cooed.
"I don't.. this is awful."
"I know,"
"I don't like your stupid letters. I don't.. I don't like any of this. I don't.. fuck!"
"You don't fuck? Oh that's such a shame, Sophie but I won't hold it against you. There's plenty of other activities—"
"You are fucking awful." she managed, her body shaking uncontrollably. She squeezed her thighs, feeling a growing dampness that required an immediate salve now. Sophie left her grip on the blankets, grabbed ahold of Bea's hair instead and guided her between her legs. Her desperation coaxed a laugh out of her. Maybe, just maybe she'd oblige just this fucking once.
Beatrice parted her lips to kiss her deeply. Sophie exhaled.
"Oh this is good?"
"I.. I'm.."
Another laugh. Sophie felt it course through her spine. Hell, she could melt into a puddle of nothingness right there on the bed.
"Just enjoy it, okay?"
And she did.
It was two in the morning when they were finally ready to sleep; Sophie resting against Beatrice's arm, Bea managing lazy kisses wherever she could find a snatch of Sophie's skin. It didn't matter — the world, the stupid job. Nothing mattered more to her than what she had now, and what she had, Sophie wouldn't trade a single moment of it for something else. They'd offered her a promotion at work the other day — more pay but more hours, but she'd declined it without a second thought.
"But why?"
"Huh?"
"Why did you find it awful?"
It took a moment for Sophie to make sense of Beatrice's words. Whatever this afterglow was, it definitely messed with her head a little.
"No! I — I love them. I just.. I don't know. I've been.. I'm not used to all of this, and I've looked up what lovebombing is and.."
"You— you think I'm lovebombing you?" she asked, in the softest, most tearful voice that made it even worse.
"No! I'm — I just want to know if you like me or if you like, like me."
A deafening silence followed.
"Sometimes it is hard to tell, all right!" Sophie expressed. "Like people can be — people. I don't know what I'm talking about but you know what I mean, right? I'm not crazy! I'm actually not. This is a very reasonable opinion to have."
Another deafening silence followed.
"I do like you." she said, softly, turning to face her. "I love you everyday. I love you here. I love you on made-up days, in made-up places and in made-up worlds. I love you, I cannot possibly contain it in myself and that is why you'll find your lunch always filled to the brim, to the point of bursting. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you asked. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you didn't ask. Even if you believe this is me lovebombing you, feigning commitment, I'll never ask of you to change what you think about me because I love you."
Sophie blinked. Beatrice tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
".. but as a casual little shindig, right?"
Beatrice plunged her lips to her neck, kissing and biting it as much as she could.
"Okay! Fine! I'm sorry!" Sophie captured her lips with hers, distracting her from leaving her with many a hickeys that she'd have to wear it to work the next day.
"Good," came a satisfied hum. "I wouldn't want you believing in the otherwise."
Sophie nestled her head against her chest, tracing the path of her collarbones all the way to the veins on her neck, the soft laugh-lines across her eyes, the feel of her lips.
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You know, the more I think about it. Considering how much of a panic Benedict is in at the end of episode 7…it frankly wouldn’t surprise me if he was so panicked he legit ran on foot to the docks. Like didn’t even wait for his horse, he oriented himself and just booked it as fast as he could
always. continuously. with increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope.
i will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends.
i will love you if you cut your hair and i will love you if you cut the hair of others.
i will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer.
i will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl.
i will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence, and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.
i will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. i will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.
i will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. i will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how i discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as i discover this, and no matter how i am discovered after what happens to me as i am discovering this.
that, beatrice, is how i will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.
— lemony snicket to beatrice baudelaire, the beatrice letters, 2006
(from left to right -> leslie and jess from bridge to terabithia; matilda wormwood from matilda; chihiro ogino from spirited away; ylfa snorgelsson from dimension 20: neverafter; coraline jones from coraline; mahito maki from the boy and the heron; anne shirley-cuthbert from anne of green gables; arya stark from game of thrones)
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(... or Sophie bails Benedict out of a particularly difficult Latin lesson.)
"Can Benedict come out to play?"
Sophie's question was received with surprise. The steward had to look down at her, and he did so contemptuously as if she wasn't important; the kind of look her stepmother gave her often. It was true, she was a tad short, but taller than either Rosamund or Posy, so it made it difficult for grown-ups to look at her without making her feel dismissed, but there was a distinction between curiosity and humiliation.
Humiliation, or the act of causing shame as she'd learned from a big book of words. Sophie liked using big words and thinking of big words to use. It made her feel better about her place in the household. Rosamund was the pretty one who had lots of pretty gowns, Posy was the baby who talked exclusively in babbles and twaddles and Sophie liked using pretty words that often took her stepmother by surprise.
She was also really good at making not a noise and being as still as a hummingbird. Maybe she was not as pretty as Rosamund or as small as Posy, but she was silent and that mattered the most to her.
"He is presently occupied with his lessons."
"Well, when can he come out?"
"Not for long, but you are welcome to wait in the parlour room with your.. chaperone..?" The steward searched far and wide. "What's your name?"
"No one. Goodbye."
Sophie walked away feeling particularly agitated. Who took lessons on a Sunday? Most importantly, who was stupid enough to deliver lessons on a Sunday, tormenting little boys and girls with complicated Latin conjugations? She'd hoped to walk the length of Grosvenor Square with Benedict, spend the afternoon eating only cake and visit the marble fountain in the centre of the square. Sophie had planned to visit Cheapside as well, but it was quite the long walk and she was hesitant to venture too far away. Irma would grow heartsick if she wasn't back home by four and surely her stepmother would use this information to lock Sophie in the house forever. It was a big thing to be even let out of the house, much less to a different house without a chaperone. Sophie had seen young ladies much, much older than her — twelve and thirteen and fourteen and such — walk with their lady's maids in tow. She never had to do that, for she never had a lady's maid of her own. She could slip in and out of the house as long as she returned home to no one's notice.
Stupid. Everything's stupid, she thought, kicking a rock in her way. Benedict must be feeling the same way too. Sundays were for merry-making and wasting as much time as possible. No doubt he must be quite eager to get out of the lessons too if he got to know she was waiting for him. Benedict always made time for her no matter what. He'd even managed to sneak out of someone's wake to run back home to play with her. He later told her that he'd earned an earful from his father for disobeying and was made to stand for a whole six hours as punishment, but it was "worth the hour with you" he'd said. Standing wasn't so bad, Sophie had thought then, for Araminta did much worse, so it indeed was a very good thing she was small and fast. If no one could catch a hold of her, no one could draw up a punishment for her.
Bridgerton House was.. tall and magnificent. But mostly very tall. She listened closely to the sounds of the birds settling in the treetops, the hum of the buzzing bees, the clattering of pots and pans inside the house and among all that cacophony, or a discordant mixture of sounds, she heard a faint voice reciting a verse. Undoubtedly it could only be Benedict, and his study must be somewhere in the second floor with the window facing the street. If Sophie knew him at all, he surely must've contemplated jumping out twice already, out of frustration and anger at the endless lesson.
An idea sprang up in little Sophie's head.
Oh, it was tempting and it would surely land her in inordinate amounts of trouble but she did not mind. Araminta chastised her all the time with words Sophie had to search the meanings of. There was nothing that could hurt her even more, she thought. There was nothing in the world that was as painful as a mother's disappointment and she'd learned all of it enough to grow immune to all kinds of pain. Perhaps her real mother would've liked her better because she was born of the same flesh as her, but those were mere fantasies. Sophie doubted all of it just the same. Anyway, it didn't matter. Irma used to tell her she ought to be "as calm as the coursing river, as still as the ocean's deep, as strong as a waterfall" in the face of danger, and Araminta was as dangerous as a foul beast from the stories. So she'd learned to bear the pain, but every once in a while she'd find in herself a deep, unsettling urge to weep.
Sophie gathered up all the rocks she could find and stuffed them in her pocket. It weighed her down considerably, and the dress was no good either. The fabric was made of some flimsy, cheap material and did little to keep her warm, much less hold anything of value. But she bundled everything up and it seemed to hold onto her just fine. All she ought to do was to watch her step and climb very slow, so as to not fall and break her neck.
Sophie selected a tree that seemed tall enough to reach the windows. She gathered up her skirts and placed one foot after the other in slow successive steps. It was not a hard tree to climb — thick as a wall with lots of burrows and nests lodged in the bark to support herself, the branches were firm to hold onto and in a fit of excitement at her plan coming to fruition, Sophie climbed as fast as she possibly could to reach the top. "One day, you'll climb till the skies but you'll fall and fall and fall, you'd have wished you'd paid heed to my words, Sophie." Irma had warned, but Sophie gave it none of her precious attention. Irma didn't know any better for she was so old and weary. What did she know about climbing trees anyway?
Maybe she'd meant meta.. meta..ph.. metapho.. Maybe she'd meant it not-literally. Sophie thought.
Anyway, it was all stupid anyway. she trusted herself more than anything else in the whole wide world. No way would she let anything get in the way of who she was. I'm as calm as the coursing river, as still as the ocean's deep, as strong as a waterfall and I can climb all the trees!
Sophie reached the branch extending towards the window and spotted Benedict sitting in front of a desk with a thick book open in front of him. The tutor had his back to the window, more absorbed in the lesson than his student ever was. They seemed to be working on some Latin that afternoon and Benedict was fruitlessly reciting — and getting all the conjugations wrong. Each incorrect answer earned him a hard thwack of a wooden ruler against his knuckles. It must've been going for hours on end, for his hands were as red as an apple. Poor him! So what if Latin wasn't his best subject? There were plenty of other things he was good at. Like art. He was the greatest artist there ever was. The Bridgertons should be proud that at least one of them could paint. Where would the world be if there were no artists, no one to paint memories of? Suddenly Sophie grew very angry on behalf of her dearest and most true friend.
Meanwhile Benedict suffered yet another blow to his knuckles upon responding with an incorrect answer. He let out a little cry, massaging his right hand. The tutor had no patience for his recovery and kept rapping the ruler against the desk as noisily as possible, somehow forcing the correct answer out of his lips.
Sophie grew horrified with each passing minute. She was never given lessons herself; a governess came everyday for Rosamund and Posy, and she was not allowed to sit with them, but she'd assumed governesses would be more gentle compared to tutors. After all, her sisters seldom left a lesson weeping tears of pain, so the lesson was always to their liking. But there was a difference there too. Girls didn't learn the same things as boys did, Sophie observed. Girls were taught from books of manners and etiquette, told stories and fables and old wives' tales, whereas boys were given a more useful education in sums, languages and history. Now what is so different between girls and boys? Sophie had wanted to ask, but knowing Irma, she'd never give her a straight answer.
Anyway, it was all stupid. Books should be fun. Tutors were simply heartless, mercurial rogues for punishing their students. It was all wrong. Once, Araminta had punished Posy for crying too much that she'd locked her in her room so "she can cry to her heart's content". If Sophie didn't free her sister in time, goodness knows what would've happened to her. It had always been up to her to offer her sisters relief whenever their mother grew weary and bored of them. The tutor must also think the same way, she assumed. He didn't want to correct Benedict or teach him anything useful, no. He wanted to be needlessly cruel because everyone deemed it proper. He was cruel because people around them were all cruel. He kept a ruler in his hand the way nannies of the house kept a riding crop in their hand to use it on children and animals alike. She couldn't bear it. Sophie's heart was indeed, "very little" as her father, Richard had deemed it so, but she could not bear the thought of so much unkindness in the world. Her heart felt for herself, her sisters and had enough room in it to feel for Benedict as well.
Sophie knew she had to act quick. She found a comfortable spot to sit and clutched a shiny rock. Benedict would love this rock.
She waited for the perfect opportunity. The tutor turned his head away in contemplation as Benedict was given a writing task to work on in silence. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the spot behind the tutor's head, at an ugly-looking urn of flowers and hurled the rock as fast as possible at it.
The rock shattered through the glass window, whistled through the air to nearly hit the back of the tutor's head before shattering — not the urn — rather a more expensive vase next to it. The vase collapsed upon contact, breaking into a thousand unfixable pieces.
Everyone's reaction was immediate. Sophie hid herself among the leaves, watching the tutor nearly fell out of his chair. Benedict did not share his tutor's shock, instead had a horrified expression on his face as he went to inspect the damage.
"Christ! Christ! The Devil is here!" the tutor screamed. "Boy! Is it your doing?"
"No!"
"Well, whose was it?"
"I don't know! I am just as clueless as you are! It came from the window!"
The tutor rushed over to the window, but luckily Sophie was well camouflaged she had nothing to do but relish in the tutor's terror. He ran a hand over the broken window, fully shaking at the thought of some mysterious force for supposedly bringing "death and destruction" with them. He mumbled a small prayer under his breath, before ushering Benedict back to his seat.
"Was it a rock?"
"Must have been a bird." Benedict presented the stone as if it were as dangerous as a butcher's knife.
"Birds do not drop rocks, boy."
"Some clever birds do."
"Enough of that. Let us resume our lessons. Tis only a distraction. The devil's distraction, as they say, for he brings ignorance to places of worship and education."
"What will you tell my father, though? He would be very cross if he hears all of this had occurred under your supervision."
"Do not be so precocious. He will be wise not to distrust me."
"But what if he does?"
"All right! Enough!"
"May I keep this?"
"Back to our lessons!" the tutor admonished. He grabbed the shiny rock away from Benedict and tossed it across the room in a fit of anger and fear.
Not to worry. I have plenty more.
Sophie tossed another one through the window. This time, it sailed right past the tutor's head and landed softly between the pages of Benedict's Latin book. It pulled a horrified scream from the tutor's lips as he fell out of his chair. Meanwhile Benedict seemed to be more interested in the rock than the damage it brought with it. He pocketed it, suppressing a smile on his face as he helped his tutor regain his footing.
"Your doing!" he said, accusingly. "The Lord has punished you by taking away your proclivity for Latin and has instead planted the seed of the Devil in your mind! Your doing! All yours!"
"I'm only eight!"
"I swear, if it happens again, you will —"
Thump!
Sophie giggled watching the chaos unfold in the room. The tutor screamed so loud, it had a cavalry of maids arrive to attend to the poor fellow and another cavalry of them to attend to the broken pieces of furniture. Some collected the pieces of urn, while others helped soothe the poor man.
"Gin! We will need gin!" one of them said, hauling the man up to a sitting position. "And some smelling salts! This man is positively horror-struck! Bedevilled! Possessed! Someone have my husband pass on a word to Lord Bridgerton's valet over these happenings!"
"Mrs Crabtree, I can bring the gin!"
"You sit down, boy. You have done enough." The woman, Mrs Crabtree warned him sharply. "And someone draw the bloody curtains! Goodness, are you safe?"
"I am!" he beamed.
"This.. this was no doing of yours, was it?"
"No! Why does everyone think that?"
"Because your past mischief has not gone unnoticed."
"But it wasn't me! I promise! How could I have planned this?"
"I do not know."
"See? It wasn't me! I was busy being flogged by that stupid rat bastard of a —"
"Benedict Bridgerton!"
Sophie laughed a little too loudly. Thankfully no one paid heed to it, given all the commotion in the room.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Crabtree. But really, it wasn't my doing at all. I thought it was a bird! It could be a bird! One time, there was a pigeon that flew in right through the window and stole off some bread, but it wasn't my doing then, wasn't it? I'd never asked for the pigeon to steal my bread, just as I'd never asked for a rock to be thrown at—"
"All right, enough, enough. As long as you are not hurt and you did not —"
"Can I please be excused?"
Mrs Crabtree took a deep breath.
"Go away where your father can't catch you."
Sophie watched as he bolted out of the room in some great rush. Did he know it was her? No he must not. If he was any bit reasonable, he would be heading off to his father's study to explain the paranormal happenings and take shelter once the danger had passed.
Sophie consumed herself in his thoughts that she did not realise these "paranormal" happenings weren't the doings of a ghost, rather her! Dear God, what had she done? She'd broken the Bridgertons' window! She'd broken their priceless vase and had scared the poor teacher off to an early grave! She would be in trouble, no doubt! The groundskeeper would catch a hold of her and she'd be brought before Lord Bridgerton and certainly reprimanded. God! What would they all think of her? Some stupid, witless girl. Strange. Wild. And a bastard at that too. She did not know what the word stood for, but it was clearly something horrible-meaning.
I'll stay in this tree forever, she decided. I'll never come out. They will have to torture me to get me to admit to my wrongdoings. And besides, it was no wrongdoing! The tutor was cruel and wicked and he beat Benedict bloody! No one should get away with beating Benedict, much less get away with hurling cruel things at him.
"You can come out now! It is safe!"
Silence.
Benedict called out again. "I know it's you!"
"No you don't!" she retorted and immediately regretted it.
Hell!
Sophie feigned guilt as she climbed down the tree. Benedict laughed and laughed, clutching his stomach, at her revealing herself. Sophie did not think it was that funny. Or maybe it was a little funny. She landed on the soft grass on both her feet and dusted herself off after a job well done.
"Your tutor," she said. "is stupid."
"Unfortunately."
"How did you know it was me?"
"You picked the shinier rocks." he said, massaging one of her thrown stones in his palm. "You also climb trees."
"That is silly. Anyone can climb trees." Sophie crossed her arms as if Benedict had done some grand injustice, as if she wasn't raining rocks and tumult after his poor tutor just a short while ago.
"You always pick the shiniest of rocks for me."
"I suppose I do, but it…doesn't mean anything."
Benedict tilted his head, catching her in the lie.
"Will you tell anyone about it?" she asked, close to tears.
"No, of course not! How could you say that?"
"Well — I did cause so much trouble."
"You did all of that to get me out of class. I could do a hundred nice things for you but never be able to pay you back in full."
Sophie cracked a smile. "So you don't mind?"
"I told you, didn't I? You're my favourite person. I'll never mind anything you do." Benedict hugged her tightly.
"You can pay me back by playing with me."
"You know, Sophie, you could've just — asked." Benedict snorted back a laugh. "One word to Father's steward and he'll have you waiting in the parlour with biscuits and tea and everything. You don't have to climb a tree for that!"
"Didn't you say you prefer throwing rocks at people who frustrate you?"
".. and at people I care about, but Mrs Crabtree said that it was not very romantic or very nice because you could break people's heads and I don't want to break your head by throwing rocks at you, so I just… collect them now. Mrs Crabtree is very wise, Sophie. As wise as Nan!"
"Your tutor frustrated me."
"Ah, well. I'm always wrong, so I understand why he must be so upset with me."
"No you aren't! You just need a better teacher! Someone kinder! I can teach you Latin!"
Whatever light that had previously left Benedict's eyes returned. His eyes grew wide with surprise, as if he hadn't once considered the possibility of someone other than an older, scarier tutor teaching him.
"You can?"
Sophie nodded. "I learned it myself! Well, I don't know the whole lot of it but I do know the conjugations and that is all you need! Besides, you don't need Latin, not unless you want to be a man of the clergy."
"Ew-ugh." he replied. "I don't want to wake up at the crack of dawn on Sundays…but I'll learn Latin from you if you're teaching it."
"Second sons always become priests, you know?"
"I'll be wearing those ugly collars!" he expressed, struck with horror.
"Mhm!"
Benedict groaned. "What if I were to die now and be reborn as a fourth son?"
"That is not how it works."
"Why not?"
"Because when we die, we go into the soil. We aren't reborn as other people."
"That's stupid. Mrs Crabtree says I could've been a bumblebee in my past life."
Sophie eyed him curiously. "I believe that. But.. even if you do not end up being a bumblebee, you could help plants grow 'cos of the soil and everything. All of us decompose one way or another."
"What's decompose?"
"You know when you leave an egg out in the open for long and it starts growing all mushy and strange? It means, to rot."
"I'm not a rotten egg!" Benedict protested. "Am I?"
"No! Of course not! It'll take years and years for that to happen. While we just throw rotten eggs away into the fire, probably, you'll help plants like I said! Wouldn't it feel good to grow a garden?"
"I guess. I've always wanted a garden," he said. "I've always wanted a house. A lake. A dog. But best of all, I've always wanted a garden but they always wither away in the winter. I hate that. But we've got Mrs Crabtree now and she's really good at tending to plants. I wish I could take her with me forever. I wish she were my mother 'cos she knows so much about gardens and plants and rocks and everything. It feels good to know death isn't all that. Anthony always scares me because he says ghosts come and go at night and we'll all be ghosts too. I don't want that."
Sophie nodded.
He continued. "Then maybe I can help a tree grow just so you can climb more of them."
"But whose window will I throw rocks at, then?"
"My brother," he answered. "He annoys me. I don't want to kill him, just.. frighten him a little. Could you do that again? Throw rocks at him while he's sleeping?"
"You throw your own rocks!" she replied aghast, eliciting a laugh out of him. "But if we ought to throw more, we'll need more of them. Do you want to go to the lake and collect some?"
I’m in absolute adoration of your Sophie. Would it be possible to get a scene with her and Alfie?
You have full control of when. But I also would selfishly love to see how Alfie reacted when Sophie asked him to walk her down the aisle.
Looking forward to seeing what you come up with. 🩵🩵🩵🩵
Thank you so much for this prompt! Hope I did it justice!
(... or Sophie asks Alfie to escort her down the aisle. Told through Alfie's pov.)
"You must escort me down the aisle."
"I know you despise all that is conventional as much as your husband—"
"My would-be husband, do not be so hasty now."
"— but do you not wish to make your own way?" he suggested.
Alfie did not care for what was proper. If he ever were to get married, or see someone else to their wedding, he would not recommend what society deemed significant and therefore mandatory. Customs disinterested him greatly and he had ensured his friendship with Sophie would indoctrinate her to consider leading a life directly in opposition to what was tradition.
"It has nothing to do with what is supposed to be. However, it has everything to do with you."
Sophie poured him the rest of the rice wine from the bottle. He clinked her glass with hers and took a long gulp. They sat in silence, mulling over the weight of the coming months. Sophie had a wedding to plan and attend. Alfie had to get used to his new employer. The Countess of Penwood, Cressida Gun and her husband were not by any means, new to him but they made everyday a novel, unpredictable experience.
"You should quit it." Sophie said, drunkenly. "Come live with me. As a matter of fact, I should ask Irma and — and — Hazel and Celia and — John and Mary whom I talked to for only a little while but she's an excellent conversation partner and we ought to have Rumsey! We can't," — she hiccuped — "carry on without Rumsey!"
"That is quite the tempting offer, Sophie, but I cannot abandon my post. Besides, you'll be married soon! It would be strange to house all your friends in the same way as your husband."
"Eh, well, he agrees to everything."
"Benedict Bridgerton being agreeable? That's as rare as a blue moon!"
Sophie shrugged. "Mayhaps."
"You're being silly."
"And you are not being very agreeable."
Alfie filled her glass from a pitcher of water, and thankfully it had gone unnoticed. She took a big swig nonetheless.
Usually, there'd be some sort of party for the engaged couple. Alfie had served at some of these parties before; the dowager Lady Penwood had hosted a few of such soirees in the past on behalf of her own friends and family but Sophie did not hunger for one herself. It was such a shame though, for all he'd wanted was to plan a party. Some party. But nothing was stronger than Sophie's reluctance. So they'd planned for a night out in the tavern and she'd agreed to it as a compromise. Still, she could've chosen better.
"But I do not jest," Sophie continued. "I do want you to escort me."
"I am no father of yours. Or a mother, if it were be."
"That does not matter."
"But wouldn't it be better if you had not a companion? Allowed to do whatever you'd like? I would want to walk down the aisle all on my own if I were you. I'd throw my own flowers if given the opportunity!"
"You're not serious!"
Of course, Alfie had meant it as a joke. Really, at the heart of the matter, he greatly misliked giving someone away. Sophie was not his to give.
Or maybe he didn't think he deserved the honour.
Alfie was no proper friend. Sophie would have proper friends now, actual people of the ton who were more than capable of filling those honourable positions by the bride's side. It was a truly unfortunate thing that Sophie had no kin left, not even a distant grandmother or an uncle. It was also a pity that Posy Li - or Posy Barnaby now - excused herself out of the duty. Did Sophie even ask anyone before she approached him? Was he the first person to be considered and thereafter, asked? No. It couldn't be.
Sophie should've — no — must've asked Lord Anthony Bridgerton first, out of respect of course! She must've also asked the new Earl of Penwood. (Even though he was always preoccupied with something or the other. Alfie had his own suspicions as to what they might be.) She ought to have asked a hundred or so titled gentlemen before she'd decided to ask him. He could not stomach the possibility of being ranked higher in importance than Lord Bridgerton himself!
"But wouldn't it be better, or wiser even, to walk down the aisle by yourself and really um, really stick it to everyone?"
"Stick it?"
"Show people that you are more than what that terrible, terrible woman has deemed you?"
"It isn't about me."
"Of course it is about you! It is your wedding!"
Sophie sighed. "I just.. I just don't want to be alone."
Alfie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"But isn't Lord Bridgerton up to the mark?"
"He may be a well-wisher, but he is not someone I would call a best friend."
It was astounding how cohesive she was especially for someone who had downed five glasses of rice wine.
"Oh, so it is exclusive to best friends?"
"Hazel shall be my maid of honour."
"Well, Hazel can do both." he scoffed.
"Do you think so little of me, that you assume I wouldn't have thought of you and your role during the wedding the instant Benedict proposed marriage?"
"No, I — I'm just trying to understand all of this."
"What is so hard to understand?"
"It is so sudden, Sophie. One day, we were lying drunk in Lady Penwood's cellar and the next thing I know, you are to be married. Back then, I had — I had assumed we'd go on like this forever. Now you've got your own changes and I've got mine, all right?"
"Nothing will change, Alfie."
"But you'll be away."
"Mayfair is only a day's travel."
"No," He shook his head.
"I can always ask Benedict to prepare a room for you, so you may stay with us."
"I cannot do that to you!"
"I insist!"
"You are drunk—"
"I'm drinking water."
Of course she'd have already noticed.
"— still!"
Sophie stared directly into his eyes, giving him that unblinking, haunting look whenever she was upset by something.
"You must be my best man."
He stayed mum.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Whatever for?"
"What do.. what do you mean, 'whatever for'?"
"I dunno. I just.. I was under the impression you'd ask someone better."
"You're the only person I'm asking."
Sophie had a remarkable talent for making things difficult for herself and he did not wish to add to the difficulty. A best man was no laggard, held importance and commanded respect at the wedding and was not only tasked with giving away the bride, but presenting her in front of a crowd. The attention would be on Sophie, no doubt, but her choices would be called into question as well. For her to select a footman of no repute to participate in her wedding would not help her case. Araminta Gun was long gone from their lives, but who's to say someone else wouldn't assume a similar role to disparage and belittle every single thing about Sophie? Benedict's love for her was nauseating, unsettlingly obsessive and yet, it would not be enough to cushion her fall should someone pick at her. Alfie did not wish to be the cause of that.
No, Sophie should have options. If not Lord Bridgerton or the Earl of Penwood, then maybe someone else? One of Benedict's other brothers? That wouldn't make sense though, for the little one, Gregory was more child than man. There was the other one, Colin or something, but he was married. (Christ almighty, how many siblings did he have exactly?) All of them were either married, far too young or engaged with something else.
Alfie thought of other potential candidates on her behalf. Benedict himself? It would be a little strange, but Benedict could walk and most importantly, he was respectable and that was all to it really. They would risk upsetting the crowd either way, but let them be upset over such novel customs instead over executing them poorly. People in general, seemed to have an aversion for different things. However they seemed to dislike deviating from the norm even more. What sort of story would they be telling? That a footman could be a best man if he so wanted to? What's next? A mule for an officiant? A horse as a clergyman?
"Is it a small wedding?"
"The smallest."
"Are you happy with it?" he asked gingerly.
"I am."
"So just.. people we know?"
"The Crabtrees, they'll love you, our friends from Bridgerton House and Penwood Park, Posy and her husband."
"And the Bridgertons would be in attendance?"
"Yes, and some of their friends. Some of Benedict's friends, actually."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Well, can you uninvite some of them?"
"Alfie!"
"I'm required to give a speech?"
"If you want to, yes."
"But why me?"
"Because you're my friend." she said. "You were my only friend for a long, long time. All I've yearned for is to feel… in place somewhere and for long I've searched for it, only to realise you've been there for me all along. I'm sorry I didn't honour it before."
"Pour me another glass and I'll forgive you."
Sophie drank the bottle's contents in response, down to the very last drop.
"Oh you useless thing," Alfie chuckled, swiping the bottle from her to catch any remaining dregs of the wine he could. Sophie uncorked another bottle next to her and poured him a full glass, but in exchange, she picked up a handful of his share of almonds from the plate and ate them all.
"Stop!"
"I am to be married!"
"You are to be married, you aren't married and therefore not worthy of special treatment."
Sophie narrowed her eyes.
"You know I can very well beat you up."
"Can you?" Alfie stole the new bottle of wine and held it high above her head. "Catch!"
"Enough!"
"Can't reach it now, can you?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake—"
"— and we're both sitting!"
"You are being a child—"
"The mere thought of you and Benedict standing side by side on the day of the wedding would have me lose my wits!"
"Shut it now!"
"Will the big one eat the small one?"
Sophie glared at him. Alfie placed the bottle on the table with a soft thump in surrender.
"I'm winning, actually."
"You yielded."
"I did win."
"A coward is no victor and he reaps his success from dumb luck."
"But can you fight, though? Genuinely?"
"Why do you ask?"
"If people are opposed to me being your best man, I suppose there will be a few.. fights that will warrant a response equal in manner and method. A tempering, even."
"If anyone opposes, they stand uninvited."
"But how can you be sure none of them will.. oh I dunno.. jump out and attack me?"
"For escorting me down the aisle?"
"For being any bride's best man, and you deserve more than any bride."
"Shush now."
"It is true."
"I've had enough of pity—"
"It is no pity!"
Sophie sighed. "I do not wish for others to dictate what I deserve."
"Then what do you deserve?"
"I want my best friend by my side. That is what I deserve."
Alfie considered her words.
"I don't hate you, Alfie. That is not how it works. I don't want you to disappear, you know that. I will never let my marriage undermine our friendship. I will set fire to the cottage to keep you warm, you know that."
"You don't mean that."
"You're right. The cottage is far too lovely. I'll set fire to Bridgerton House then."
They shared a laugh.
"It is huge for me as it is for you, Sophie."
"I understand."
"I mean.. I get to give you away! I get to be by your side! I get to.. be there! As a participant!"
"I want everyone just how important you are."
"You'd choose me over the new Earl of Penwood?"
"I do not even know him!" Sophie protested. "Though I wonder if your fixation with the Earl is actually.. not a fixation at all, rather a fascination."
"Do not pull me to your side. Not everyone can have a gentleman to themselves."
"It is remarkably easy, Alfie. Easy probably, because I had you."
She placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing slow circles with her thumb. Unfortunately there was.. truth to her statement. Alfie had given her her dress, had driven her to that masquerade ball on that fateful night, had brought her silver shoes and gloves to match. But that was it! He just fetched her things she couldn't have otherwise procured herself! That was all there was to it!
"Pity I don't have another one of me for myself."
"I hope I can be what you are to me."
"No. I don't need another one of me. I will only accept you as you are."
Sophie smiled. "There's not a world I can possibly tolerate, much less conceive without you in it."
"Hush." Alfie attempted to cover her mouth before she could continue speaking nice things about him.
"I will accept no such world—" She fought his invading arm successfully. "— anyway, be my best man, you idiot."
"Now that's not very nice."
"Be my best man." she repeated drunkenly. "Now."
Alfie crossed his legs. "What's in it for me?"
"My eternal gratitude, all the cake you can possibly eat and all the wine there's left to drink."
"A best man is usually reserved for the groom, no? What will people say?"
"Such people," she said, in an oddly threatening tone. "will have to pray for a miracle, for I swear to God they will not leave the wedding alive."
"I will do it." he gave in.
Sophie picked up the bottle and poured him a glass. She pushed her own cup in front of him and filled it to the brim with the cold rice wine.
"Now you're just getting me intoxicated to get me to admit my secrets."
"Hm? Like what?"
"Like.. I was hoping you'd ask me to be your best man all along."
"Were you, now?"
"And I was mildly offended at the mere thought of you considering someone else other than me."
"Now I want to, actually."
"No! I was only jesting!"
God, he'd give anything to go back to old times again. Stealing liquor from Araminta Gun, putting some of Rosamund's ugly hair clips on each other whilst the girls were away with their mother, conspiring to cheat at cards against the other servants of Penwood House. They'd lived a life together.
How can two people, after living so long as one bring themselves to separate back in two again? How can they even be expected to do so?
Alfie had heard of inseparable love, had seen his best friend fall into such a well herself and had attributed such a whirlwind love to romance and romance alone. Friends were merely a step on a staircase, a part of the process, a stop on the road to get to one's destination. He'd seen the people around him give friendship little regard, and had grown to believe it. It wasn't until today he understood how much he'd meant to Sophie. She might have a family to look after her — a new family, far better than her old one, a loving husband and a home all to herself, but she did not want to part with him. She'd wanted it all, but she sought out for him first.
Sophie was a lady now. A lady of the house. But she did not want to part from him. Whatever she did, she did so with a full heart. How could he ever think so little of himself? How could he ever attribute his own complicated feelings regarding his self-worth to Sophie? How could he condemn her as an antagonist? Of course, he is her best friend! Wherever Sophie was, Alfie was. How dare he believe in anything otherwise! How could he let her carry on alone, when the world could sink its claws on her anytime! He should be protecting her, not the other way around! Goodness, Alfie felt horrible. He ought to make it up to her.
"I shall be your best man."
"Good."
"… and I love you." he said. "I love our friendship. I love nothing seems to have changed."
how abt the story how benedict organized their date in the conservatory? prolly its with hatch ☺️
Thank you so much for the prompt! Here's a fic!
(... or behind-the-scenes of the conservatory date + Benophie through Hatch's eyes)
"We will need about a dozen candles."
"Will that not… risk a fire, sir?"
"A fire requires kindling. A flame, on the other hand, is harmless, no?"
Suffice to say Mr Bridgerton was in a chipper mood. So chipper in fact he happened to recite long-winded facts about fire preparations, which Hatch was absolutely certain he wouldn't have known of before. It could only mean one thing: Mr Bridgerton was in love. Or dying. Given his history, it was likely he suffered from both at the same time.
It wasn't everyday the second son of the late Viscount Bridgerton sprouted such rudimentary knowledge, and Hatch was thrilled to hear it, for it would mean he might no longer be required to offer services beyond what he was initially employed for. When he had started his position, he had assumed Mr Bridgerton would be much like his brothers in appearance and nature, sensible at the very least. As he carried on with his job, he had discovered he was sorely mistaken.
Well, it wasn't everyday one saw Mr Bridgerton in love so Hatch decided to encourage him in his efforts just this once. He figured he would ask for a raise as soon as possible. His encouragement did not come free!
God,he could not help but pity the poor girl! Mr Bridgerton had well-documented dalliances with women and some men of the ton, and Hatch in particular was not too worried, for his employer was careful in not bringing anything home with him. Unfortunately Hatch's job had grown difficult these days, now that Mr Bridgerton was very much interested in continuing his tryst with his sisters' lady's maid. Continuing, yes, for it seemed to have began quite sometime ago. Hatch had written to the Crabtrees, seeking respite and information and Mrs Crabtree was kind enough to inform him that there indeed was, "something happening" between "him" and "her". She did not wish to disclose further information, fearing for the dear girl's safety should the letter fall into the wrong hands.
Initially, Hatch did not opine anything new about Mr Bridgerton's attachment. He knew the ton would not have any favourable things to say about them, but had assumed Mr Bridgerton would have the good sense to end it.
Of course given his employer's history of being capricious, it was almost predictable! Mr Bridgerton hardly entertained a flirtation for more than a week, and spent his company solely with those who held the same priorities as he did. It was remarkable how he'd managed to find such companions to take to bed, given his drunken diatribes about feeling like an impostor. Hatch grew green with envy. Yes, wealth and popularity, but mostly wealth, inordinate amounts of it could buy one almost anything, even friendships.
In a way, he was grateful for Sophie Baek, who did not seem so taken with Mr Bridgerton's treasury. She did not seem so easily impressed. If her lack of response to his handwritten letters was any indicator of the value she had for her own person, then she must be the most righteous person Bridgerton House had ever had the privilege of hosting. Righteous, astoundingly clever and represented everything that was morally just. It felt satisfying to see Benedict Bridgerton brought to his knees, something he could not do himself. Good for her, he thought.
But he did fear for the girl. The ton would forgive a gentleman's bacchanal habits before ever forgiving an affair between a gentleman and a maid. Perhaps it would have been easier if he took her as his mistress, their sordid secret tucked away in a pocket of London, but he seemed to love her.
And oh, she seemed to love him so.
The sort of maddening, all-consuming love that could only result in marriage, no doubt about it.
Mr Bridgerton's proposed tryst in the conservatory with the intention to take Miss Baek by surprise was not the workings of a man who desired to take a mistress, rather a man who desperately yearned for his lover to agree to the possibility of marriage. No. They'd never be able to marry, but there was a real danger of them eloping. Was Mr Bridgerton proposing an elopement in his letters to her? Hatch had tried deciphering his notes — yes, it was wrong to breach the strict lines of privacy Mr Bridgerton demanded, but he never found out about it, so why worry? Anyway, the notes were unhelpful, for Benedict Bridgerton had alluded to some sort of "an answer" from her. If he wasn't proposing already, he must be asking her to elope with him! Dear God!
The candle Hatch was holding fell from his grip as he dealt with the realisation.
Then.. the girl?
Sweet Miss Baek would undoubtedly be with child.
Heavens, what was he orchestrating precisely? A magical proposal? He was no doubt aiding and abetting in their crime! With each passing moment as Hatch further indulged in his worries, the likelihood of Mr Bridgerton and Miss Baek's marriage only grew. He ought to tell someone! Anyone! He ought to put an end to this, but what if Miss Baek was with child and required sanctuary? He could put an end to their dalliance with a word to the dowager Lady Bridgerton, but the girl would be affected the most. Probably sent away, cast aside and her child left to fend for itself. The family would not claim any child born out of wedlock, even if they were kind of heart. Where would Sophie Baek go if her attachment to him came to a bitter end? There really was no easy solution to this. Damn you, damn you, Mr Bridgerton!
But he ought to tell someone! He had to stop this foolishness, but how to handle it delicately was another issue.
If Mr Bridgerton is prepared to defy society to be with her, then no one can save him, he rued. He loves her beyond reason and she seems to love him back for goodness knows what reason.
So Hatch decided to stay mum and spend the evening lighting the candles instead, per his request.
It was not his problem to fix, and he was but a humble valet in the household. What Mr Bridgerton did or who he chose to spend his time with was immaterial. Should the worst happen, he would prepare himself, collect his wages and ask for a raise — which Mr Bridgerton would undoubtedly give (he might be a bit of a dull fool, but he did not jest when it came to his monthly salary) and be on his way to seek employment elsewhere. He'd served gentlemen with dubious intentions in the past and he had no problem serving them again. Mr Bridgerton was a delightful exception in the sense he did not carry the duplicitous qualities of his peers, rather constantly seemed to find himself in ethical and moral quandaries. It was delightful and deeply hilarious, and he would miss it all if it were to end sourly.
"The candles are all lit, Mr Bridgerton."
Hatch found him in his bedchambers in Bridgerton House, as they had planned. He had retrieved more candles from Mr Bridgerton's bachelor lodgings to be brought to the conservatory, for what they had initially was "simply not enough!". He'd nearly burned himself with the hot wax trying to light them all, but had managed to survive nonetheless.
Hatch watched him gather cushions and blankets from his sofa, as much as his arms could carry.
"Do you — plan on carrying all of that from the house to the gardens, sir?"
"Why yes!"
"Would that not raise suspicion?"
"I can be quiet."
The pillows spilled out of his grasp. He leaned down to pick it up, only to drop the blankets in exchange. When he attempted to pick the blankets up, he dropped the pillows again. It was a never-ending cycle of self-inflicted misery with him.
"Perhaps I can handle those…"
"No, no, your duties are not required here." he said, dumping all of them into a trunk. "I have a far more um, important job for you. I would like you to escort Sophie from the house."
"I will not be allowed in the servants' quarters, sir."
"Oh you need not worry. There is a staircase to the left of the house that the milkmaids tend to use. Upon which, you will enter a hallway that leads into yet another staircase. It is about a short two minute climb to the second floor and you will find her bedchambers to your right. I can write the directions for you if…"
"I have committed to memory, sir. You need not worry."
"Good! Excellent! Oh, Hatch, you are simply wonderful!"
Mr Bridgerton took him by surprise by planting a firm kiss against his forehead.
"Though it does worry me a little that you have committed it to memory."
"Ah well."
He refused to elaborate further.
"What of Lady Bridgerton?"
"What of my mother?"
"Will she not.. vehemently oppose your attachment, and your um.. investment in Miss Baek's life?"
"It is what Sophie wants and whatever she wants, I shall bring to fruition." he answered simply. "The rest others will remain as they are."
Mr Bridgerton seldom lost his composure (might be the fact he never had one to begin with), but today he was as shy and giggly as a schoolboy. He had a bright smile on his face that never seemed to disappear, the red returned to his cheeks and ears after weeks of looking as pale as a ghost and that very same morning he had broken his fast on bread and butter instead of gin and more gin. He had a skip to his step, seemed awfully and almost nauseatingly pleasant to be around and kept tracing his lips in a fit of feverish anticipation, as if he could not wait to kiss his beloved again. Those were some of the more major changes.
There were other changes too — the way he seemed more devoted to his work as Viscount, retiring his hastiness for a more methodical approach, his frequent appearances in society. He carried out his duties justly, all for the approval of someone leagues below in station compared to him. It drove Hatch a little mad. He did not fancy Mr Bridgerton, but he was charismatic and wielded it generously to trap unassuming passer-by in his life to fall in love with him. He was the worst, really. Miss Baek must not only be the most steadfast in spirit, but also the strongest among all to be able to resist his wiles.
"Forgive me sir for speaking my mind, but I worry for Miss Baek. Should the worst happen and you are not.."
"The worst will not happen." he retorted.
"What is it that you hope to accomplish?"
Mr Bridgerton heaved a sigh.
"I cannot marry her. I cannot be with her, not in this lifetime. But I have despaired for too long already. I have mourned my fill, I have poured my grief, my truth and my life to her and I now exist in threadbare clothes. I will not grieve, for it is her love that I seek, not grief, and that is enough for me.
"The Crabtrees have received my word, of course, thanks to your timely delivery of my letter. They are to prepare My Cottage — or well, Our Cottage as it would be henceforth called — for our permanent stay there. I cannot marry her, but I can marry her in everything but in name. I've withdrawn myself from the marriage mart. There is no one on this earth I will promise myself to but her. Sophie is.. brilliant and wonderful and .. captivating, far more than I deserve and I shall not squander it any longer than I have already. There is no one I live for but her, and I love her so dearly I cannot even begin to express myself! I live everyday solely for the promise of her delight."
Hatch stewed in the silence for a moment.
"Sir, what of your family?"
"Yes?"
"Do you not cherish them?"
"Not everything is so definitive, Hatch. There is room in my heart for all."
"While your efforts come from a place of good intentions, you will risk upsetting your family if you were to choose Miss Baek over them." Hatch said. "Pardon me sir, but your family will not understand your abstract notions of love."
"Well, they will certainly understand my choice."
"You will risk losing them, sir."
"Then so be it."
"Is it ever worth it to risk everything you have ever known? The ton regards you as a well-to-do gentleman, and I have no doubt your reputation must precede you. I do not mean to discourage you sir, but I simply wish to use this opportunity to echo what your family, or well, people of society might opine if they were to make a discovery."
"Which is?"
"There are — wiser choices to be made."
"Isn't that always the case?" came an acidic reply. "There are always wiser choices to be made, but that does not rid them of their cowardly nature."
"I do not mean to upset you, sir."
"No, of course not, I would not deem your concerns so. Forgive me."
Mr Bridgerton was rarely thorny. Not short-tempered and was easy to please. If he could be brought down from such virtuous heights (virtuous, as if he was somehow not the very picture of sin!) to his rawest form, thanks to a lovestruck arrow to the heart, then goodness knows what he would become if Miss Baek were to accept his hand in actuality. Not even the most skilled of doctors in London could alleviate him of his lovesickness.
"And what would become of you, now that you risk social alienation?"
"I shall return to my art. I shall direct everything I am and I have in service to Sophie."
"At the expense of the Viscountcy?"
"Anthony has come home. There is already an heir."
"But your role is still valued here. If I were you, sir, I would not count myself out."
"I'm only a spare, Hatch."
"Yes, but is it wise to undermine your efforts? The boy is barely of age. No doubt Lord Bridgerton would require you by his side until then."
"Ah. Sixteen years do tend to fly by quickly. Anthony will manage just fine on his own."
"History says otherwise. You have managed these estates for years as brothers. One cannot be left to function on their own, without the other."
"As time passes, they will come to understand that I will always choose…"
"But would Miss Baek agree to being chosen over your own family?"
"I suppose that remains to be seen. Very well. I shall seek my answers tonight."
"If she objects?"
Mr Bridgerton fell silent. Then,
"I pray she does not."
Hatch refrained from speaking further.
"I — oh! Before I forget, if it is not too much trouble, it would be excellent if you brought these twenty or so plants to the conservatory."
Mr Bridgerton went to the other side of the room to draw out a wheelbarrow that he'd not only managed to get into the house, but had brought it upstairs. Inside, there were two dozen yellow flowers.
"They're sophias. Beautiful and golden, aren't they? Just like her."
"I believe they are called flixweeds, sir. A medicinal herb, which is um, closely related to cabbages."
"An aphrodisiac."
"Do you plan on.. sedu.. never mind."
"Yes?"
"I — shall make the necessary arrangements, sir. Might have to um, bring in a few more pillows to make you both comfortable." Hatch cast a long look at the wheelbarrow which was filled to the brim with dark soil in a disconcerting manner.
"She is precious…" he said, twirling a flower with the tips of his fingers.
"I do not doubt it, sir."
".. and holds my heart in a way I cannot even begin to describe. She's taken me for a possession, you see? It is all I've ever wanted. Sophie is all I have yearned for all along, the person I have been longing for all these years. Fruitlessly I have searched all my life for a purpose, unclear as to what my birthright really was. Now I believe I must really be born for her. There is nowhere I wish to be but beside her for as long as I shall live." Mr Bridgerton placed a hand over his chest.
Hatch knew he had no choice but to indulge him.
"Then we must ensure she is felt appreciated."
"Precisely! Yes!"
"She would value your confidence."
"Do you think so?"
"If you present yourself the way you have presented yourself to me, I am certain she will not raise any objections." Hatch said. "You must be honest with your intentions as well. Bear yourself to her, as you did before, or so you'd said."
"Right. Well, that is quite the useful advice, Hatch! It would seem I could use your wisdom on all sorts of matters now!"
Please do not.
"I am glad it is of help. You must be very infatuated with her."
"Oh, she is perfect. She's — utterly perfect. I might weep right here, actually, for she is just —" An odd choking noise escaped his throat. Mr Bridgerton was in the brink of tears, but resisted the pull of his longing.
It was different seeing him so unguarded. He was a mess of a man, having lost all sense after giving himself away to love. Hatch knew of Benedict Bridgerton's nature and manner; he'd read the broadsheets, he'd had countless footmen give him their assessments and most importantly, he had received an earful from Lady Bridgerton herself for aiding her son in successfully slipping through her fingers from soirees and balls. Nothing good came out of enabling Mr Bridgerton's debauchery, but he paid him a handsome amount so Hatch did not feel compelled to disobey. How fast time flies, he thought. Now he was facilitating the very same man in his pursuit of love. Of course, love and lust were two sides of the same coin, yet to see Benedict Bridgerton in love, well there was something special about that and the person who must've captured his heart.
A swell of happiness overcame him as he left to fetch Miss Baek.
Oh my dear, for the love of God, please say yes to his proposal or he will let his melancholy consume him until his tears flood everything in its path. But do act sensibly as well. He thought, with a stubborn smile on his lips. Why he felt happy for the two of them, he did not know but maybe this proved that his heart was not as rigid as it would seem. He let himself be endeared by them.
Perhaps he could keep a secret. Unless someone were to coerce it out of him. Hatch feared the family the most, but it seemed unlikely. Mr Bridgerton seemed very particular to do right by his beloved. He wanted to honour her, to cherish her and protect her. Wasn't that a good thing?
Oh to witness their love from afar.. it was not calming by any means, no, for Mr Bridgerton was relentless and Miss Baek was hesitant (and further added to Hatch's vexations). Their constant tug-of-war reminded Hatch of a bottle of shaken champagne, waiting to be released. Still despite his worries, it was quite the sight to behold.
Mr Bridgerton was terribly affectionate, and even more so when he was in love. He carried with him a bouquet of flowers, he chose silk blankets and scented them with fragrant potpourri, his voice dropped to a bare whisper as if he was struggling through his tears. Goodness, what had this woman done to him? Perhaps it wasn't Mr Bridgerton's fault, rather Miss Baek's. Perhaps it was she to blame for turning him inside out, as if he were a wet blouse. Not that Hatch minded no. He was overwhelmed with a powerful curiosity as to meet the woman in person, shake her hand furiously and thank her till his tongue grew numb for all the good she'd done by virtue of her existence.
There are wiser choices and then there are brave choices. Whatever you do, Mr Bridgerton, I only hope it goes well.
Hatch knocked on the door.
Sophie opened, greeting him with a bewildered look. Sleep soaked her eyes, but she did not look tired.
He gave her a curt nod, beckoning her to follow him.
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