The Bridgertons Happily Ever After (18 page)

The Bridgertons were marvelously fertile. They all seemed to produce exactly the number of offspring they desired. And then perhaps one more, just for good measure.

Except Francesca.

Five hundred and eighty-four days later, Francesca stepped out of the Kilmartin carriage and breathed the fresh, clean air of the Kent countryside. Spring was well under way, and the sun was warm on her cheeks, but when the wind blew, it carried with it the last hints of winter. Francesca didn’t mind, though. She’d always liked the tingle of a cold wind on her skin. It drove Michael mad—he was always complaining that he’d never quite readjusted to life in a cold climate after so many years in India.

She was sorry he had not been able to accompany her on the long ride down from Scotland for the christening of Hyacinth’s baby daughter, Isabella. He would be there, of course; she and Michael never missed the christening of any of their nieces and nephews. But affairs in Edinburgh had delayed his arrival. Francesca could have delayed her trip as well, but it had been many months since she had seen her family, and she missed them.

It was funny. When she was younger, she’d always been so eager to get away, to set up her own household, her own identity. But now, as she watched her nieces and nephews grow, she found herself visiting more often. She didn’t want to miss the milestones. She had just happened to be visiting when Colin’s daughter Agatha had taken her first steps. It had been breathtaking. And although she had wept quietly in her bed that night, the tears in her eyes as she’d watched Aggie lurch forward and laugh had been ones of pure joy.

If she wasn’t going to be a mother, then by God, at least she would have those moments. She couldn’t bear to think of life without them.

Francesca smiled as she handed her cloak to a footman and walked down the familiar corridors of Aubrey Hall. She’d spent much of her childhood here, and at Bridgerton House in London. Anthony and his wife had made some changes, but much was still just as it had always been. The walls were still painted the same creamy white, with the barest undertone of peach. And the Fragonard her father had bought her mother for her thirtieth birthday still hung over the table just outside the door to the rose salon.

“Francesca!”

She turned. It was her mother, rising from her seat in the salon.

“How long have you been standing out there?” Violet asked, coming to greet her.

Francesca embraced her mother. “Not long. I was admiring the painting.”

Violet stood beside her and together they regarded the Fragonard. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” she murmured, a soft, wistful smile touching her face.

“I love it,” Francesca said. “I always have. It makes me think of Father.”

Violet turned to her in surprise. “It does?”

Francesca could understand her reaction. The painting was of a young woman holding a bouquet of flowers with a note attached. Not a very masculine subject. But she was looking over her shoulder, and her expression was a little bit mischievous, as if, given the correct provocation, she might laugh. Francesca could not remember much of her parents’ relationship; she had been but six at the time of her father’s death. But she remembered the laughter. The sound of her father’s deep, rich chuckle—it lived within her.

“I think your marriage must have been like that,” Francesca said, motioning to the painting.

Violet took a half step back and cocked her head to the side. “I think you’re right,” she said, looking rather delighted by the realization. “I never thought of it quite that way.”

“You should take the painting back with you to London,” Francesca said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

Violet blushed, and for a brief moment, Francesca saw the young girl she must have been shining out from her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but it belongs here. This was where he gave it to me. And this”—she motioned to its spot of honor on the wall—“was where we hung it together.”

“You were very happy,” Francesca said. It wasn’t a question, just an observation.

“As are you.”

Francesca nodded.

Violet reached out and took her hand, patting it gently as they both continued to study the painting. Francesca knew exactly what her mother was thinking about—her infertility, and the fact that they seemed to have unspoken agreement never to talk about it, and really, why should they? What could Violet possibly say that would make it better?

Francesca couldn’t say anything, because that would just make her mother feel even worse, and so instead they stood there as they always did, thinking the same thing but never speaking of it, wondering which of them hurt more.

Francesca thought it might be her—hers was the barren womb, after all. But maybe her mother’s pain was more acute. Violet was her
mother
, and she was grieving for the lost dreams of her child. Wouldn’t that be painful? And the irony was, Francesca would never know. She’d never know what it felt like to hurt for a child because she’d never know what it was to be a mother.

She was almost three and thirty. She did not know any married lady who had reached that age without conceiving a child. It seemed that children either arrived right away or not at all.

“Has Hyacinth arrived?” Francesca asked, still looking at the painting, still staring at the twinkle in the woman’s eye.

“Not yet. But Eloise will be here later this afternoon. She—”

But Francesca heard the catch in her mother’s voice before she’d cut herself off. “Is she expecting, then?” she asked.

There was a beat of silence, and then: “Yes.”

“That’s wonderful.” And she meant it. She did, with every last bit of her being. She just didn’t know how to make it sound that way.

She didn’t want to look at her mother’s face. Because then she would cry.

Francesca cleared her throat, tilting her head to the side as if there were an inch of the Fragonard she hadn’t yet perused. “Anyone else?” she queried.

She felt her mother stiffen slightly beside her, and she wondered if Violet was deciding whether it was worth it to pretend that she didn’t know exactly what she meant.

“Lucy,” her mother said quietly.

Francesca finally turned and faced Violet, pulling her hand out of her mother’s grasp. “Again?” she asked. Lucy and Gregory had been married for less than two years, but this would be their second child.

Violet nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” Francesca said, horrified by how thick her voice sounded. “Don’t say you’re sorry. It’s not something to be sorry about.”

“No,” her mother said quickly. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You should be delighted for them.”

“I am!”

“More delighted for them than you are sorry for me,” Francesca choked out.

“Francesca . . .”

Violet tried to reach for her, but Francesca pulled away. “Promise me,” she said. “You have to promise me that you will always be more happy than you are sorry.”

Violet looked at her helplessly, and Francesca realized that her mother did not know what to say. For her entire life, Violet Bridgerton had been the most sensitive and wonderful of mothers. She always seemed to know what her children needed, exactly when they needed it—whether it was a kind word or a gentle prod, or even a giant proverbial kick in the breeches.

But now, in this moment, Violet was lost. And Francesca was the one who had done it to her.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, the words spilling out. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Violet rushed forward to embrace her, and this time Francesca did not pull away. “No, darling,” Violet said again, softly stroking her hair. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

She shushed and she crooned, and Francesca let her mother hold her. And when Francesca’s hot, silent tears fell on her mother’s shoulder, neither one of them said a word.

By the time Michael arrived two days later, Francesca had thrown herself into the preparations for little Isabella’s christening, and her conversation with her mother was, if not forgotten, at least not at the forefront of her mind. It wasn’t as if any of this was new, after all. Francesca was just as barren as she’d been every time she came to England to see her family. The only difference this time was that she’d actually talked to someone about it. A little bit.

As much as she was able.

And yet, somehow, something had been lifted from her. When she’d stood there in the hall, her mother’s arms around her, something had poured out from her along with her tears.

And while she still grieved for the babies she would never have, for the first time in a long time, she felt unreservedly happy.

It was strange and wonderful, and she positively refused to question it.

“Aunt Francesca! Aunt Francesca!”

Francesca smiled as she looped her arm through that of her niece. Charlotte was Anthony’s youngest, due to turn eight in a month’s time. “What is it, poppet?”

“Did you see the baby’s dress? It’s so
long
.”

“I know.”

“And frilly.”

“Christening dresses are meant to be frilly. Even the boys are covered in lace.”

“It seems a waste,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “Isabella doesn’t
know
she’s wearing anything so pretty.”

“Ah, but we do.”

Charlotte pondered this for a moment. “But I don’t care, do you?”

Francesca chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose I do. I should love her no matter what she was wearing.”

The two of them continued their stroll through the gardens, picking the grape hyacinths to decorate the chapel. They had nearly filled the basket when they heard the unmistakable sound of a carriage coming down the drive.

“I wonder who it is now,” Charlotte said, rising to her toes as if that might actually help her see the carriage any better.

“I’m not sure,” Francesca replied. Any number of relations were due that afternoon.

“Uncle Michael, maybe.”

Francesca smiled. “I hope so.”

“I
adore
Uncle Michael,” Charlotte said with a sigh, and Francesca almost laughed, because the look in her niece’s eye was one she’d seen a thousand times before.

Women adored Michael. It seemed even seven-year-old girls were not immune to his charm.

“Well, he is very handsome,” Francesca demurred.

Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Francesca replied, trying very hard not to smile.

“
I
like him because he tosses me in the air when Father isn’t looking.”

“He does like to bend the rules.”

Charlotte grinned. “I know. It’s why I don’t tell Father.”

Francesca had never thought of Anthony as particularly stern, but he had been the head of the family for over twenty years, and she supposed the experience had endowed him with a certain love of order and tidiness.

And it had to be said—he
did
like to be in charge.

“It shall be our secret,” Francesca said, leaning down to whisper in her niece’s ear. “And anytime you wish to come visit us in Scotland, you may. We bend rules all the time.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew huge. “You do?”

“Sometimes we have breakfast for supper.”

“Brilliant.”

“And we walk in the rain.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Everybody walks in the rain.”

“Yes, I suppose, but sometimes we
dance
.”

Charlotte stepped back. “May I go back with you
now
?”

“That’s up to your parents, poppet.” Francesca laughed and reached for Charlotte’s hand. “But we can dance right now.”

“Here?”

Francesca nodded.

“Where everyone can see?”

Francesca looked around. “I don’t see anyone watching. And even if there were, who cares?”

Charlotte’s lips pursed, and Francesca could practically
see
her mind at work. “Not me!” she announced, and she linked her arm through Francesca’s. Together they did a little jig, followed by a Scottish reel, twisting and twirling until they were both breathless.

“Oh, I wish it would rain!” Charlotte laughed.

“Now what would be the fun in that?” came a new voice.

“Uncle Michael!” Charlotte shrieked, launching herself at him.

“And I am instantly forgotten,” Francesca said with a wry smile.

Michael looked at her warmly over Charlotte’s head. “Not by me,” he murmured.

“Aunt Francesca and I have been dancing,” Charlotte told him.

“I know. I saw you from inside the house. I especially enjoyed the new one.”

“What new one?”

Michael pretended to look confused. “The new dance you were doing.”

“We weren’t doing any new dances,” Charlotte replied, her brows knitting together.

“Then what was that one that involved throwing yourself on the grass?”

Francesca bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“We
fell
, Uncle Michael.”

“No!”

“We did!”

“It was a vigorous dance,” Francesca confirmed.

“You must be exceptionally graceful, then, because it looked
completely
as if you’d done it on purpose.”

“We didn’t! We didn’t!” Charlotte said excitedly. “We really did just fall. By accident!”

“I suppose I will believe you,” he said with a sigh, “but only because I know you are far too trustworthy to lie.”

She looked him in the eye with a melting expression. “I would never lie to you, Uncle Michael,” she said.

He kissed her cheek and set her down. “Your mother says it’s time for dinner.”

“But you just got here!”

“I’m not going anywhere. You need your sustenance after all the dancing.”

“I’m not hungry,” she offered.

“Pity, then,” he said, “because I was going to teach you to waltz this afternoon, and you certainly cannot do that on an empty stomach.”

Charlotte’s eyes grew to near circles. “Really? Father said I cannot learn until I am ten.”

Michael gave her one of those devastating half smiles that still made Francesca tingle. “We don’t have to tell him, do we?”

“Oh, Uncle Michael, I
love
you,” she said fervently, and then, after one extremely vigorous hug, Charlotte ran off to Aubrey Hall.