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May 8, 2023

On Bridgerton's Queen Charlotte & Mental Illness

I've only watched the first three episodes of Queen Charlotte and I have not read any reviews about the series. I didn't plan on writing this, but apparently I have Thoughts and mental illness is something which has always been important to me.

Spoilers under the cut.

Trigger warnings: Discussion of suicide, depression, substance abuse. Mention of post-natal depression, eating disorders, obsessive compulsive disorder, bipolar disorder.

The problem is: love is not enough.

At the end of the third episode, Charlotte manages to convince George to stop yelling at the sky and come inside.

Why is she able to do this?

Because she loves him.

Reynolds, who's known George much longer and therefore has likely seen and learned the ins and outs of George's episodes stands uselessly to the side with a blanket, but Charlotte, thanks to her Great Love for George, is able to draw his attention away from Venus and get him inside.

Perhaps I will be proven wrong when I watch the fourth episode next weekend, but I know how this story usually goes: She gets him warm, gets him safe, surrounds him with tender loving care and understanding so that when his episode is over, he may not believe he is deserving of love, but he will know that he is loved.

Love will give Charlotte the strength to stay with him and have fifteen children. Love is patient, love is kind, it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13.

It's a common trope, well worn, familiar as that fucking bible verse. The trope is not only used in a romantic context. It speaks to the great love parents have for their children, or the Power of Friendship, or whatever kind of love it is you're looking to validate. It's got enough verisimilitude to be persuasive and enough optimism to be seductive.

And it's wrong.

Not only is it wrong, it's actively harmful. Because the corollary to this idea is that when love fails to heal, it is because the loving person did not love enough, or the person who is ill did not love them back enough.

Love is not enough, it has never been enough, and it will never fucking be enough. I hate this trope and I bristle every time I hear it in songs, see it in movies and tv, or read it in stories.

If love were enough, people would never commit suicide. They wouldn't become addicted to drugs; they wouldn't become alcoholics. They would be able to snap out of their manic depressive episodes; they would always be able to distinguish between what is real and what is not; they would be healed of PTSD; they would not obsess over routines. They wouldn't have eating disorders; they would stop exploding into rage; they would never be depressed.

If love were enough, the people who love individuals with mental illness would not feel helpless, frustrated, angry, desperate-- because their love would be enough to fix it all. Their love would be enough to convince their suicidal partner to stay. A child's love would convince their alcoholic parent to quit. A parent's love would be better than lithium.

To reduce the treatment of mental illness to love is to reduce the failure of that treatment to love, and as a result place the blame on the people who are supposed to love.

Mental illness is chemical. It is biological. It is because of neural pathways and neurotransmitters. It is a result of the strange coping mechanisms the human brain has developed over the thousands of years of evolution. I'm not denying that there is an enormous environmental factor.

However, I do not believe that anyone gets cancer because they are not loved enough, and I do not expect anyone to be cured of cancer by the power of love.

The human brain is an organ. Sure, we can dress it up with fancy terms about it being the seat of intelligence, wax philosophical about the soul or spirit, houses the essence of humanity, blah blah blah, whatever. It is first and foremost an organ and like any other organ, it can and does fail.

Mental illness is a lot of things, and only recently recognized as Real thing. Prozac was approved by the FDA in 1987 and while antidepressants are now widely recognized as helpful, that was definitely not the case even twenty years ago. Today, there's still a very real stigma associated with its use that makes people hesitate to actively consider it an avenue of treatment.

"Well, what did you expect from a spinoff of Bridgerton?"

I don't expect anything. That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to criticize it or point out things which are harmful. It's a really popular series. Number 1 on Netflix or whatever.

What I want to do is write this for myself, and for anyone else out there who is either asking themselves now, or will ask themselves someday, why love has not healed everything like it ought to have done.

Because I've heard it time and again from people left behind after a loved one commits suicide: Why wasn't I enough to make them want to stay? Didn't they know I loved them? (Why didn't they love me enough to keep living?)

Loved ones dealing with substance abuse: Why don't they love me enough to quit? Why wasn't I enough to convince them to get help? Where did I go wrong? If they really loved me, they would stop.

And the flip side, during an argument or in a moment of frustration: You don't love me enough to stop! If you loved the baby, you wouldn't be depressed. If you loved your parents, you wouldn't put them through this! If you loved your partner, you would have gotten help.

That's which this trope is destructive.

Mental illness and the treatment of mental illness are not about love.

Sure, love can help. But sometimes it doesn't.

Again, perhaps I will be proven wrong in the subsequent episodes of Queen Charlotte. But for me, the damage has already been done. She tells him that she is Venus. Goddess of love. Venus is going inside, so George needs to follow the love and go inside also. Love is going to lead him home.

#spoilers #absolutely agree

chats4mimi

Mar 10, 2023

1016anon

Title: Can You Feel the Love Tonight Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma Summary: In which Anthony buys a menagerie (and has to relive the same day).

A/N: No animals were harmed in the making of this fic. :D No research or proofreading was done either. Enjoy!

It is only after ten iterations of repeating the same day that Anthony realizes he's been given what some might consider a gift. How many times has he gone to bed wishing that he could have done something differently, gone back in time to erase his mistakes, had another opportunity to do it right this time?

Now, he's been given that chance to do it over again.

For example: Miss Edwina said she preferred animals that could curl up in her lap.

Well, the solution to this was simple. He forewent fencing with his brothers and instead scoured London until he found the perfect gift: a dog. A lapdog, in fact. A white puppy thing with... hair. It had already tried-- twice-- to eat the red ribbon he'd tied in a bow (structurally robust the first time, sad and floppy the second time) and cried pitifully whenever Anthony set it down.

"How much clearer must I be?"

"I brought a gift for Miss Edwina."

There was no way to hold the dog with any kind of dignity. The creature would not stop squirming and growling at Anthony's hat; it seemed to hold a personal grudge. He'd hoped to deliver it directly to Miss Edwina's arms so as to witness her delight (and watch Miss Sharma seethe).

(In fact, the sight of Miss Sharma's expression softening-- for just a moment-- into something resembling affection gave him chest pains which could only be attributed to acute indigestion.)

"Take your dog and stop hounding us at every turn."

"I liked your Trojan Horse insult better-- it had more layers, no puns."

"Truly, this is all a game to you."

"I'm not here to play games."

Anthony considered it nothing short of an act of god that the script had not deviated; he was intelligent but she was clever, always ready with another attack. It was no wonder he'd tried to use Nectar to ward off her barrage. But now he had the advantage of knowing what she would say next and so headed off her counterstrike.

"And before you accuse me of using Mr. Dorset in a deceitful prank, I apologize for my unbecoming conduct at the races, Miss Sharma. It was poorly done."

Hah! He'd caught her off guard, for once.

"For what it's worth, he was interested in you and had planned on calling on you this afternoon. You should not hold my actions against him."

"I will use my own judgment to consider his behavior."

The dog yipped as though it knew it was no longer the center of attention and licked Anthony's face. He grimaced when it succeeded once or twice (or thrice); it wiggled and wagged as he tried to adjust his hold. This only shifted the puppy's focus from his face to his gloves-- his fingers were not chew toys. A brief struggle; discouraging sounds of distressed leather; a very attentive audience; and-- damn it, he'd just broken the gloves in. Normally the leather would have held, but the puppy's needle-sharp teeth left at least one small tear and a few impressions.

The struggle was made all the worse by Miss Sharma's efforts to remain stern and hide her smile. He did not prolong his own suffering just to see if he could make her laugh. And he most certainly did not find her eyes, sparkling with amusement, mesmerizing in any way. It was a trick of the light.

"Is Miss Edwina available?"

That wiped the smile off her face.

"She is not. And we already have a dog."

"Excellent-- the two can keep each other company."

"No, we cannot accept your gift. Lady Danbury barely tolerates Newton and he's extremely well behaved-- I will not test the limits of her hospitality with a puppy that will chew all her furniture."

"The dog is not for you, Miss Sharma, it is for your sister and therefore her decision. She is fond of animals, is she not?"

"Do you know anything about raising a puppy, my Lord?"

"I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to partake of the joys such an experience must undoubtedly afford. Perhaps Miss Edwina can tell me later."

"My sister does not need to tell you later-- I can tell you now," she stepped forward, on the attack again. "The puppy needs to be watched constantly. It needs to be housetrained. You do not even know if it will get along with Newton!"

The puppy in question barked right in Anthony's ear. It appeared there was only so much time they could spend in each other's presence before it devolved into an argument.

Let the record show that he'd tried. She was the one who refused to accept the ceasefire.

"Miss Sharma, you act as though I'm a villain for bringing a puppy for Miss Edwina, when it is a gift-- any other woman in London would be happy to accept it!"

"I have never met a man as brazenly presumptuous--"

"Why are you determined to make this so difficult?! You do not even know me!"

"I am making this difficult?! You are the one who refuses to listen!"

"Is this about what you heard on the terrace again?"

It always seemed to circle back to that damn terrace. Why couldn't he redo that day instead?

Her only response was stony silence and The Glare.

Anthony had Complicated Feelings about The Glare. Many of those feelings seemed to surface at night while he--

No, he was not going to follow where those thoughts led, not when the woman in question was standing in front of him like a pillar of fire wrapped in lilac silk.

Usually by this time Miss Edwina emerged from the house to tell him she preferred animals that could curl up in her lap. For whatever reason, she did not make an appearance. Instead, the puppy-- which either had an impeccable sense of comedic timing or a horrible sense of inconvenient timing-- seized the momentary standoff to catch the brim of his hat, unbalancing it enough to topple off his head. He tried to catch it before it hit the ground--

"Viscount Bridgerton."

Lady Danbury's voice threw him completely off balance; he lost his tenuous hold on the puppy and it lept out of his arms, running straight for his hat, which was now covered in dust. The tiny creature promptly sank its teeth in and dragged an object twice its size to Lady Danbury's feet.

It seemed very proud of its accomplishment, panting and wagging its tail, barking as it looked up at Lady Danbury, then the hat; at Lady Danbury, then the hat; at Lady Danbury, then dragging the hat again until it was nearly on top of her toes.

Lady Danbury simply gave it the eyebrow of skepticism.

"Lord Bridgerton, I'm sure that Miss Sharma has now informed you that I have no affection for creatures of the canine persuasion," the puppy whined to plead its case; Lady Danbury was unmoved. "It is certainly a... generous gesture, but I'm afraid that, as the beast would be staying in my house, I will have to refuse."

Miss Sharma easily scooped the puppy up in her arms; the smug look on her face made him want to roll his eyes but he dared not do so in front of Lady Danbury.

"However, I believe Miss Sharma has an invitation to issue?"

Anthony immediately brightened. Miss Sharma's eyes widened; frowned; protested Lady Danbury silently; was met with The Eyebrow; deflated; became annoyed-- all of this in the span of less than two seconds.

She plastered a smile on her face while saying, "Lady Danbury is hosting a soiree this evening for my sister's suitors" (emphasis on the plural). "We would be most honored if you would join us."

"I would be happy to attend," he smiled, genuinely delighted to have received an invitation-- however grudgingly given-- directly from Miss Sharma.

"There will be a poetry reading, Lord Bridgerton," Lady Danbury smirked. "To showcase her suitor's tastes and talents. Miss Edwina is fond of literature."

With that parting piece of advice, she made a dramatic exit back to the house.

Miss Sharma, unable to allow anyone to have the last word, picked up his hat. She gave it to Anthony; he was about to thank her and take the puppy back when she promptly put the dog in his hat. She, too, went back to the house without even bidding him a good afternoon. To say he was dumbfounded (no, he would not admit to being slightly aroused) was an understatement.

He stood there-- hat in hand and puppy whining-- watching her sharp shoulder blades and the ever-so-slight sway of her hips retreating back, an acute feeling of deja vu descending.

The puppy gnawed on his gloves.

Anthony couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.

Even if she hadn't issued an invitation (under duress, i.e. at the behest of Lady Danbury-- Anthony thought they were essentially the same thing), it was a moot point as Anthony had gotten quite good at charming his way past the door. Regardless of whether he'd been invited or not, Miss Sharma's pinched look of disapproval was the same. It made him simultaneously gleeful at securing a (petty) victory and disappointed; he'd thought they'd established some kind of puppy-related rapport that afternoon.

No matter. He was there to court Miss Edwina. He came armed with Benedict's soliloquy, "What Is It To Love A Woman."

Anthony attributed the sheer awkwardness of the speech to the fact that it wasn't in blank verse, nor did it rhyme. It had absolutely nothing to do with his complete inability to recite past "to honor her"-- every single time-- without stumbling.

Every. single. time.

He got to those damn lines and reflexively looked up at Miss Sharma to see what she thought, whether she believed anything he said. Anthony turned to her without conscious thought. No permission from his higher brain functions. Despite reminding himself not to look up, don't look up, concentrate on the 'poem,' don't search for her eyes in the crowd, don't do it, focus on his duty, the reason he was courting, only a few words, to honor her--

What made it even worse was that he couldn't remember what he said the first time, after he'd thrown the paper in the fire and declared vague things about Duty and Action. He hadn't known he'd have to repeat the same day over and over-- it had been embarrassing enough to come clean the first time. Trying to recreate that success came with widely varying results. Anthony didn't know why one set of words resonated with his intended audience but another didn't; the sentiments driving them were exactly the same.

Moreover, it was annoying. He'd made a fool of himself ten times over already and there were only so many times he could give a heartfelt speech before it became a mockery of its origins. What did the words matter when his underlying motivation began to feel stale-- perhaps even contrived? The one thing which did not change was the sting of humiliation he felt whenever he looked at Miss Sharma; the ringing silence that filled the room turned into a roar of disapproval-- to know that she'd heard him and still did not believe him.

Given his present difficulties with recitation and the utter futility of his utterances, the remedy was clear: read something else. An actual poem, probably.

Easier said than done. Byron was out of the question. He didn't much care for Wordsworth, Coleridge; he shuddered at the thought of Milton. Maybe Miss Edwina would like a dramatic reading from a play, something from the Oresteia trilogy.

(Was reading an excerpt from a play where the wife kills the husband after he comes home from war an appropriate selection for a soiree? For courtship in general?

At least Miss Sharma would appreciate the irony.)

"Lady Mary is allergic to cats."

"Noted. I will try again."

"No, you will not."

"You cannot reject every animal I offer, Miss Sharma. Sooner or later, I will find something you will accept."

"Good day, Lord Bridgerton."

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

(Absolutely not. This was the wrong poem for her-- Miss Sharma was the furthest thing from temperate, he would find another poem.

That is.

By which he meant.

For the purposes of courting Miss Edwina, he needed a poem that both Miss Sharma and Miss Edwina enjoyed. He had to gain Miss Sharma's approval.

That was all. Really.)

"Lord Bridgerton, I did not know you enjoyed poetry."

"I don't."

"You don't enjoy poetry, yet you recited a poem for my sister."

"This is a poetry reading, is it not?"

Miss Sharma immediately freed the songbirds and scoffed when he recited an excerpt from The Iliad.

Miss Edwina was attentive and polite at the soiree, but she was attentive and polite to everyone.

Anthony, who'd unwittingly believed the old saying, "third time's a charm," was discouraged when he woke to the same day the next morning. It marked the two-week anniversary of what was increasingly beginning to feel like a prison of time.

She became furious-- even moreso than when he'd gone to Danbury House with Nectar-- when he brought two rose-ringed parakeets.

He did not know what angered her more: the fact that their wings were clipped; that fact that they probably could not survive in the wild; or the fact that they had been uprooted from India. Miss Sharma stormed back into the house, after which Miss Edwina emerged. She accepted the gift with grace, but her soft, subdued voice made clear that she took the birds out of pity for them, not as any sign of favor for his suit.

Anthony skipped the soiree that night. He wasn't much in the mood for poetry.

"Lord Bridgerton, that is not a mere snake-- that is a python. While they may be non-venomous, they can grow up to 10 feet in length and they kill by wrapping their coils around the animal and constricting it," she raised an eyebrow at his expression of shock.

"You did know this, did you not? They've killed humans before."

"I--" he looked down at the slim, 3-foot long coiled reptile. "How do you-- Are you sure?"

"I recognize the species. We have them in India."

Anthony regarded the coiled reptile again, feeling increasingly hysterical; there was a lump in the middle. A mouse, Lord Conrad-- an eccentric, enthusiastic, apparently amateur herpetologist-- had cheerfully reassured him.

Absolutely nothing you need to do except feed it the occasional mouse and keep it warm. Personally, I consider them to be fascinating creatures and wonderful to keep as pets-- they practically take care of themselves. A pity that there is such stigma surrounding them because of all that religious dogma.

In truth, he'd been hesitant to purchase a snake precisely because of that stigma-- in Anthony's experience, people were either unafraid of snakes (Francesca, who'd tried to revive an adder she'd found half dead in winter), or they were terrified (Colin, who'd tried to get rid of the adder Francesca had brought in from the cold). That they seemed to require very little in terms of care and maintenance had been the main selling point. This particular species was not poisonous; snakes could be stored on a shelf, off the floor and away from dogs; as far as Anthony was aware they did not cause any itchy eyes or stuffed noses. Lady Danbury was not afraid of snakes and the thing he'd purchased was rather small; it could stay out of sight and out of mind.

Other points in its favor: it was rare, it was expensive, and it had been advertised as harmless. Anthony had thought the markings on this snake to be beautiful, in a deadly sort of way. But not literally deadly. There had been no mention of growing to 10 feet and killing by constriction when he'd purchased it from Lord Conrad.

Whether Miss Edwina would accept the gift was almost an afterthought now-- the two main hurdles were Miss Sharma and Lady Danbury. He'd been banking on Miss Sharma to be too proud to admit any kind of fear (if indeed she was afraid) to raise any kind of strenuous objections to his gift. (It would also hopefully keep her from lobbing all her accusations at him, which in turn would allow him to avoid apologizing. He knew he owed her an apology but much like his now-abandoned speech, he was tired of repeating it every day. Offering an insincere apology would put him further out of her graces than he already was.)

Miss Sharma watched his growing horror with increasing amusement.

"You really did not know?"

"I did not. I would never have--" he swallowed and firmly closed the hamper lid. "Forgive me, I will trouble you no further."

Anthony seriously considered laying into Lord Conrad, then decided it was best not to offend a man who had several convenient murder weapons at hand. Instead, he relayed the information Miss Sharma gave and managed to deliver it as though he was doing Conrad a favor.

Miss Sharma sidled up to him that night, a sly smile on her face.

"You did not bring the snake, my Lord?" she asked far too innocently.

"Ah, no," he replied. "Why, did you think I would demonstrate my skill as a snake charmer?"

"It would be quite fitting. I think you're well qualified-- you snaked your way past the door despite not having been invited."

"I believe it had more to do with charm."

"You think much too highly of yourself."

"So I've been told," he grinned. "And you, Miss Sharma? You will not grace the audience with a show of your undoubtedly many talents-- you play the pianoforte, I believe."

She was taken aback.

"How did you know that?"

"You taught your sister everything she knows, did you not? Given her accomplishments, I can only imagine the breadth and depth of your skill."

"Trying to practice your charm on me, Lord Bridgerton?"

"No," he frowned. "It was a compliment."

She simply raised her eyebrow at him.

Of all the-- apparently he could not even give a compliment without being accused of ulterior motives.

"Miss Sharma, if I decided to turn my charms on you, you would know."

"So you admit your charms are insincere."

"I did not say that!"

"But it's what you meant."

"You make it sound like charm is inherently immoral when it carries no such quality."

"It is when you use it to make lies more palatable."

"I concede, lies can be made charming, but not all lies are charming. There is a distinction."

"I did not take you for a philosopher."

"This is not philosophy."

"Then what is it?"

"A defense of my character."

Miss Sharma fell silent and looked at him with those piercing eyes. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow in challenge.

"Why do you want to marry my sister?" she asked outright.

"I--" don't.

Was on the tip of his tongue and that revelation was shocking because it should have felt more shocking. Yet it made sense-- these past two weeks, his most substantive conversations had all been with Miss Sharma. He could not say that his frothy conversations with Miss Edwina during the soiree had any staying power; he could not remember most of them. He knew what she would say so he found his mind wandering as he made all the right noises in the right places, smiling and nodding while excruciatingly aware of Miss Sharma's gaze aimed between his shoulder blades.

Anthony never thought his interactions with Miss Sharma dry or stale. They kept him grounded. Repeating the same day again and again allowed him to make all kinds of mistakes before her, each of which elicited a different response. There was a kind of freedom to it, a natural honesty. She was the only vibrant thing in an increasingly dismal timescape.

On the heels of that thought was the depressing realization that the freedom came with a price: she did not remember. She would never remember. Not until tomorrow came, and who knew when tomorrow would come?

He decided that was a problem for future Anthony. Present Anthony had the radical, revolutionary idea that maybe he could just... tell her the truth. Which was:

"I don't know," he choked on the words.

Truth apparently needed a fortifying glass of lemonade (he would have preferred something stronger) to wash it down.

"Then why are you courting her?"

"Duty," he shrugged. "I need to marry. That is what firstborn sons do-- sire the heir and spare."

"You--"

"Miss Sharma," he cut her off. "I know my words are distasteful, but why do you object so strenuously when that is the reality of marriage among the ton? I will take care of your sister and your family."

"My sister desires a love match and what you're offering is not love!" she hissed.

"No, you told me she desires a love match-- Miss Edwina has never once expressed that herself."

"So you claim to know my sister better than I do?"

"I claim to know what it's like to want what one thinks is best for a sibling-- one who is my junior by ten years-- and assume they are of the same mind."

They were whispering to each other fiercely in the back of the room while a gentleman danced a jig.

"You cannot attribute nefarious motives to me when I have been exceptionally clear to both you and Miss Edwina as to my intentions. I have never once promised love and Miss Edwina has never once required it!"

"That is because you act as though you are a man in love!"

"That is not what I am doing."

"You may have declared with words that you eschew a love match, but you have taken great pains to find ways to meet my sister, despite my best efforts and expressly against my wishes. Your schemes to spend time with her, your deceptions, your gifts-- what else can Edwina conclude than that you are in love?"

"How else am I supposed to speak to her? She knows I want to marry her-- I declared my intention at the Queen's ball."

"What?"

"I asked her questions regarding her thoughts on marriage, after which I asked to meet your father-- you cannot tell me that she is so naive as to not know what that meant."

"No-- you assumed she understood you were making an offer for her hand because you asked to speak to our father, when Edwina told me after the ball that she thought you simply wanted to introduce yourself. You never made a proposal, you never asked for her hand. You make promises without a word, and now you've made her believe you are that much more enamored of her than you truly are!"

"Very well. There is an easy way to settle this once and for all."

Sending up an uncharacteristic prayer, Anthony marked to the front of the room and usurped some other gentleman's place in the queue.

"Miss Edwina, do you desire a love match?"

"Yes, my Lord," she responded immediately, a frown marring her gentle features. "I seek a love match."

"I see," he paused. "Then I'm afraid I will fall short of your expectations."

Miss Edwina's express turned to one of dismay.

"I'm not a man of poetry," he began, addressing her. "I cannot give pretty words and romantic gestures."

He couldn't help but search for Miss Sharma's intense eyes. And when he found them-- his breath caught ever so slightly as the bottom of his world fell out.

"Truth be told, I find them to be empty, not unless those words and gestures are confirmed through one's actions. And I could stand here to tell you differently, I could pretend to be someone I am not-- I could pretend to want the same things as you, but I'd be lying."

Anthony should have stopped there; he should have at least stopped looking at Miss Sharma and instead turned to Miss Edwina, sitting in front of him, not standing at the far side of the room. Yet he couldn't.

"I may not be able to offer the displays of passion society demands. But I assure you that when it comes to action and duty, I shall never be found lacking. And I hope it is those actions which will serve as proof of my intentions, rather than the words of flattery I cannot express."

When he finally looked at Miss Edwina, she looked--

His heart fell.

Because she appeared as Miss Sharma described: in love, with hope-- the kind of hope which was actually a naive form of expectation-- that his words demonstrated more love than he actually had. The first time it had happened-- that very first time, before he'd been condemned to this cycle-- he'd felt triumphant in victory. Now, all he felt was a pit in his stomach swallowing him in defeat.

Anthony did the only thing he could think to do in such circumstances.

He left.

The next few days were spent in a bedridden existential crisis.

He had been working under the assumption that the day was something to get right, as though there was a correct answer which would unlock the door to the future, grant him the key to unfreeze time. But that in turn implied some sort of grand design, where life could be divided into right decisions and wrong decisions leading down right paths and wrong paths, instead of what Anthony had learned from bitter experience:

It was chaos.

Since his father died and the weight of the family fell on his shoulders, his life had been divided into decisions which endangered lives and decisions which safeguarded them.

That was all.

No one could predict what events would cascade down in the roulette of terrible consequences and caprices of unforeseen fortune. If something broke, for the most part it could be repaired down the road-- the repairs might not be easy and they often weren't. It might not return everything back to its original condition, but nothing ever did. Repairs did not renew, only restored. Even so, that didn't mean what was broken could not be repaired in some way, shape, or form.

The sole exception was death; that was the only absolute measure of right or wrong, success or failure. Anthony still considered Daphne's season as an unforgivable failure not because of Berbrooke, but because it had nearly ended in death-- and the death of the wrong person.

Was there anything really at stake here? Did lives hang in the balance?

A week ago, he would have answered with a resounding 'yes.' Lives were at stake-- the theoretical life of his theoretical firstborn son, forced to take on the theoretical viscountcy at a theoretical young age due to Anthony's theoretical death which would take place in the theoretical-- and increasingly unreachable-- future.

For all he knew, his life might be continuing in the normal flow of time and he was trapped reliving the same day because he'd had a psychotic break. Or he could be trapped in an abnormally long, horrific dream from which he could not wake. It had happened a few times, when Anthony thought he'd woken but had, in fact, dreamed that he'd woken and gone about his day-- the only indication that he had still been in the dreamworld was that, upon waking (for real), he remembered everyone had ridden unicorns instead of horses and the carriages had giant wings (but not the horses...).

If there was anything this experience had put in stark relief, it was: 1) outside of meeting Miss Sharma and going to the soiree, the time in between was indistinguishable from any other day of his life; 2) the only thing he looked forward to was meeting Miss Sharma because she was the only person who reacted to him as a person, not as part of the house furniture.

Following logically from (1): if the time between was indistinguishable from all the days which preceded it and presumably all the days which would follow (if time ever deigned to restart), then living the same day over and over should not make a material difference to his happiness-- and yet it did. In other words: Anthony had long been living the same day over and over because he literally began living the same day over and over. He was invisible in his own family, for whom he lived; it followed that he was invisible in his own life.

Following logically from (2): the repetition was becoming increasingly difficult to bear because every day, he learned more about Miss Sharma while she forgot him. That thrill he'd felt meeting Miss Sharma at dawn in the park was from being seen. Her gaze transformed him from a something to a someone.

Anthony was an odd person who combined two things which did not seem to go together naturally: he was dramatic and he was pragmatic.

The drama usually came from facing new situations. The pragmatism came after he'd sufficiently flailed like a duck with a broken wing.

Now that he'd had his little flail, he got up and did the pragmatic thing: Spend what could very well be the rest of his life with the only person who made his days flare with color.

"How much clearer must I--" she stopped in her tracks and stared at the very noticeable head with enormous eyes poking out of the basket. "What is that?"

"It's a hairless cat."

"It looks like an enormous rat."

"I thought this would be a good alternative."

"A good alternative to what?"

"You told me that Lady Mary is allergic to cats."

"I remember all our conversations quite clearly, Lord Bridgerton, and never once did cats or Lady Mary feature as a topic."

"Yes, well. Regardless, I was told that cat hair makes Lady Mary's eyes itch and water. I have found the perfect solution."

"There was never a problem which needed to be solved."

The hairless cat yawned, the skin of its face wrinkling in fascinating places.

While Anthony thought the cat's wrinkles interesting, he found Miss Sharma's curiosity-- free of her outright hostility-- to be much more compelling. She watched, mesmerized as the cat tried to free a paw from the pile of blankets in the basket. When it realized they were staring, it stopped for a moment and blinked at them, ears twitching. Then the cat visibly wrote them off as unimportant bipeds and continued its efforts to untangle itself.

"Would you like to pet him? He's quite gentle."

She began to nod then stopped herself and looked at him warily, as though remembering to whom she was speaking. Anthony tried not to scowl. He viciously tamped down on the burgeoning feeling of hurt, reminding himself that the weeks which had passed for him did not at all exist for her.

Nonetheless, she reached out to touch; the cat immediately butted its head into the palm of her hand.

"He's warm," she marveled. "His skin is soft."

"They told me to wrap him in a blanket since he has no fur to keep himself warm."

She nodded.

"Wherever did you find such a creature?"

"With great difficulty."

Miss Sharma laughed, still petting the hairless cat. It had started purring.

"I brought him as a gift."

She stiffened.

"For you! Not for Miss Edwina."

Miss Sharma looked surprised, then reverted back to her usual angry suspicion; but he could have sworn that for half a second, she'd seemed pleased.

"Why?"

"To apologize. For my behavior at the races, yesterday."

"Oh," she continued to pet the cat, uncharacteristically silent.

"I... hope you like it?"

"I do," she replied softly.

The cat's purring became louder as she gently rubbed behind its ears. Miss Sharma's smile was a thing of beauty.

"I like him very much," she slowly withdrew her hand, "but I'm afraid I cannot accept."

"Oh," he deflated.

Awkward silence. Neither moved, though they came to an unspoken agreement not to look at each other. Or maybe that was just Anthony, afraid he would see more distrust in her eyes.

At a loss for words, Anthony turned around and gave the cat-in-basket to the footman. He was about to get in the carriage when he stepped down again and went up to her.

"May I ask why?"

Behind him, the footman closed the door, presumably having placed the cat-in-basket on a seat.

"I--" she bit her lip. "I already have a dog, named Newton. I don't think he will take kindly to another animal in the house."

"Ah, of course. The infamous Newton."

"He's a bit territorial."

"I don't blame him."

Miss Sharma looked up at him sharply; Anthony, however, had immediately transferred his gaze to the sky, wondering if repeating the same day would cure him of his foot-in-mouth disease.

This whole business of being seen might take some time to get used to. He felt like he was burning up in the sun.

"Why are you here, Lord Bridgerton."

"I saw the cat and I thought of you," he shrugged helplessly.

Apparently this only made things worse. Truly, he could never win with her. Which was probably why he looked forward to his visits so much-- every day might start the same way, but he could never predict her reactions.

"If this is a ploy to gain access to Edwina--"

"No, it is not a ploy," he rolled his eyes. "You're always so eager to think the worst of me."

"You've given me no reason to think well of you."

"Those words were not meant for you."

"Then who were they meant for, my Lord?"

"I know you've met Fife-- can you blame me for acting precisely as he expected?"

"That is no excuse for speaking of women in such a reprehensible manner."

"What exactly did I say which was so reprehensible? I listed the qualities I desire in a wife and they are not unreasonable things to ask for. I'm certain you yourself have a similar list-- just because you've kept your rubric private and overheard mine is no reason for you to act as though you have the high ground."

"No, you did not list what you wanted in a wife, you listed what you wanted in the mother of your children. If it had been your wife, I would have been more forgiving. Instead, you spoke of her as though she was only worth the children she would bear-- do not pretend you made that list so that you might have a witty partner-- do not rewrite history."

"But she will be the mother of my children-- of our children."

"You--"

"I do not think you understand this distinction. If I could-- if it were my choice and mine alone-- I would marry a woman regardless of whether she fits those qualities because I have an incurable habit of falling in love with women who are not considered appropriate for my station. But because I am the firstborn, because I am a viscount and therefore responsible for siring an heir to carry on the Bridgerton name, I am expected to marry a certain kind of lady."

"Then you would carry on with a mistress after you have children?"

He threw up his hands.

"Is that what you took away from what I just said?"

"It's not a large leap in logic--"

"Perhaps it is not, but unfortunately for me and any future wife, I'm an incurable monogamist."

"That is not something you can know unless you've been married."

"Miss Sharma, I know myself."

"You might fall in love."

"Not possible when I'm already in love."

"With Edwina?" she reeled back in horror.

"For god's sake-- with you! I'm in love with you."

At this point, they were standing toe to toe, chests heaving because of all the yelling.

"I--" she gaped at him like he'd lost his mind.

Entirely possible he had, but when it came to Miss Sharma, all bets were off. Before she could regroup to accuse him of another kind of deceit, he simply dragged her to a corner of the gardens which he knew from experience hid them from view (the advantages of growing up with Simon) and just... plastered himself as close to her as possible and breathed in that scent.

From the way she was gasping in his ear and decidedly not pushing him away, she felt the same.

The situation had spun out of control so quickly, but in so many ways it felt inevitable. They were powder kegs primed to explode-- there was absolutely no path they could take which would not lead to this-- this--

Hunger, was the only word he could think of.

Love, underneath it, but at the moment, just an overwhelming hunger.

"Tell me you don't feel this, Kate."

Anthony's chronic inability to keep his mouth shut led to him falling in the grass as Kate tried (and failed, by his estimation, not that she'd asked for his opinion) to regain composure.

He couldn't say he had a very clear recollection of what followed-- he blamed the fact that all the blood which should have been in his brain had mysteriously vacated the premises to find more immediate and pleasurable locales-- but he did remember outrage and attraction writ large on her face, a very harsh and biting kiss she sprang on him to shut him up (a very effective tactic. See: aforementioned memory loss), returning to the carriage to the knowing smirks of his footman and opening the door to find:

The cat unraveling a tassel, blissfully ignoring the sheer carnage of everything it had shredded.

Lady Danbury looked slightly too knowing when he arrived (ahead of his family, no less) and went straight to Miss Sharma.

Anthony ignored her and instead spent the evening monopolizing Miss Sharma's time and acting like a complete boor by glaring at anyone who dared interrupt. He'd thought she would be displeased by his overbearing and extremely possessive behavior, only to discover that for all her protests, she liked it.

That was the moment his life changed.

Not the moment he met her, not the moment he fell in love, not the moment he declared his love-- not even the moment he married her or welcomed their first child.

The moment he realized he could have all of her, and she would let him.

It was inevitable that at some point, he would run out of animals to give her. Hamsters, guinea pigs, chinchillas, ducklings, rabbits with floppy ears, rabbits with regular ears, rabbits with one floppy and one regular ear, prize roosters (that was a favorite), seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five gold-fleeced sheep, four calling birds, three french hens, two turtledoves...

"Lord Bridgerton."

"Miss Sharma."

"Would you care to inform me why you had a pear tree delivered this morning?"

"That, Miss Sharma, was so you could place," he presented the cage with flourish, "this partridge in it."

"... why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything."

"Because you are entirely correct: I am not."

As it turned out, after having entertained Miss Sharma with limericks, French love songs, nonsensical stories of all the soirees he'd had the pleasure to attend; then having discovered the revolution of Ancient Indian poetry which was delightfully erotic; he found a poem in English which perfectly described her:

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Did he ever question why that night, why that day?

Of course he did.

Did he ever get an answer?

Of course not.

Did she believe his fantastical tale?

Surprisingly, yes. The reason she cited: he didn't have the imagination to make up such an outrageous story and keep it consistent. All the details sounded like memory, not malady.

Did they get married?

Of course.

Was their courtship easy?

Of course not. They were themselves-- both of them obstinate, stubborn, and unyielding to good, plain, common sense.

There was The Return of the Sheffields: Ugly & Uglier. There was Prince Friedrich Comes to Town: The Battle of Bagshot. There was That Damn Lady Whistledown, fuck her and the quill she wrote with (now with special features! Called: Why, Eloise? Why?).

Most of all there was: The Fucking Wedding Cannot Come Soon Enough, We Should Have Applied For A Special License, Part 2.

Anthony and Kate couldn't keep their hands off each other. It required Anthony to exercise his non-existent discipline, i.e. Kate refused allow him to fuck her standing-- they'd done it once and she didn't like the feeling of come trailing down her thighs while dancing a quadrille with his brother; he might have stared at her that night like a concussed squirrel hoarding all its acorns, but Kate found the aftermath sticky and unpleasant.

(Of course, in a move presaging the rest of their lives, they arrived at a compromise: fucking while standing was allowed so long as he ate her out when he was finished.)

Did he ever wake up shaking in fear that he would have to relive the same day-- again?

All the time. It came to the point where Kate sucked a new bruise into his skin every night, or left a collection of new scratches on his back, or had him suck a new bruise into her skin every night, so that when he woke up the next morning, he would always know whether the day had repeated: he could look at the marks they'd left on each other's bodies.

(Did he try to buy her a tiger?

No. He was not stupid. It would have enraged her, to see a tiger chained.)

One night, when he woke up shaking from a nightmare, she asked him-- if he had to, would he do it again?

He didn't hesitate.

"Absolutely."

#kathony #my first blog #love this

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